by Lisa Kleypas
Frowning contemplatively, Poppy looked up from her needlework. “I don’t think that would help,” she told her brother-in-law regretfully. “I know how persuasive you are . . . but Michael is very firm on how to handle his father.”
Cam appeared to be thinking the matter over. With his black hair worn a trifle too long, his gleaming dark-honey complexion, and a diamond stud sparkling at one ear, Rohan looked far more like a pagan prince than a businessman who had garnered a fortune in manufacturing investments. Ever since he had married Amelia, Rohan had been the de facto head of the Hathaway family. No man alive would have been able to manage the unruly lot as adeptly as he did. His tribe, he called them.
“Little sister,” he said to Poppy, sounding relaxed even though his gaze was intent, “as the Rom say, ‘the tree without sunlight will bear no fruit.’ I see no reason why Bayning should not ask for permission to court you, and then go about it openly in the usual way of the gadjos.”
“Cam,” Poppy said carefully, “I know the Rom has a more . . . well, straightforward . . . approach to courtship—”
At that, Amelia smothered a laugh. Cam pointedly ignored her. Miss Marks looked perplexed, clearly having no idea that the Romany tradition of courtship often involved stealing a woman right out of her bed.
“But you know as well as any of us,” Poppy continued, “that it is a far more delicate process for the British peerage.”
“Actually,” Amelia said dryly, “from what I’ve seen, the British peerage negotiates marriages with all the romantic sensibilities of a bank transaction.”
Poppy scowled at her older sister. “Amelia, whose side are you on?”
“For me, there is no side but yours.” Amelia’s blue eyes were filled with concern. “And that is why I don’t care for this kind of covert courtship . . . arriving separately at events, never coming to take you and Miss Marks on a carriage drive . . . it bears the odor of shame. Embarrassment. As if you were some guilty secret.”
“Are you saying you doubt Mr. Bayning’s intentions?”
“Not at all. But I don’t like his methods.”
Poppy sighed shortly. “I am an unconventional choice for a peer’s son. And therefore Mr. Bayning must proceed with caution.”
“You’re the most conventional person in the entire family,” Amelia protested.
Poppy gave her a dark glance. “Being the most conventional Hathaway is hardly something to boast about.”
Looking annoyed, Amelia glanced at her companion. “Miss Marks, my sister seems to believe that her family is so outlandish, so completely out of the ordinary, that Mr. Bayning must go through these exertions—sneaking about and so forth—instead of going to the viscount in an upstanding manner and saying ‘Father, I intend to marry Poppy Hathaway and I would like your blessing.’ Can you tell me why there is a need for such excessive caution on Mr. Bayning’s part?”
For once, Miss Marks seemed at a loss for words.
“Don’t put her on the spot,” Poppy said. “Here are the facts, Amelia: You and Win are married to Gypsies, Leo is a notorious rake, Beatrix has more pets than the Royal Zoological Society, and I am socially awkward and can’t carry on a proper conversation to save my life. Is it so difficult to understand why Mr. Bayning has to break the news to his father gently?”
Amelia looked as though she wanted to argue, but instead she muttered, “Proper conversations are very dull, in my opinion.”
“Mine, too,” Poppy said glumly. “That’s the problem.”
Beatrix looked up from the hedgehog, who had curled up in a ball in her hands. “Does Mr. Bayning make interesting conversation?”
“You wouldn’t need to ask,” Amelia said, “if he dared to come here for a visit.”
“I suggest,” Miss Marks said hastily, before Poppy could retort, “that as a family, we invite Mr. Bayning to accompany us to the Chelsea flower show, the day after next. That will allow us to spend the afternoon with Mr. Bayning—and perhaps we will gain some reassurance about his intentions.”
“I think that’s a lovely idea,” Poppy exclaimed. Attending a flower show together was far more innocuous and discreet than Michael having to call on them at the Rutledge. “I’m sure that talking to Mr. Bayning will ease your worries, Amelia.”
