“Poppy,” he said in an aching voice that nearly undid her.
She was terrified that she might burst into tears. “Please go.”
“If I could make you understand—”
“I understand. I do. And I will be perfectly—” She broke off and swallowed hard. “Please go. Please.”
She was aware of Amelia coming forward, murmuring something to Michael, efficiently shepherding him out of the suite before Poppy lost her composure. Dear Amelia, who did not hesitate to take charge of a man much larger than herself.
A hen chasing a cow, Poppy thought, and she let out a watery giggle even as hot tears began to slide from her eyes.
After closing the door firmly, Amelia sat beside Poppy and reached out to grasp her shoulders. She stared into Poppy’s blurred eyes. “You are,” she said, her voice ragged with emotion, “such a lady, Poppy. And much kinder than he deserved. I am so proud of you. I wonder if he understands how much he has lost.”
“The situation wasn’t his fault.”
Amelia tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and gave it to her. “Debatable. But I won’t criticize him, since it won’t help matters. However, I must say . . . the phrase ‘I can’t’ comes rather too easily to his lips.”
“He is an obedient son,” Poppy said, mopping at her tears, then giving up and simply wadding the handkerchief against her flooding eyes.
“Yes, well . . . from now on, I advise you to look for a man with his own means of support.”
Poppy shook her head, her face still buried in the handkerchief. “There’s no one for me.”
She felt her sister’s arms go around her. “There is. There is, I promise you. He’s waiting. He’ll find you. And someday Michael Bayning will be nothing but a distant memory.”
Poppy began to cry in earnest, wracking sobs that caused her ribs to ache. “God,” she managed to gasp. “This hurts, Amelia. And it feels as if it will never end.”
Carefully Amelia guided Poppy’s head to her shoulder and kissed her wet cheek. “I know,” she said. “I lived through it once. I remember what it was like. You’ll cry, and then you’ll be angry, and then despairing, and then angry again. But I know of a cure for heartbreak.”
“What is it?” Poppy asked, letting out a shuddery sigh.
“Time . . . prayer . . . and most of all a family that loves you. You will always be loved, Poppy.”
Poppy managed a wavering smile. “Thank God for sisters,” she said, and wept against Amelia’s shoulder.
Much later that night, there came a determined knock at the door of Harry Rutledge’s private apartment. Jake Valentine paused in the act of laying out fresh clothes and polished black shoes for the morning. He went to answer the door and was confronted by a vaguely familiar–looking woman. She was small and slight, with light brown hair and blue gray eyes, and a pair of round spectacles perched on her nose. He considered her for a moment, trying to place her.
“May I help you?”
“I wish to see Mr. Rutledge.”
“I’m afraid he’s not at home.”
Her mouth twisted at the well-worn phrase, used by servants when the master didn’t wish to be disturbed. She spoke to him with scalding contempt. “Do you mean ‘not at home’ in the sense that he doesn’t want to see me, or ‘not at home’ in the sense that he’s actually gone?”
“Either way,” Jake said implacably, “you won’t see him tonight. But the truth is, he really isn’t here. Is there a message I may convey to him?”
“Yes. Tell him that I hope he rots in hell for what he did to Poppy Hathaway. And then tell him that if he goes near her, I’ll murder him.”
Jake responded with a complete lack of alarm due to the fact that death threats against Harry were a more or less common occurrence. “And you are?”
“Just give him the message,” she said curtly. “He’ll know who it’s from.”
Two days after Michael Bayning had visited the hotel, the Hathaways’ brother Leo, Lord Ramsay, came to call. Like other men-about-town, Leo leased a small Mayfair terrace during the season, and at the end of June retreated to his estate in the country. Although Leo could easily have chosen to live with the family at the Rutledge, he preferred privacy.
No one could deny that Leo was a handsome man, tall and broad shouldered, with dark brown hair and striking eyes. Unlike his sisters, his eyes were a light shade of blue, glacier colored with dark rims. Haunting. World-weary. He comported himself as a rake and did a thorough job of it, appearing never to care about anyone or anything. There were moments, however, when the mask was lifted just long enough to reveal a man of extraordinary feeling, and it was in those rare moments that Catherine was most apprehensive around him.
