by Lisa Kleypas
He had labored in a blacksmith’s forge for ten years, gaining significant size and strength, as well as a reputation for hard work and trustworthiness. It had never occurred to Jake to want more for himself. He had been employed, and his belly had been full, and the world outside London held no interest for him.
One day, however, a dark-haired man came to the blacksmith’s shop and asked to speak to Jake. Intimidated by the gentleman’s fine clothes and sophisticated bearing, Jake mumbled answers to a multitude of questions about his personal history and his work experience. And then the man astonished Jake by offering employment as his own valet, with many times the wages he was now getting.
Suspiciously, Jake had asked why the man would hire a novice, largely uneducated and roughcast in nature and appearance. “You could have your pick of the finest valets in London,” Jake had pointed out. “Why someone like me?”
“Because those valets are notorious gossips, and they’re acquainted with the servants of leading families across England and the continent. You have a reputation for keeping your mouth shut, which I value far more than experience. Also, you look as though you could give a good account of yourself in a dustup.”
Jake’s eyes had narrowed. “Why would a valet need to fight?”
The man had smiled. “You’ll be doing errands for me. Some of them will be easy, some of them less so. Come, are you in or not?”
And that was how Jake had come to work for Jay Harry Rutledge, first as a valet, and then as an assistant.
Jake had never known anyone like Rutledge—eccentric, driven, manipulative, demanding. Rutledge had a shrewder understanding of human nature than anyone Jake had ever met. Within a few minutes of meeting someone, he sized them up with complete accuracy. He knew how to make people do what he wanted, and he nearly always got his way.
It seemed to Jake that Rutledge’s brain never shut off, not even for the necessary act of sleeping. He was constantly active. Jake had seen him work out some problem in his head while simultaneously writing a letter and carrying on a fully coherent conversation. His appetite for information was voracious, and he possessed a singular gift for recall. Once Rutledge saw or read or heard something, it was in his brain forever. People could never lie to him, and if they were foolish enough to try, he decimated them.
Rutledge was not above gestures of kindness or consideration, and he rarely lost his temper. But Jake had never been certain how much, if at all, Rutledge cared for his fellow men. At his core, he was cold as a glacier. And as many things as Jake knew about Harry Rutledge, they were still essentially strangers.
No matter. Jake would have died for the man. The hotelier had secured the loyalty of all his servants, who were made to work hard but were given fair treatment and generous salaries. In return, they safeguarded his privacy zealously. Rutledge was acquainted with a great many people, but these friendships were rarely discussed. And he was highly selective about whom he admitted into his inner circle.
Rutledge was besieged by women, of course—his rampaging energy often found outlet in the arms of some beauty or another. But at the first indication that a woman felt the merest flicker of affection, Jake was dispatched to her residence to deliver a letter that broke off all future communications. In other words, Jake was required to endure the tears, anger, or other messy emotions that Rutledge could not tolerate. And Jake would have felt sorry for the women, except that along with each letter, Rutledge usually included some monstrously expensive piece of jewelry that served to mollify any hurt feelings.
There were certain areas of Rutledge’s life where women were never allowed. He did not allow them to stay in his private apartments, nor did he let any of them into his curiosities room. It was there that Rutledge went to dwell on his most difficult problems. And on the many nights when Rutledge was unable to sleep, he would go to the drafting table to occupy himself with automata, working with watch parts and bits of paper and wire until he had settled his overactive brain.
So when Jake was discreetly told by a housemaid that a young woman had been with Rutledge in the curiosities room, he knew something significant had occurred.
Jake finished his breakfast in the hotel kitchens with dispatch, hurrying over a plate of creamed eggs scattered with crisp curls of fried bacon. Ordinarily, he would have taken the time to savor the fare. However, he couldn’t be late for his morning meeting with Rutledge.