“I hope so,” her sister replied, sounding unconvinced. A tiny frown pleated the space between her sister’s slim brows. She turned her attention to Miss Marks. “As Poppy’s chaperon, you have seen far more of this furtive suitor than I have. What is your opinion of him?”
“From what I have observed,” the companion said carefully, “Mr. Bayning is well regarded and honorable. He has an excellent reputation, with no history of seducing women, spending beyond his means, or brawling in public venues. In short, he is the complete opposite of Lord Ramsay.”
“That speaks well of him,” Cam said gravely. His golden hazel eyes twinkled as he glanced down at his wife. A moment of silent communication passed between them before he murmured softly, “Why don’t you send him an invitation, monisha?”
A sardonic smile flitted across Amelia’s soft lips. “You would voluntarily attend a flower show?”
“I like flowers,” Cam said innocently.
“Yes, scattered across meadows and marshes. But you hate seeing them organized in raised beds and neat little boxes.”
“I can tolerate it for an afternoon,” Cam assured her. Idly he toyed with a loose lock of hair that had fallen on her neck. “I suppose it’s worth the effort to gain an in-law like Bayning.” He smiled as he added, “We need at least one respectable man in the family, don’t we?”
Chapter Five
An invitation was sent to Michael Bayning the next day, and to Poppy’s elation, it was accepted immediately. “It’s only a matter of time now,” she told Beatrix, barely restraining herself from hopping in excitement the way Dodger did. “I’m going to be Mrs. Michael Bayning, and I love him, I love everyone and everything . . . I even love your smelly old ferret, Bea!”
Late in the morning, Poppy and Beatrix dressed for a walk. It was a clear, warm day, and the hotel gardens, intercut with neatly graveled paths, were a symphony of blooms.
“I can hardly wait to go out,” Poppy said, standing at the window and staring down at the extensive gardens. “It almost reminds me of Hampshire, the flowers are so beautiful.”
“It doesn’t remind me at all of Hampshire,” Beatrix said, “It’s too orderly. But I do like walking through the Rutledge rose garden. The air smells so sweet. Do you know, I spoke with the master gardener a few mornings ago, when Cam and Amelia and I went out, and he told me his secret recipe for making the roses so large and healthy.”
“What is it?”
“Fish broth, vinegar and a dash of sugar. He sprinkles them with it right before they bloom. And they love it.”
Poppy wrinkled her nose. “What a dreadful concoction.”
“The master gardener said that old Mr. Rutledge is especially fond of roses, and people have brought him some of the exotic varieties you see in the garden. The lavender roses are from China, for example, and the Maiden’s Blush variety comes from France, and—”
“Old Mr. Rutledge?”
“Well, he didn’t actually say Mr. Rutledge was old. I just can’t help thinking of him that way.”
“Why?”
“Well, he’s so awfully mysterious, and no one ever sees him. It reminds me of the stories of mad old King George, locked away in his apartments at Windsor Castle.” Beatrix grinned. “Perhaps they keep Mr. Rutledge up in the attic.”
“Bea,” Poppy whispered urgently, filled with an overwhelming urge to confide in her, “There’s something I’m bursting to tell you, but it must remain a secret.”
Her sister’s eyes lit with interest. “What is it?”
“First promise you won’t tell anyone.”
“I promise promise.”
“Swear on something.”
“I swear on St. Francis, the patron saint of all
animals.” Seeing Poppy’s hesitation, Beatrix added enthusiastically, “If a band of pirates kidnapped me and took me to their ship and threatened to make me walk the plank over a shiver of starving sharks unless I told them your secret, I still wouldn’t tell it. If I were tied by a villain and thrown before a herd of stampeding horses all shod in iron, and the only way to keep from being trampled was to tell the villain your secret, I—”
“All right, you’ve convinced me,” Poppy said with a grin. Dragging her sister to the corner, she said softly, “I have met Mr. Rutledge.”
Beatrix’s blue eyes turned huge. “You have? When?”