When they were in London, Leo was usually too busy to spend time with his family, for which Catherine was grateful. From the moment they had met, she had felt an intrinsic dislike for him, and he for her, flint and iron striking to create sparks of hatred. At times they competed to see who could say the most hurtful things to the other, each of them testing, prodding, trying to find places of vulnerability. They couldn’t seem to help it, the constant urge to cut each other down to size.
Catherine answered the door of the family suite, and a jolt of reaction went through her as she was confronted by Leo’s lanky, big-framed form. He was fashionably dressed in a dark coat with wide lapels, loose trousers with no creases, and a boldly patterned waistcoat with silver buttons.
He surveyed her with wintry eyes, an arrogant smile tilting the corners of his lips. “Good afternoon, Marks.”
Catherine was stone-faced, her voice edged with scorn. “Lord Ramsay. I’m surprised you could tear yourself away from your amusements long enough to visit your sister.”
Leo gave her a look of bemused mockery. “What have I done to earn a scolding? You know, Marks, if you ever learned to hold your tongue, your chances of attracting a man would rise exponentially.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why would I want to attract a man? I have yet to see anything they’re good for.”
“If for nothing else,” Leo said, “you need us to help produce more women.” He paused. “How is my sister?”
“Heartbroken.”
Leo’s mouth turned grim. “Let me in, Marks. I want to see her.”
Catherine took a grudging step aside.
Leo went into the receiving room and found Poppy sitting alone with a book. He gave her an assessing glance. His normally bright-eyed sister was pale and drawn. She seemed unutterably weary, temporarily aged by grief.
Fury welled inside him. There were few people that mattered to him in the world, but Poppy was one of them.
It was unfair that the people who longed for love the most, searched the hardest for it, found it so elusive. And there seemed no good reason why Poppy, the prettiest girl in London, shouldn’t have been married by now. But Leo had gone through lists of acquaintances in his mind, pondering whether any of them would do for his sister, and none of them was remotely suitable. If one had the right temperament, he was an idiot or in his dotage. And then there were the lechers, the spendthrifts, and the reprobates. God help him, the peerage was a deplorable collection of male specimens. And he included himself in that estimation.
“Hello, sis,” Leo said gently, approaching her. “Where are the others?”
Poppy managed a wan smile. “Cam is out on business matters, and Amelia and Beatrix are at the park, pushing Rye in the perambulator.” She moved her feet to make room for him on the settee. “How are you, Leo?”
“Never mind that. What about you?”
“Never better,” she said bravely.
“Yes, I can see that.” Leo sat and reached for Poppy, gathering her close. He held her, patting her back, until he heard her sniffle. “That bastard,” he said quietly. “Shall I kill him for you?”
“No,” she said in a congested voice, “it wasn’t his fault. He sincerely wanted to marry me. His intentions were good.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Don’t ever trust men with good intentions. They’ll always disappoint you.”
Refusing to smile at his quip, Poppy drew back to look at him. “I want to go home, Leo,” she said plaintively.
“Of course you do, darling. But you can’t yet.”
She blinked. “Why not?”
“Yes, why not?” Catherine Marks asked tartly, sitting in a nearby chair.
Leo paused to send a brief scowl in the companion’s direction before returning his attention to Poppy. “Rumors are flying,” he said bluntly. “Last night I went to a drum, given by the wife of the Spanish ambassador—one of those things you go to only to be able to say you went—and I couldn’t count the number of times I was asked about you and Bayning. Everyone seems to think that you were in love with Bayning, and that he rejected you because his father thinks you’re not good enough.”
“That’s the truth.”
“Poppy, this is London society, where the truth can get you into trouble. If you tell one truth, you’ll have to tell another truth, and another, to keep covering up.”
That elicited a genuine smile from her. “Are you trying to give me advice, Leo?”