“Not so fast,” said Andre Broussard, a chef whom Rutledge had lured away from the French ambassador two years earlier. Broussard was the only employee in the hotel who possibly slept less than Rutledge. The young chef had been known to rise at three in the morning to begin preparing for a day’s work, going to the morning markets to personally select the best produce. He was fair-haired and slight of build, but he possessed the discipline and will of an army commander.
Pausing in the act of whisking a sauce, Broussard regarded Jake with amusement. “You might try chewing, Valentine.”
“I don’t have time to chew,” Jake replied, setting aside his napkin. “I’m due to get the morning list from Mr. Rutledge in—” he paused to consult his pocket watch, “—two and a half minutes.”
“Ah, yes, the morning list.” The chef proceeded to mimic his employer. “ ‘Valentine, I want you to arrange for a soirée in honor of the Portuguese ambassador to be held here on Tuesday with a pyrotechnic display at the conclusion. Afterward, run to the patent office with the drawings for my latest invention. And on the way back, stop by Regent Street and purchase six French cambric handkerchiefs, plain not patterned, and God help me no lace—’ ”
“Enough, Broussard,” Jake said, trying not to smile.
The chef returned his attention to the sauce. “By the way, Valentine . . . when you find out who the girl was, come back and tell me. And in return I’ll let you have your pick of the pastry tray before I send it to the dining room.”
Jake shot him a sharp look, his brown eyes narrowing. “What girl?”
“You know very well what girl. The one Mr. Rutledge was seen with this morning.”
Jake frowned. “Who told you about that?”
“At least three people mentioned it to me in the past half hour. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“The Rutledge employees are forbidden to gossip,” Jake said sternly.
Broussard rolled his eyes. “To outsiders, yes. But Mr. Rutledge never said we couldn’t gossip amongst ourselves.”
“I don’t know why the presence of a girl in the curiosities room should be so interesting.”
“Hmmm . . . could it be because Rutledge never allows anyone in there? Could it be because everyone who works here is praying that Rutledge will soon find a wife to distract him from his constant meddling?”
Jake shook his head ruefully. “I doubt he’ll ever marry. The hotel is his mistress.”
The chef gave him a patronizing glance. “That’s how much you know. Mr. Rutledge will marry, once he finds the right woman. As my countrymen say, ‘A wife and a melon are hard to choose.’ ” He watched as Jake buttoned his coat and straightened his cravat. “Bring back information, mon ami.”
“You know I would never reveal one detail of Rutledge’s private affairs.”
Broussard sighed. “Loyal to a fault. I suppose if Rutledge told you to murder someone, you’d do it?”
Although the question was asked in a light vein, the chef’s gray eyes were alert. Because no one, not even Jake, was entirely certain what Harry Rutledge was capable of, or how far Jake’s allegiance would go.
“He hasn’t asked that of me,” Jake replied, and paused to add with a flash of humor, “yet.”
As Jake hurried to the private suite of unnumbered rooms on the third floor, he passed many employees on the back stairs. These stairs, and the entrances at the back of the hotel, were used by servants and deliverymen as they went about their daily tasks. A few people tried to stop Jake with questions or concerns, but he shook his head and quickened his pace. Jake took care n
ever to be late for his morning meetings with Rutledge. These consultations were usually brief, no more than a quarter hour, but Rutledge demanded punctuality.
Jake paused before the entrance of the suite, tucked at the back of a small private lobby lined with marble and priceless artwork. A secure inner hallway led to a discreet staircase and side door of the hotel, so that Rutledge never had to use the main hallways for his comings and goings. Rutledge, who liked to keep track of everyone else, did not allow anyone to do the same to him. He took most of his meals in private, and came and went as he pleased, sometimes with no indication of when he would return.
Jake knocked at the door and waited until he heard a muffled assent to enter.
He went into the suite, a series of four connected rooms that could be expanded into as large an apartment as one desired, up to fifteen rooms. “Good morning, Mr. Rutledge,” he said, entering the study.
The hotelier sat at a massive mahogany desk fitted with a cupboard filled with drawers and cubbies. As usual, the desk was covered with folios, papers, books, correspondence, calling cards, a stamp box, and an array of writing implements. Rutledge was closing a letter, applying a seal precisely into a little pool of hot wax.
