by Lisa Kleypas
“Why ‘of course’? Didn’t your father want you to stay at his shop?”
“Yes, but he had my sisters to help him. And there was something about Mr. Rutledge that I’ve never seen in any man before or since . . . an extraordinary force of character. He is very persuasive.”
“I’ve noticed,” Poppy said dryly.
“People want to follow him, or to be part of whatever it is he’s involved in. It’s why he was able to accomplish all this—” Mrs. Pennywhistle gestured at their surroundings, “—at such an early age.”
It occurred to Poppy that she could learn much about her husband from those who worked for him. She hoped at least a few of them would be as willing to talk as Mrs. Pennywhistle. “Is he a demanding master?”
The housekeeper chuckled. “Oh, yes. But fair, and always reasonable.”
They went to the front office, where two men, one elderly, one in his middle years, were conferring over an enormous ledger, which lay open across an oak desk. “Gentlemen,” the housekeeper said, “I am touring Mrs. Rutledge around the hotel. Mrs. Rutledge, may I present Mr. Myles, our general manager, and Mr. Lufton, the concierge.”
They bowed respectfully, regarding Poppy as if she were a visiting monarch. The younger of the two, Mr. Myles, beamed and blushed until the top of his balding head was pink. “Mrs. Rutledge, it is a very great honor indeed! May we offer our sincere congratulations on your marriage—”
“Most sincere,” Mr. Lufton chimed in. “You are the answer to our prayers. We wish you and Mr. Rutledge every happiness.”
Slightly taken aback by their enthusiasm, Poppy smiled and nodded to each of them in turn. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
They proceeded to show her the office, which housed a long row of arrival ledgers, managers’ logs, books containing histories and customs of foreign countries, dictionaries for various languages, maps of all kinds, and floor plans of the hotel. The plans, tacked on a wall, were marked in pencil to indicate which rooms were vacant or under repair.
Two leather-bound books had been set apart from the rest, one red, one black.
“What are these volumes?” Poppy asked.
The men glanced at each other, and Mr. Lufton replied cautiously. “There are very rare occasions on which a guest has proved so . . . well, difficult—”
“Impossible,” Mr. Myles chimed in.
“That regrettably we must enter them in the black book, which means they are no longer precisely welcome—”
“Undesirable,” Mr. Myles added.
“And we are unable to allow them back.”
“Ever,” Mr. Myles said emphatically.
Amused, Poppy nodded. “I see. And the purpose of the red book?”
Mr. Lufton proceeded to explain. “That is for certain guests who are a bit more demanding than usual.”
“Problem guests,” Mr. Myles clarified.
“Those who have special requests,” Mr. Lufton continued, “or don’t like their rooms cleaned at certain times; those who insist on bringing pets, things of that sort. We don’t discourage them from staying, but we do make a note of their peculiarities.”
“Hmmm.” Poppy picked up the red book and cast a mischievous glance at the housekeeper. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Hathaways were mentioned a few times in this book.”
Silence greeted her comment.
Seeing the frozen looks on their faces, Poppy began to laugh. “I knew it. Where is my family mentioned?” She opened the book and glanced over a few pages at random.
The two men were instantly distressed, hovering as if searching for an opportunity to seize the book. “Mrs. Rutledge, please, you mustn’t—”
“I’m sure you’re not in there,” Mr. Myles said anxiously.
“I’m sure we are,” Poppy countered with a grin. “In fact, we probably have our own chapter.”
“Yes—I mean, no—Mrs. Rutledge, I beg of you—”
“Very well,” Poppy said, surrendering the red book. The men sighed with relief. “However,” she said, “I may borrow this book someday. I’m sure it would make excellent reading material.”
“If you are done teasing these poor gentlemen, Mrs. Rutledge,” the housekeeper said, her eyes twinkling, “I see that many of our employees have gathered outside the door to meet you.”
“Lovely!” Poppy went to the reception area, where she was introduced to housemaids, floor managers, maintenance staff, and hotel valets. She repeated everyone’s name, trying to memorize as many of them as possible, and she asked questions about their duties. They responded eagerly to her interest, volunteering information about the various parts of England they had come from and how long they had worked at the Rutledge.
Poppy reflected that despite the many occasions she had stayed at the hotel as a guest, she had never given much thought to the employees. They had always been nameless and faceless, moving in the background with quiet efficiency. Now she felt immediate kinship with them. She was part of the hotel just as they were . . . all of them existing in Harry Rutledge’s sphere.
After the first week of living with Harry, it was clear to Poppy that her husband kept a schedule that would have killed a normal man. The only time she was sure to see him was in the mornings at breakfast; he was busy the rest of the day, often missing supper, and seldom retiring before midnight.
Harry liked to occupy himself with two or more things at once, making lists and plans, arranging meetings, reconciling arguments, doing favors. He was constantly approached by people who wanted him to apply his brilliant mind to some problem or other. People visited him at all hours, and it seemed a quarter hour couldn’t pass without someone, usually Jake Valentine, tapping on the apartment door.