“Yesterday morning.” And Poppy told her the entire story, describing the passageway, the curiosities room, and Mr. Rutledge himself. The only thing she left out was the kiss, which, as far as she was concerned, had never happened.
“I’m so terribly sorry about Dodger,” Beatrix said earnestly. “I apologize on his behalf.”
“It’s all right, Bea. Only . . . I do wish he hadn’t lost the letter. So long as no one finds it, I suppose there’s no problem.”
“Then Mr. Rutledge is not a decrepit madman?” Beatrix asked, sounding disappointed.
“Heavens, no.”
“What does he look like?”
“Quite handsome, actually. He’s very tall, and—”
“As tall as Merripen?”
Kev Merripen had come to live with the Hathaways after his tribe had been attacked by Englishmen who had wished to drive the Gypsies out of the county. The boy had been left for dead, but the Hathaways had taken him in, and he had stayed for good. Recently he had married the second oldest sister, Winnifred. Merripen had undertaken the monumental task of running the Ramsay estate in Leo’s absence. The newlyweds were both quite happy to stay in Hampshire during the season, enjoying the beauty and relative privacy of Ramsay House.
“No one’s as tall as Merripen,” Poppy said. “But Mr. Rutledge is tall nonetheless, and he has dark hair and piercing green eyes . . .” Her stomach gave an unexpected little leap as she remembered.
“Did you like him?”
Poppy hesitated. “Mr. Rutledge is . . . unsettling. He’s charming, but one has the feeling he’s capable of nearly anything. He’s like some wicked angel from a William Blake poem.”
“I wish I could have seen him,” Beatrix said wistfully. “And I wish even more that I could visit the curiosities room. I envy you, Poppy. It’s been so long since anything interesting has happened to me.”
Poppy laughed quietly. “What, when we’ve just gone through nearly the entire London season?”
Beatrix rolled her eyes. “The London season is about as interesting as a snail race. In January. With dead snails.”
“Girls, I’m ready,” came Miss Marks’s cheerful summons, and she entered the room. “Make certain to fetch your parasols—you don’t want to become sunbrowned.” The trio left the suite and proceeded at a dignified pace along the hallway. Before they turned the corner to approach the grand staircase, they became aware of an unusual disturbance in the decorous hotel.
Men’s voices tangled in the air, some agitated, at least one of them angry, and there was the sound of foreign accents, and heavy thumping, and a queer metallic rattling.
“What the devil . . .” Miss Marks said under her breath.
Rounding the corner, the three women stopped abruptly at the sight of a half dozen men clustered near the food lift. A shriek rent the air.
“Is it a woman?” Poppy asked, turning pale. “A child?”
“Stay here,” Miss Marks said tensely. “I’ll undertake to find out—”
The three of them flinched at a series of screams, the sounds blistered with panic.
“It is a child,” Poppy said, striding forward despite Miss Marks’s command to stay. “We must do something to help.”
Beatrix had already run ahead of her. “It’s not a child,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s a monkey!”
Chapter Six
There were few activities Harry enjoyed as much as fencing, even more so because it had become an obsolete art. Swords were no longer necessary as weapons or fashion accessories, and its practitioners were now mainly military officers and a handful of amateur enthusiasts. But Harry liked the elegance of it, the precision that required both physical and mental discipline. A fencer had to plan several moves in advance, something that came naturally to Harry.
A year earlier, he had joined a fencing club consisting of approximately a hundred members, including peers, bankers, actors, politicians, and soldiers from various ranks of the military. Thrice weekly, Harry and a few trusted friends met at the club, practicing with both foils and quarterstaffs beneath the watchful eye of a fencing master. Although the club had a changing room and shower baths, there was often a queue, so Harry usually left directly from practice.
This morning’s practice had been especially vigorous, as the fencing master had taught them techniques for fighting off two opponents simultaneously. Although it had been invigorating, it was also challenging, and they had all been left bruised and tired. Harry had gotten a few hard strikes on his chest and bicep, and he was soaked in sweat.
When he returned to the hotel, he was still in his fencing whites, although he had removed the protective leather padding. He was looking forward to a shower bath, but it quickly became evident that the shower bath would have to wait.
