by Lisa Kleypas
“Quiet.”
He found his way through the shadow-tricked passageway with no difficulty at all, his grip on Poppy’s elbow gentle but inexorable. They did not go toward Mr. Brimbley’s office but instead went the opposite direction, for what seemed an interminable distance.
Finally the stranger stopped and turned to a place in the wall, and pushed a door open. “Go in.”
Hesitantly Poppy preceded him into a well-lit room, a sort of parlor, with a row of Palladian windows overlooking the street. A heavy oak drafting table occupied one side of the room, and bookshelves lined nearly every inch of wall space. There was a pleasant and oddly familiar mixture of scents in the air—candle wax and vellum and ink and book dust—it smelled like her father’s old study.
Poppy turned toward the stranger, who had come into the room and closed the concealed door.
It was difficult to ascertain his age—he appeared to be on the early side of his thirties, but there was an air of hard-bitten worldliness about him, a sense that he had seen enough of life to cease being surprised by anything. He had heavy, well-cut hair, black as midnight, and a fair complexion in which his dark brows stood out in striking contrast. And he was as handsome as Lucifer, his brows strong, the nose straight and defined, the mouth brooding. The angle of his jaw was sharp, tenacious, anchoring the grave features of a man who perhaps took everything—including himself—a bit too seriously.
Poppy felt herself flush as she stared into a pair of remarkable eyes . . . intense cool green with dark rims, shadowed by bristly black lashes. His gaze seemed to take her in, consuming every detail. She noticed faint shadows beneath his eyes, but they did nothing to impair his hard-faced good looks.
A gentleman would have uttered some pleasantry, something reassuring, but the stranger remained silent.
Why did he stare at her like that? Who was he, and what authority did he wield in this place?
She had to say something, anything, to break the tension. “The smell of books and candle wax,” she remarked inanely, “. . . it reminds me of my father’s study.”
The man stepped toward her, and Poppy shrank back reflexively. They both went still. It seemed that questions filled the air between them as if they had been written in invisible ink.
“Your father passed away some time ago, I believe.” His voice matched the rest of him, polished, dark, inflexible. He had an interesting accent, not fully British, the vowels flat and open, the r’s heavy.
Poppy gave a bewildered nod.
“And your mother soon after,” he added.
“How . . . how do you know that?”
“It’s my business to know as much about the hotel guests as possible.”
Dodger wriggled in her grasp. Poppy bent to set him down. The ferret pranced to an oversized chair near a small hearth, and settled deep into the velvet upholstery.
Poppy brought herself to look at the stranger again. He was dressed in beautiful dark clothes, tailored with sophisticated looseness. Fine garments, but he wore a simple black cravat with no pins, and there were no gold buttons on his shirt, or any other ornamentation that would proclaim him as a gentleman of means. Only a plain watch chain at the front of his gray waistcoat.
“You sound like an American,” she said.
“Buffalo, New York,” he replied. “But I’ve lived here for a while.”
“Are you employed by Mr. Rutledge?” she asked cautiously.
A single nod was her answer.
“You are one of his managers, I suppose?”
His face was inscrutable. “Something like that.”
She began to inch toward the door. “Then I will leave you to your labors, Mister . . .”
“You’ll need a proper companion to walk back with you.”
Poppy considered that. Should she ask him to send for her companion? No . . . Miss Marks was probably still sleeping. It had been a difficult night for her. Miss Marks was sometimes prone to nightmares that left her shaky and exhausted the next day. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, Poppy and Beatrix tried to let her rest as much as possible afterward.
The stranger contemplated her for a moment. “Shall I send for a housemaid to accompany you?”
Poppy’s first inclination was to agree. But she didn’t want to wait here with him, even for a few minutes. She didn’t trust him in the least.
As he saw her indecision, his mouth twisted sardonically. “If I were going to molest you,” he pointed out, “I would have done so by now.”
Her flush deepened at his bluntness. “So you say. But for all I know, you could be a very slow molester.”