“Good morning, Valentine. How did the staff meeting go?”
Jake handed him the daily sheaf of manager reports. “Everything is going smoothly, for the most part. There have been few issues with the diplomatic contingent from Nagaraja.”
“Oh?”
The tiny kingdom of Nagaraja, wedged between Burma and Siam, had just become a British ally. After offering to help the Nagarajans drive out the encroaching Siamese, Britain had now made the country one of its protectorates. Which was akin to being pinned beneath a lion’s paw and being informed by the lion that you were perfectly safe. Since the British were currently fighting the Burmese and annexing provinces right and left, the Nagarajans hoped desperately to remain self-governing. Toward that end, the kingdom had sent a trio of high-level envoys on a diplomatic mission to England, bearing costly gifts in tribute to Queen Victoria.
“The reception manager,” Jake said, “had to change their rooms three times when they first arrived yesterday afternoon.”
Rutledge’s brows rose. “There was a problem with the rooms?”
“Not the rooms themselves . . . the room numbers, which according to Nagarajan superstition were not auspicious. We finally settled them into suite 218. However, not long afterward, the second-floor manager detected the odor of smoke coming from the suite. It seems they were conducting an arrival-in-a-new-land ceremony, which involved starting a small fire on a bronze plate. Unfortunately the fire got out of hand, and the carpet was scorched.”
A smile curved Rutledge’s mouth. “As I recall, Nagarajans have ceremonies for nearly everything. See that an appropriate location is found for them to start as many sacred fires as they like without burning the hotel down.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rutledge riffled through the managers’ reports. “What’s our current occupancy rate?” he asked without looking up.
“Ninety-five percent.”
“Excellent.” Rutledge continued to peruse the reports.
In the silence that followed, Jake let his gaze wander over the desk. He saw a letter addressed to Miss Poppy Hathaway, from the Honourable Michael Bayning.
He wondered why it was in Rutledge’s possession. Poppy Hathaway . . . one of the sisters of a family that stayed at the Rutledge during the London season. Like other families of the peerage who didn’t own a residence in town, they were obligated either to let a furnished house or stay in a private hotel. The Hathaways had been loyal customers of the Rutledge for three years. Was it possible that Poppy was the girl Rutledge had been seen with that morning?
“Valentine,” the hotelier said in an offhand manner, “One of the chairs in my curiosities room needs to be reupholstered. There was a slight mishap this morning.”
Jake usually knew better than to ask questions, but he couldn’t resist. “What kind of mishap, sir?”
“It was a ferret. I believe he was trying to make a nest in the cushions.”
A ferret?
The Hathaways were definitely involved.
“Is the creature still at large?” Jake asked.
“No, it was retrieved.”
“By one of the Hathaway sisters?” Jake guessed.
A warning glint appeared in the cool green eyes. “Yes, as a matter of fact.” Setting the reports aside, Rutledge leaned back in his chair. The position of ease was belied by the repeated tapping of his fingers as he rested his hand on the desk. “I have a few errands for you, Valentine. First, go to the residence of Lord Andover in Upper Brook Street. Arrange for a private meeting between myself and Andover within the next two days, preferably here. Make it clear that no one is to know about it, and impress upon Andover that the matter is one of great importance.”
“Yes, sir.” Jake didn’t think there would be any difficulty in making the arrangements. Whenever Harry Rutledge wanted to meet with someone, they complied without delay. “Lord Andover is the father of Mr. Michael Bayning, isn’t he?”
“He is.”
What the devil was going on?
Before Jake could respond, Rutledge went on with the list. “Next, take this—” he handed Jake a narrow-bound folio tied with leather cord, “—to Sir Gerald at the War Office. Place it directly into his hands. After that, go to Watherston & Son, and buy a necklace or bracelet on my credit. Something nice, Valentine. And deliver it to Mrs. Rawlings at her residence.”
