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.
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?”