He looked away for a moment, and when he glanced back at her, his eyes were bright with amusement. “You’re safe, Miss Hathaway.” His voice was rich with unspent laughter. “Really. Let me send for a maid.”
The glow of humor changed his face, imparting such warmth and charm that Poppy was almost startled. She felt her heart begin to pump some new and agreeable feeling through her body.
As she watched him go to the bellpull, Poppy recalled the problem of the missing letter. “Sir, while we wait, would you be so kind as to look for the letter that was lost in the passageway? I must have it back.”
“Why?” he asked, returning to her.
“Personal reasons,” Poppy said shortly.
“Is it from a man?”
She did her best to deliver the kind of withering glance she had seen Miss Marks give to importunate gentlemen. “That is none of your concern.”
“Everything that occurs in this hotel is my concern.” He paused, studying her. “It is from a man, or you would have said otherwise.”
Frowning, Poppy turned her back to him. She went to look more closely at one of the many shelves lined with peculiar objects.
She discovered a gilded, enameled samovar, a large knife in a beaded sheath, collections of primitive stone carvings and pottery vessels, an Egyptian headrest, exotic coins, boxes made of every conceivable material, what looked like an iron sword with a rusted blade, and a Venetian glass reading stone.
“What room is this?” Poppy couldn’t help asking.
“Mr. Rutledge’s curiosities room. He collected many of the objects, others are gifts from foreign visitors. Have a look if you like.”
Poppy was intrigued, reflecting on the large contingent of foreigners among the hotel guests, including European royalty, nobility, and members of the corps diplomatique. No doubt some unusual gifts had been presented to Mr. Rutledge.
Browsing among the shelves, Poppy paused to examine a jeweled silver figurine of a horse, its hooves extended in mid-gallop. “How lovely.”
“A gift from the Crown Prince Yizhu of China,” the man behind her said. “A Celestial horse.”
Fascinated, Poppy ran a fingertip along the figure’s back. “Now the prince has been crowned as the Emperor Xianfeng,” she said. “A rather ironic ruling name, isn’t it?”
Coming to stand beside her, the stranger glanced at her alertly. “Why do you say that?”
“Because it means ‘universal prosperity.’ And that is certainly not the case, considering the internal rebellions he is facing.”
“I’d say the challenges from Europe are an even greater danger to him, at present.”
“Yes,” Poppy said ruefully, nudging the figurine back into place. “One wonders how long Chinese sovereignty can last against such an onslaught.”
Her companion was standing close enough that she could detect the scents of pressed linen and shaving soap. He stared at her intently. “I know very few women who are able to discuss Far East politics.”
She felt color rise in her cheeks. “My family has rather unusual conversations around the supper table. At least, they’re unusual in that my sisters and I always take part. My companion says it’s perfectly all right to do that at home, but she has advised me not to appear too learned when I’m out in society. It tends to drive away suitors.”
“You’ll have to be careful, then,�
� he said softly, smiling. “It would be a shame for some intelligent comment to slip out at the wrong moment.”
Poppy was relieved when she heard a discreet tap at the door. The maid had come sooner than she had expected. The stranger went to answer. Opening the door a crack, he murmured something to the maid, who bobbed a curtsey and disappeared.
“Where is she going?” Poppy asked, nonplussed. “She was supposed to escort me to my suite.”
“I sent her to fetch a tea tray.”
Poppy was momentarily speechless. “Sir, I can’t have tea with you.”
“It won’t take long. They’ll send it up on one of the food lifts.”
“That doesn’t matter. Because even if I did have the time, I can’t! I’m sure you are well aware of how improper it would be.”
“Nearly as improper as sneaking through the hotel unescorted,” he agreed smoothly, and she scowled.
