Harry shook his head. “As I told them, there are better things I could do for my fellow countrymen. Working on agricultural technology, for one thing. Putting food in a man’s belly is a vast improvement over inventing a more efficient way to put a bullet in him.”
Poppy smiled. “That was well done of you, Harry.”
But he didn’t return the smile, only leveled a cool, speculative stare at her. His head tilted a bit. “Where were you today?”
Poppy’s pleasure dissolved as she understood.
He was suspicious of her.
He thought she had gone to visit Michael.
The injustice of that, and the hurt of being mistrusted, caused her face to stiffen. She answered in a brittle voice. “I went out for an errand or two.”
“What kind of errand?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Harry’s face was hard and implacable. “I’m afraid I’m not giving you a choice. You will tell me where you went and whom you saw.”
Reddening in outrage, Poppy whirled away from him and clenched her fists. “I don’t have to account for every minute of my day, not even to you.”
“Today you do.” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Poppy.”
She laughed incredulously. “So you can verify my statements, and decide whether I’m lying to you?”
His silence was answer enough.
Hurt and furious, Poppy went to her reticule, which had been set on a small table, and rummaged in it. “I went to visit Leo,” she snapped without looking at him. “He’ll vouch for me, and so will the driver. And afterward I went to Bond Street to pick up something I had bought for you. I had wanted to wait for an appropriate moment to give it to you, but apparently that’s not possible now.”
Extracting an object encased in a small velvet pouch, she resisted the temptation to throw it at him. “Here’s your proof,” she muttered, pushing it into his hands. “I knew you would never get one of these on your own.”
Harry opened the pouch slowly, and let the object slide into his hand.
It was a pocket watch with a solid gold casing, exquisitely simple except for the engraved initials JHR on the lid.
There was a perplexing lack of reaction from Harry. His dark head was bent so that Poppy couldn’t even see his face. His fingers closed around the watch, and he let out a long, deep breath.
Wondering if she had done the wrong thing, Poppy turned blindly to the bellpull. “I hope you like it,” she said evenly. “I’ll ring for dinner now. I’m hungry, even if you’re—”
All at once Harry seized her from behind, wrapping his arms around her, one hand still gripped around the watch. His entire body was trembling, powerful muscles threatening to crush her. His voice was low and remorseful.
“I’m sorry.”
Poppy relaxed against him as he continued to hold her. She closed her eyes.
“Damn it,” he said into the loose sheaf of her hair, “I’m so sorry. It’s just that the thought of you having any feelings for Bayning . . . it . . . doesn’t bring out the best in me.”
“There’s an understatement,” Poppy said darkly. But she turned in his arms and pressed against him, her hand sliding up to the back of his head.
“It tortures me,” he admitted gruffly. “I don’t want you to care for any man but me. Even if I don’t deserve it.”
Poppy’s hurt faded as she reflected that the experience of being loved was still very new to Harry. The problem wasn’t a lack of trust in her, it was a result of his own self-doubt. Harry would probably always be possessive where she was concerned.
“Jealous,” she accused softly, pulling his head down to her shoulder.
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s no need for it. The only feelings I have for Michael Bayning are pity and kindness.” She brushed her lips against his ear. “Did you see the engraving on the watch? No? . . . It’s inside the lid. Look.”
But Harry didn’t move, didn’t do anything except hold her as if she were a lifeline. She suspected he was too overcome to do anything at the moment. “It’s a quote by Erasmus,” she said helpfully. “My father’s favorite monk, after Roger Bacon. The watch is inscribed,‘It is the chiefest point of happiness that a man is willing to be what he is.’ ” At Harry’s continued silence, she couldn’t help throwing more words into the void. “I want you to be happy, you exasperating man. I want you to understand that I love you for exactly what you are.”
Harry’s breathing turned hard and rough. He held her in a grip that would have taken a hundred men to break. “I love you, Poppy,” he said raggedly. “I love you so much that it’s absolute hell.”
She tried to suppress a smile. “Why is it hell?” she asked sympathetically, stroking his nape.