When Harry wasn’t busy with his various intrigues, he meddled with the hotel and its staff. His demands for perfection and the highest quality of service were relentless. The employees were paid generously and treated well, but in return they were expected to work hard and, above all, to be loyal. If one of them were injured or ill, Harry sent for a doctor and paid for their treatments. If someone suggested a way to improve the hotel or its service, the idea was sent directly to Harry, and if he approved, he gave a handsome bonus. As a result, Harry’s desk was always laden with piles of reports, letters and notes.
It didn’t seem to have occurred to Harry to suggest a honeymoon for himself and his new bride, and Poppy suspected he had no desire to leave the hotel. Certainly she had no desire for a honeymoon with a man who had betrayed her.
Since their wedding night, Poppy had been nervous around Harry, especially when they were alone. He made no secret of his desire for her, his interest in her, but so far there had been no more advances. In fact, he had gone out of his way to be polite and considerate. It seemed as if he were trying to get her accustomed to him, to the altered circumstances of her life. And she appreciated his patience, because it was all so very new. Ironically, however, his self-imposed restraint gave their occasional moments of contact—the touch of his hand on her arm, the press of his body when they stood close in a crowd—a charge of vibrant attraction.
Attraction without trust . . . not a comfortable thing to feel for one’s own husband.
Poppy had no idea how long he would continue this conjugal reprieve. She was only grateful that Harry was so consumed with his hotel. Although . . . she couldn’t help thinking that this sunrise-to-midnight agenda was not at all good for him. If someone Poppy cared for had been working so relentlessly, she would have urged him to ease his pace, to take some time to rest.
Simple compassion got the better of her one afternoon when Harry came into their apartment unexpectedly, carrying his coat in one hand. He had spent most of the day with the Chief Officer of the LFEE, the London Fire Engine Establishment. Together they had meticulously gone through the hotel to examine its safety procedures and equipment.
If, heaven forbid, a fire should ever break out at the Rutledge, the employees had been trained to help as many guests as possible le
ave the building expediently. Escape ladders were routinely counted and inspected, and floor plans and exit routes were examined. Firemarks had been mortared onto the outside of the building to designate it as one the LFEE had been paid to protect.
As Harry entered the apartment, Poppy saw that the day had been especially demanding. His face was etched with weariness.
He paused at the sight of Poppy curled in the corner of the settee, reading a book balanced on her drawn-up knees.
“How was the luncheon?” Harry asked.
Poppy had been invited to join a group of well-to-do young matrons, who held an annual charity bazaar. “It went nicely, thank you. They are a pleasant group. Although they do seem a bit too fond of forming committees. I’ve always thought a committee takes a month to accomplish something a single person could have done in ten minutes.”
Harry smiled. “The goal of such groups isn’t to be efficient. It’s to have something to occupy their time.”
Poppy took a closer look at him, and her eyes widened. “What happened to your clothes?”
Harry’s white linen shirt and dark blue silk waistcoat had been streaked with soot. There were more black smudges on his hands, and one on the edge of his jaw.
“I was testing one of the safety ladders.”
“You climbed down a ladder outside the building?” Poppy was amazed that he would have taken such an unnecessary risk. “Couldn’t you have asked someone else to do it? Mr. Valentine, perhaps?”
“I’m sure he would have. But I wouldn’t provide equipment for my employees without trying it myself. I still have concerns about the housemaids—their skirts would make their descent more difficult. However, I draw the line at trying that out.” He cast a rueful glance at his palms. “I have to wash and change before going back to work.”
Poppy returned her attention to her book. But she was intensely aware of the quiet sounds coming from the other room, the opening of drawers, the splash of water and soap, the thud of a discarded shoe. She thought of him being unclothed, at that very moment, and a dart of warmth went through her stomach.
Harry came back into the room, clean and impeccable as before. Except . . .
“A smudge,” Poppy said, conscious of a flutter of amusement. “You missed a spot.”
Harry glanced down over his front. “Where?”
“Your jaw. No, not that side.” She picked up a napkin and gestured for him to come to her.
Harry leaned over the back of the settee, his face descending toward hers. He held very still as she wiped the soot from his jaw. The scent of his skin drifted to her, fresh and clean, with a slight smoky tinge like cedarwood.
Wishing to prolong the moment, Poppy stared into his fathomless green eyes. They were shadowed from lack of sleep. Good heavens, did the man ever pause for even a moment?
“Why don’t you sit with me?” Poppy asked impulsively.
Harry blinked, clearly thrown off guard by the invitation. “Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“I can’t. There’s too much to—”
“Have you eaten today? Aside from a few bites of breakfast?”
Harry shook his head. “I haven’t had time.”
Poppy pointed to the place on the settee beside her in wordless demand.
To her surprise, Harry actually obeyed. He came around the end of the settee and sat in the corner, staring at her. One of his dark brows arched questioningly.
Reaching for the tray beside her, Poppy lifted a plate laden with sandwiches, tarts, and biscuits. “The kitchen sent up far too much for one person. Have the rest.”
“I’m really not—”
“Here,” she insisted, pushing the plate into his hands.