“I was not sneaking, I was chasing a ferret.” Hearing herself make such a ridiculous statement, she felt her color rise. She attempted a dignified tone. “The situation was not at all of my making. And I will be in very . . . serious . . . trouble . . . if I am not returned to my room soon. If we wait much longer, you may find yourself involved in a scandal, which I am certain Mr. Rutledge would not approve of.”
“True.”
“Then please call the maid back.”
“Too late. We’ll have to wait until she comes with the tea.”
Poppy heaved a sigh. “This has been a most difficult morning.” Glancing at the ferret, she saw bits of fluff and clumps of horsehair being tossed in the air, and she blanched. “No, Dodger!”
“What is it?” the man asked, following as Poppy raced toward the busy ferret.
“He’s eating your chair,” she said miserably, scooping up the ferret. “Or rather, Mr. Rutledge’s chair. He’s trying to make a nest for himself. I’m so sorry.” She stared at the gaping hole in the thick, luxurious velvet upholstery. “I promise you, my family will pay for the damage.”
“It’s all right,” the man said. “There’s a monthly allotment in the hotel budget for repairs.”
Lowering to her haunches—not an easy feat when one was wearing stay laces and stiffened petticoats—Poppy grabbed bits of fluff and tried to stuff them back into the hole. “If necessary, I will provide a written statement to explain how this happened.”
“What about your reputation?” the stranger asked gently, reaching down to pull her to a standing position.
“My reputation is nothing compared to a man’s livelihood. You might be sacked for this. You undoubtedly have a family to support—a wife and children—and whereas I could survive the disgrace, you might not be able to secure a new position.”
“That is very kind of you,” he said, taking the ferret from Poppy’s grasp and depositing him back on the chair. “But I have no family. And I can’t be sacked.”
“Dodger,” Poppy said anxiously, as bits of fluff went flying again. Clearly the ferret was having a grand time.
“The chair is already ruined. Let him have at it.”
Poppy was bemused by the stranger’s easy consignment of an expensive piece of hotel furniture to a ferret’s mischief. “You,” she said distinctly, “are not like the other managers here.”
“You’re not like other young women.”
That elicited a wry smile from her. “So I’ve been told.”
The sky had turned the color of pewter. A heavy drizzle fell to the gravel-covered paving blocks of the street, tamping down the pungent dust that had been stirred by passing vehicles.
Taking care not to be seen from the street, Poppy went to the side of one window and watched pedestrians scatter. Some methodically unfolded umbrellas and continued walking.
Costermongers crowded the thoroughfare, hawking their wares with impatient cries. They sold everything imaginable: ropes of onions and braces of dead game, teapots, flowers, matches, and caged larks and nightingales. This last presented frequent problems to the Hathaways, as Beatrix was determined to rescue every living creature she saw. Many a bird had been reluctantly purchased by their brother-in-law, Mr. Rohan, and set free at their country estate. Rohan swore that by now he had purchased half the avian population in Hampshire.
Turning from the window, Poppy saw that the stranger had settled his shoulder against one of the bookshelves and folded his arms across his chest. He was watching her as if puzzling what to make of her. Despite his relaxed posture, Poppy had the unnerving sense that if she tried to bolt, he would catch her in an instant.
“Why aren’t you betrothed to anyone?” he asked with startling directness. “You’ve been out in society for two, three years?”
“Three,” Poppy said, feeling more than a little defensive.
“Your family is one of means—one would assume you have a generous dowry on the table. Your brother is a viscount—another advantage. Why haven’t you married?”
“Do you always ask such personal questions of people you’ve just met?” Poppy asked in amazement.
“Not always. But I find you . . . interesting.”
She considered the question he had put to her, and shrugged. “I wouldn’t want any of the gentlemen I’ve met during the past three years. None of them are remotely appealing.”
“What kind of man appeals to you?”
“Someone with whom I could share a quiet, ordinary life.”
“Most young women dream of excitement and romance.”
She smiled wryly. “I suppose I have a great appreciation for the mundane.”
“Has it occurred to you that London is the wrong place to seek a quiet, ordinary life?”