“Because I have so much to lose now. But I’m going to love you anyway, because there doesn’t seem to be any way to stop doing it.” He kissed her forehead, eyelids, cheeks. “I have so much love for you, I could fill rooms with it. Buildings. You’re surrounded by it wherever you go, you walk through it, breathe it . . . it’s in your lungs, and under your tongue, and between your fingers and toes . . .” His mouth moved passionately over hers, urging her lips apart.
It was a kiss to level mountains and shake stars from the sky. It was a kiss to make angels faint and demons weep . . . a passionate, demanding, soul-searing kiss that nearly knocked the earth off its axis.
Or at least that was how Poppy felt about it.
Harry swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He lowered over her and smoothed the rich tumble of her hair. “I never want to be apart from you,” he said. “I’m going to buy an island and take you there. A ship will come once a month with supplies. The rest of the time it will be just the two of us, wearing leaves and eating exotic fruit and making love on the beach . . .”
“You’d start a produce export business and organize a local economy within a month,” she said flatly.
Harry groaned as he recognized the truth of it. “God. Why do you tolerate me?”
Poppy grinned and slid her arms around his neck. “I like the side benefits,” she told him. “And really, it’s only fair since you tolerate me.”
“You’re perfect,” Harry said with heated earnestness. “Everything about you, everything you do or say. And even if you have a little flaw here or there . . .”
“Flaws?” she asked in mock indignation.
“. . . I love those best of all.”
Harry undressed her, his efforts hindered by the fact that Poppy was trying to undress him at the same time. They rolled and struggled with their clothing, and despite the intensity of their mutual need, a few gasps of laughter escaped as they found themselves in a hopeless tangle of fabric and limbs. Finally, they both emerged na*ed and panting.
Harry hooked a hand beneath her knee, widening the spread of her thighs, and he took possession of her in a forceful plunge. Poppy cried out, quivering in surprise at the power of his rhythm. His body was elegant and strong, claiming her in demanding thrusts. Her br**sts were cupped in his hands, his mouth covering a taut peak, and he suckled her in time to the lunges of his hips.
A deep flush came over her, the hard slide of his flesh in hers offering exquisite relief and erotic torment. She moaned and struggled to match his rhythm as ripples of pleasure went through her, stronger and stronger until she couldn’t move at all. And he drank in her sobs with his mouth, making love to her until she eventually quieted, her body replete with sensation.
Harry stared down at her intently, his face gleaming with perspiration, eyes tiger bright. Poppy wrapped her arms and legs around him, trying to absorb him, wanting him as close as physically possible. “I love you, Harry,” she said. The words made him catch his breath, shudders resounding through his body. “I love you,” she repeated, and he surged inside her, hard and deep, and found his release. She curled up against him afterward, while his hand played gently in her hair. They slept together, dreamed together, all barriers finally gone.
And the next day, Harry disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-six
For a man who revered schedules as much as Harry, being late was not only unusual, it was akin to atrocity. Therefore, when he didn’t return to the hotel from an afternoon visit to his fencing club, Poppy was more than a little concerned. When three hours had passed and her husband still wasn’t back, she rang for Jake Valentine.
The assistant came at once, his expression perturbed, his brown hair in disarray as if he’d been tugging on it distractedly.
“Mr. Valentine,” Poppy said with a frown, “do you know anything about Mr. Rutledge’s whereabouts at present?”
“No, ma’am. The driver just returned without him.”
“What?” she asked, bewildered.
“The driver waited at the usual time and place, and when Mr. Rutledge didn’t appear after an hour, he went inside the club to make inquiries. A search was done. Apparently Mr. Rutledge was nowhere to be found on the premises. The master of the fencing club asked various members if they had seen Mr. Rutledge go off with someone, perhaps enter a carriage, or even mention his plans, but no one had seen or heard anything after Mr. Rutledge finished his practice.” Valentine paused and drew the side of his fist over his mouth, a nervous gesture Poppy had never seen him make before. “He seems to have vanished.”
“Has this ever happened before?” she asked.
Valentine shook his head.
They stared at each other in the mutual recognition that something was very wrong.
“I’ll go back to the club and search again,” Valentine said. “Someone had to have seen something.”