Harry took a sandwich and began to consume it slowly. Taking her own teacup from the tray, Poppy poured fresh tea and added a spoonful of sugar. She gave it to Harry.
“What are you reading?” he asked, glancing at the book in her lap.
“A novel by a naturalist author. As of yet, I can’t find anything resembling a plot, but the descriptions of the countryside are quite lyrical.” She paused, watching him drain the teacup. “Do you like novels?”
He shook his head. “I usually read for information, not entertainment.”
“You disapprove of reading for pleasure?”
“No, it’s just that I don’t often manage to find the time for it.”
“Perhaps that’s why you don’t sleep well. You need an interlude between work and bedtime.”
There was a dry, perfectly timed pause before Harry asked, “What would you suggest?”
Aware of his meaning, Poppy felt a bloom of color emerge from head to toe. Harry seemed to enjoy her discomfiture, not in a mocking way, but as if he found her charming.
“Everyone in my family loves novels,” Poppy finally said, pushing the conversation back into line. “We gather in the parlor nearly every evening, and one of us reads aloud. Win is the best at it—she invents a different voice for each character.”
“I’d like to hear you read,” Harry said.
Poppy shook her head. “I’m not half as entertaining as Win. I put everyone to sleep.”
“Yes,” Harry said. “You have the voice of a scholar’s daughter.” Before she could take offense, he added, “Soothing. Never grates. Soft . . .”
He was extraordinarily tired, she realized. So much that even the effort to string words together was defeating him.
“I should go,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
“Finish your sandwiches first,” Poppy said authoritatively.
He picked up a sandwich obediently. While he ate, Poppy paged through the book until she found what she wanted . . . a description of walking through the countryside, under skies filled with fleecy clouds, past almond trees in blossom and white campion nestled beside quiet brooks. She read in a measured tone, occasionally stealing a glance at Harry while he polished off the entire plate of sandwiches. And then he settled deeper into the corner, more relaxed than she had ever seen him.
She read a few pages more, about walking past hedges and meadows, through a wood dressed with a counterpane of fallen leaves, while soft pale sunshine gave way to a quiet rain . . .
And when she finally reached the end of the chapter, she looked at Harry once more.
He was asleep.
His chest rose and fell in an even rhythm, his long lashes fanned against his skin. One hand was palm down against his chest, while the other lay half open at his side, the strong fingers partially curled.
“Never fails,” Poppy murmured with a private grin. Her talent at putting people to sleep was too much even for Harry’s relentless drive. Carefully she set the book aside.
This was the first time she’d ever been able to view Harry at her leisure. It was strange to see him so utterly disarmed. In sleep, the lines of his face were relaxed and almost innocent, at odds with his usual expression of command. His mouth, always so purposeful, looked as soft as velvet. He looked like a boy lost in a solitary dream. Poppy felt an urge to safeguard the sleep Harry so badly needed, to cover him with a blanket, and stroke the dark hair from his brow.
Several tranquil minutes passed, the silence disturbed only by distant sounds of activity in the hotel and from the street. This was something Poppy had not known she needed . . . time to contemplate the stranger who had taken utter possession of her life.
Trying to understand Harry Rutledge was like taking apart one of the intricate clockwork mechanisms he had constructed. One could examine every gear and ratchet wheel and lever, but that didn’t mean one would ever comprehend what made it all work.
It seemed that Harry had spent his life wrestling with the world and trying to bend it to his will. And toward that end he had made a great deal of progress. But he was clearly dissatisfied, unable to enjoy what he had achieved, which made him very different from the other men in Poppy’s life, especially Cam and Merripen.
Because of their Romany heritage, her brothers-in-law
didn’t view the world as something to be conquered, but rather something to roam through freely. And then there was Leo, who preferred to view life as an objective observer instead of as an active participant.
Harry was nothing short of a brigand, scheming to conquer everyone and everything in sight. How could such a man ever be restrained? How would he ever find peace?
Poppy was so lost in the peaceful stillness of the room that she started when she heard a tap at the door. Her nerves jangled unpleasantly. She made no response, wishing the blasted noise would go away. But there it was again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Harry awakened with an inarticulate murmur, blinking with the confusion of someone who had been too quickly roused from sleep. “Yes?” he said gruffly, struggling to sit up.
The door opened, and Jack Valentine entered. He looked apologetic as he saw Harry and Poppy together on the settee. Poppy could barely refrain from scowling, even though he was only doing his job. Valentine came to hand Harry a folded note, murmured a few cryptic words, and left the apartment.
Harry scanned the note with a bleary glance. Tucking it into his coat pocket, he smiled ruefully at Poppy. “I seem to have nodded off while you were reading.” He stared at her, his eyes warmer than she had ever seen them. “An interlude,” he murmured for no apparent reason, and a corner of his mouth hitched upward. “I’d like another one soon.”
And he left while she was still struggling to form a reply.
Chapter Fifteen
Only the wealthiest of London ladies possessed their own carriages and horses, as it cost a fortune to maintain such a convenience. Women without their own stables, or those who lived alone, were compelled to “job” the horses, brougham, and coachman, hiring it all from a livery service or jobmaster whenever they needed to knock about London.