One of his managers, a bespectacled young man named William Cullip, met him as he entered the back of the hotel. Cullip’s face was drawn with anxiety. “Mr. Rutledge,” he said apologetically, “I was told by Mr. Valentine to tell you immediately upon your return that we are having a . . . well, a difficulty . . .”
Harry stared at him and remained silent, waiting with forced patience. One could not rush Cullip, or the information would take forever to get out.
“It involves the Nagarajan diplomats,” the manager continued.
“Another fire?”
“No, sir. It has to do with one of the articles of tribute the Nagarajans had planned to present to the Queen tomorrow. It has disappeared.”
Harry frowned, reflecting on the collection of priceless gemstones, artwork and textiles the Nagarajans had brought. “Their possessions are stored in a locked basement room. How could something go missing?”
Cullip let out a ragged breath. “Well, sir, it has apparently left on its own.”
Harry’s brows lifted. “What the hell is going on, Cullip?”
“Among the items the Nagarajans brought for the Queen are a pair of rare animals . . . blue macaques . . . which are found only in the Nagarajan teak forest. They are to be housed at the zoological gardens at Regent’s Park. Evidently each macaque was kept in its own crate, but somehow one of them learned to pick a lock, and—”
“The devil you say!” Incredulity was rapidly crushed by outrage. Yet somehow Harry managed to keep his voice quiet. “May I ask why no one bothered to inform me that we’re harboring a pair of monkeys in my hotel?”
“There seems to be some confusion on that point, sir. You see, Mr. Lufton in reception is certain that he included it in his report, but Mr. Valentine says he never read anything about it, and he lost his temper and frightened a housemaid and two stewards, and now everyone is searching while at the same time making certain not to alert the guests—”
“Cullip.” Harry gritted his teeth with the effort to stay calm. “How long has the macaque been missing?”
“We estimate at least forty-five minutes.”
“Where is Valentine?”
“The last I heard, he had gone up to the third floor. One of the housemaids discovered what she thought might be droppings near the food lift.”
“Monkey droppings near the food lift,” Harry repeated, disbelieving his own ears. Christ. All the situation needed was for one of his elderly guests to be frightened into apoplexy from having a wild animal spring out from nowhere, or to have a woman or child bitten, or some other outrageous scenario.
It would be impossible to find the damned creature. The hotel was a virtual maze, riddled with hallways and concealed doors and passages. It could take days, during which the Rutledge would be in an uproar. He would lose business. And worst of all, he would be the butt of jokes for years. By the time the humorists got through with him . . .
“By God, heads are going to roll,” Harry said with a lethal softness that caused Cullip to flinch. “Go to my apartments, Cullip, and get the Dreyse from the mahogany cabinet in my private office.”
The young manager looked perplexed. “The Dreyse, sir?”
“A shotgun. It’s the only percussion cap breechloader in the cabinet.”
“A percussion . . .”
“The brown one,” Harry said gently. “With a large bolt sticking out of the side.”
“Yes, sir!”
“And for God’s sake, don’t point it at anyone. It’s loaded.”
Still gripping the foil, Harry raced up the back stairs. He took them two at a time, swiftly passing a pair of startled housemaids carrying baskets of linens.
Reaching the third floor, he headed to the food lift, where he found Valentine, all three of the Nagarajan diplomats, and Brimbley, the floor steward. A wood and metal crate had been positioned nearby. The men had gathered around the opening to the food lift, and were looking inside.
“Valentine,” Harry said curtly, striding up to his right-hand man, “have you found it?”
Jake Valentine threw him a harassed glance. “He climbed up the rope pulley in the food lift. Now he’s sitting on top of the movable frame. Every time we try to lower it, he hangs onto the rope and dangles above us.”
“Is he close enough for me to reach him?”
Valentine’s gaze flickered to the foil in his employer’s grasp. His dark eyes widened as he understood that Harry intended to skewer the creature rather than let it roam freely through the hotel.