Poppy steeled herself to wait. Perhaps it was nothing, she told herself. Perhaps Harry had gone somewhere with an acquaintance, and he would return any moment. But she knew instinctively that something had happened to him. It seemed her blood had turned to ice water . . . she was shaky, numb, terrified. She paced around the apartments, and then she went downstairs to the front office, where the receptionist and concierge were similarly distracted.
Evening had settled deeply over London by the time Valentine finally returned. “Not a trace of him anywhere,” he said.
Poppy felt a chill of fear. “We must notify the police.”
He nodded. “I already have. I once received instructions from Mr. Rutledge in case something like this ever occurred. I’ve notified a Special Constable who works from the Bow Street office, and also a South London cracksman named William Edgar.”
“Cracksman? What is that?”
“Thief. And from time to time he does a bit of smuggling. Mr. Edgar is familiar with every street and rookery in London.”
“My husband instructed you to contact a constable and a criminal?”
Valentine looked a bit sheepish. “Yes, ma’am.”
Poppy put her fingertips to her temples, trying to calm her racing thoughts. A painful sob rose in her throat before she could swallow it back down. She dragged a sleeve across her wet eyes. “If he’s not found by morning,” she said, taking the handkerchief he handed to her, “I want to post a reward for any information that leads to his safe return.” She blew her nose indelicately. “Five thousand—no, ten thousand pounds.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And we should give a list to the police.”
Valentine looked at her blankly. “A list of what?”
“Of all the people who might wish to do him harm.”
“That won’t be easy,” Valentine muttered. “Most of the time I can’t tell the difference between his friends and his enemies. Some of his friends would love to kill him, and one or two of his enemies have actually named their children after him.”
“I think Mr. Bayning should be considered a suspect,” Poppy said.
“I had thought of that,” Valentine admitted. “In light of the recent threats he’s made.”
“And the meeting at the War Office yesterday—Harry said they were displeased with him, and he—” Her breath stopped. “He said something about Mr. Kinloch, that he wanted to lock Harry away somewhere.”
“I’ll go tell the Special Constable immediately,” Valentine said. Seeing the way Poppy’s eyes flooded and her mouth contorted, he added hastily, “We’ll find him. I promise. And remember that whatever Mr. Rutledge is dealing with, he knows how to take care of himself.”
Unable to reply, Poppy nodded and pressed the wadded-up handkerchief to her nose.
As soon as Valentine had departed, she spoke to the concierge in a tear-clotted voice. “Mr. Lufton, may I write a note at your desk?”
“Oh, certainly, ma’am!” He arranged paper, ink, and a pen with a steel nib on the desk, and stood back respectfully as she began to write.
“Mr. Lufton, I want this taken to my brother, Lord Ramsay, immediately. He is going to help me search for Mr. Rutledge.”
“Yes, ma’am, but . . . do you think that wise at this hour? I’m sure Mr. Rutledge would not want you to compromise your safety by going out at night.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t, Mr. Lufton. But I can’t wait here without doing something. I’ll go mad.”
To Poppy’s vast relief, Leo came at once, his cravat askew and his waistcoat unbuttoned, as if he’d dressed hastily. “What’s going on?” he asked shortly. “And what did you mean, ‘Harry’s gone missing?’ ”
Poppy described the situation as quickly as possible, and curled her fingers into his sleeve. “Leo, I need you to take me somewhere.”
She saw from her brother’s face that he understood immediately. “Yes, I know.” He let out a taut sigh. “I had better start praying that Harry won’t be found for a good long while. Because when he learns that I took you to see Michael Bayning, my life won’t be worth a tin of oysters.”
After questioning Michael’s manservant as to his whereabouts, Leo and Poppy went to Marlow’s, a club so exclusive that one could only belong if his grandfather and father had been counted among its former members. The ennobled crowd at Marlow’s looked down on the rest of the populace—including less-privileged bluebloods—with undiluted disdain. Having always been curious to see the inside of the place, Leo was more than pleased to go there in search of Michael Bayning.
“You won’t be allowed past the door,” Poppy said. “You’re precisely the kind of person they want to keep out.”