“With your compliments?” Jake asked hopefully.
“No, with this note.” Rutledge gave him a sealed letter. “I’m getting rid of her.”
Jake’s face fell. God. Another scene. “Sir, I’d rather go on an errand in east London and be pummeled by street thieves.”
Rutledge smiled. “That will probably happen later in the week.”
Jake gave his employer a speaking glance and left.
Poppy was well aware that in terms of marriageability, she had good points and bad points.
In her favor: Her family was wealthy, which meant she would have a handsome dowry.
Not in her favor: The Hathaways were neither a distinguished family nor blue-blooded, in spite of Leo’s title.
In her favor: She was attractive.
Not in her favor: She was chatty and awkward, often at the same time, and when she was nervous, both problems worsened.
In her favor: The aristocracy could not afford to be as particular as they once had been. While the peerage’s power slowly diminished, a class of industrialists and merchants was swiftly rising. Therefore, marriages between moneyed commoners and impoverished nobility occurred with increasing frequency. More and more often, the peerage had to figuratively hold its nose and mingle with those of low origins.
Not in her favor: Michael Bayning’s father, the viscount, was a man of high standards, especially where his son was concerned.
“The viscount will certainly have to consider the match,” Miss Marks had told her. “He may have impeccable lineage, but from all accounts, his fortune is waning. His son will have to marry a girl from a family of means. It may as well be a Hathaway.”
“I hope you’re right,” Poppy had replied feelingly.
Poppy had no doubt that she would be happy as Michael Bayning’s wife. He was intelligent, affectionate, quick to laugh . . . a born and bred gentleman. She loved him, not in a bonfire of passion, but in a warm, steady flame. She loved his temperament, the confidence that superseded any hint of arrogance. And she loved his looks, as unladylike as it was to admit such a thing. But he had thick chestnut hair and warm brown eyes, and his form was tall and well exercised.
Once Poppy had met Michael, it had seemed almost too easy . . . in no time at all she had fallen in love with him.
“I hope you’re not trifling with me,” Michael had told her one evening as they browsed along the art gallery of a London
mansion during a soirée. “That is, I hope I haven’t mistaken what might be mere politeness on your part for something more meaningful.” He had stopped with her in front of a large landscape done in oils. “The truth is, Miss Hathaway . . . Poppy . . . every minute I spend in your company gives me such pleasure that I can scarcely bear to be apart from you.”
And she had stared up at him in wonder. “Could it be possible?” she whispered.
“That I love you?” Michael had whispered back, a wry smile touching his lips. “Poppy Hathaway, it is impossible not to love you.”
She had taken an unsteady breath, her entire being filled with joy. “Miss Marks never told me what a lady is supposed to do in this situation.”
Michael had grinned and leaned a bit closer, as if imparting a highly confidential secret. “You’re supposed to give me discreet encouragement.”
“I love you, too.”
“That’s not discreet.” His brown eyes sparkled. “But it’s very nice to hear.”
The courtship had been beyond circumspect. Michael’s father, Viscount Andover, was protective of his son. A good man, Michael had said, but stern. And Michael had asked for sufficient time to approach the viscount and convince him of the rightness of the match. Poppy was entirely willing to give Michael however much time he needed.
The rest of the Hathaways, however, were not quite as amenable. To them, Poppy was a treasure, and she deserved to be courted openly and with pride.
“Shall I go and discuss the situation with Andover?” Cam Rohan had suggested as the family relaxed in the parlor of their hotel suite after supper. He lounged on the settee next to Amelia, who was holding their six-month-old baby. When the baby grew up, his gadjo name—gadjo being the word that Gypsies used for outsiders—would be Ronan Cole, but among the family he was called by his Romany name, Rye.
Poppy and Miss Marks occupied the other settee, while Beatrix lounged on the floor by the hearth, playing idly with a pet hedgehog named Medusa. Dodger sulked nearby in his basket, having learned through hard experience that it was unwise to tangle with Medusa and her quills.