“Of course. But I’m not in a position to look in the right places.” She should have stopped there. There was no need to explain more. But it was one of Poppy’s failings that she loved conversation, and like Dodger facing a drawer full of garters, she couldn’t resist indulging. “The problem began when my brother, Lord Ramsay, inherited the title.”
The stranger’s brows lifted. “That was a problem?”
“Oh, yes,” Poppy said earnestly. “You see, none of the Hathaways were prepared for it. We were distant cousins of the previous Lord Ramsay. The title only came to Leo because of a series of untimely deaths. The Hathaways had no knowledge of etiquette—we knew nothing of the ways of the upper classes. We were happy in Primrose Place.”
She paused to sort through the comforting memories of her childhood: the cheerful cottage with its thatched roof, the flower garden where her father had tended his prized Apothecary’s Roses, the pair of lop-eared Belgian rabbits who had lived in a hutch near the back doorstep, the piles of books in every corner. Now the abandoned cottage was in ruins and the garden lay fallow.
“But there’s never any going back, is there,” she said rather than asked. She bent to regard an object on a lower shelf. “What is this? Oh. An astrolabe.” She picked up an intricate brass disk that contained engraved plates, the rim notched with degrees of arc.
“You know what an astrolabe is?” the stranger asked, following her.
“Yes, of course. A tool used by astronomers and navigators. Also astrologers.” Poppy inspected the tiny star chart etched in one of the disks. “This is Persian. I would estimate it to be about five hundred years old.”
“Five hundred and twelve,” he said slowly.
Poppy couldn’t repress a satisfied grin. “My father was a medieval scholar. He had a collection of these. He even taught me how to make one out of wood, string, and a nail.” She dialed the disks carefully. “What is the date of your birth?”
The stranger hesitated before replying, as if he disliked having to give information about himself. “November the first.”
“Then you were born under Scorpius’s reign,” she said, turning the astrolabe over in her hands.
“You believe in astrology?” he asked, his tone edged with derision.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“It has no scientifi
c basis.”
“My father always encouraged me to be open-minded about such matters.” She played a fingertip across the star chart, and looked up at him with a sly smile. “Scorpions are quite ruthless, you know. That is why Artemis bid one of them to kill her foe Orion. And as a reward, she set the scorpion up in the sky.”
“I’m not ruthless. I merely do whatever it takes to achieve my goals.”
“That’s not ruthless?” Poppy asked, laughing.
“The word implies cruelty.”
“And you’re not cruel?”
“Only when necessary.”
Poppy’s amusement dissolved. “Cruelty is never necessary.”
“You haven’t seen much of the world, if you can say that.”
Deciding not to pursue the subject, Poppy stood on her toes to view the contents of another shelf. It featured an intriguing collection of what looked like tinplate toys. “What are these?”
“Automata.”
“What are they for?”
He reached up, lifted one of the painted metal objects, and gave it to her.
Holding the machine by its circular base, Poppy examined it carefully. There were a group of tiny racehorses, each on its own track. Seeing the end of a pull cord on the side of the base, Poppy tugged it gently. That set off a series of inner mechanisms, including a flywheel, which sent the little horses spinning around the track as if they were racing.
Poppy laughed in delight. “How clever! I wish my sister Beatrix could see this. Where did it come from?”
“Mr. Rutledge fashions them in his spare time, as a means of relaxing.”
“May I see another?” Poppy was enchanted by the objects, which were not toys so much as miniature feats of engineering. There was Admiral Nelson on a little tossing ship, a monkey climbing a banana tree, a cat playing with mice, and a lion tamer who cracked his whip while the lion shook his head repeatedly.
Seeming to enjoy Poppy’s interest, the stranger showed her a picture on the wall, a tableau of couples waltzing at a ball. Before her wide eyes, the picture seemed to come to life, gentlemen guiding their partners smoothly across the floor. “Good heavens,” Poppy said in wonder. “How is it done?”