“Yes, and although I always tell you to ignore my advice, this time you’d better take it. The last significant event of the season is a ball held by Lord and Lady Norbury next week—”
“We have just written our regrets,” Catherine informed him. “Poppy does not wish to attend.”
Leo glanced at her sharply. “Have the regrets been sent?”
“No, but—”
“Tear them up, then. That’s an order.” Leo saw her narrow frame stiffen, and he got a perverse pleasure from the sight.
“But, Leo,” Poppy protested, “I don’t want to go to a ball. People might be watching to see if I—”
“They will certainly be watching,” Leo said. “Like a flock of vultures. Which is why you have to attend. Because if you don’t, you’ll be shredded by the gossips, and mocked without mercy when next season begins.”
“I don’t care,” Poppy said. “I’ll never go through another season again.”
“You may change your mind. And I want you to have the choice. Which is why you’re going to the ball, Poppy. You’ll wear your prettiest dress, and blue ribbons in your hair, and show them all that you don’t give a damn about Michael Bayning. You’re going to dance and laugh, and hold your head high.”
“Leo,” Poppy groaned. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Of course you can. Your pride demands it.”
“I don’t have any reason to be proud.”
“I don’t either,” Leo said. “But that doesn’t stop me, does it?” He glanced from Poppy’s reluctant expression to Catherine’s unreadable one. “Tell her I’m right, damn it,” he told her. “She has to go, doesn’t she?”
Catherine hesitated uncomfortably. Much as it galled her to admit it, Leo was indeed right. A confident, smiling appearance by Poppy at the ball would do much to still the wagging tongues of London parlors. But her instincts urged that Poppy should be taken to the safety of Hampshire as soon as possible. As long as she remained in town, she was in Harry Rutledge’s reach.
On the other hand . . . Harry never attended such events, where desperate matchmaking mothers with unclaimed daughters scrabbled to snare every last available bachelor. Harry would never lower himself to go to the Norbury ball, especially since his appearance there would turn it into a veritable circus.
“Please control your language,” Catherine said. “Yes, you are right. However, it will be difficult for Poppy. And if she loses her composure at the ball—if she gives way to tears—it will give the gossips even more ammunition.”
“I won’t lose my composure,” Poppy said, sounding drained. “I feel as if I’ve cried enough for a lifetime.”
“Good girl,” Leo said softly. He glanced at Catherine’s troubled expression and smiled. “It appears we’ve finally agreed on something, Marks. But don’t worry—I’m sure it won’t happen again.”
Chapter Nine
The Norbury ball was held in Belgravia, a district of calm and quietness in the heart of London. One could be overwhelmed by the bustle and roar of traffic and activity on Knightsbridge or Sloane Street, cross over to Belgrave Square, and find oneself in an oasis of soothing decorum. It was a place of large marble embassies and grand white terraces, of solemn mansions with tall powdered footmen and stout butlers, and carriages conveying languid young ladies and their tiny overfed dogs.
The surrounding districts of London held little interest for those fortunate enough to live in Belgravia. Conversations were largely about local matters—who had taken a particular house, or what nearby street needed repairs, or what events had taken place at a neighboring residence.
To Poppy’s dismay, Cam and Amelia had agreed with Leo’s assessment of the situation. A show of pride and unconcern was called for if Poppy wished to stem the tide of gossip concerning Michael Bayning’s rejection. “The gadje has a long memory of these matters,” Cam had said sardonically. “God knows why they attach such importance to things of no consequence. But they do.”
“It’s only one evening,” Amelia had told Poppy in concern. “Do you think you could manage an appearance, dear?”
“Yes,” Poppy had agreed dully. “If you are there, I can manage it.”
However, as she ascended the front steps to the mansion’s portico, Poppy was swamped with regret and dread. The glass of wine she’d had to bolster her courage had pooled like acid in her stomach, and her corset had been laced too tightly.
She wore a white dress, layers of draped satin and pale blue illusion. Her waist was cinched with a belt of satin folds, the bodice deep and scooped and trimmed with another delicate froth of blue. After arranging her hair in a mass of pinned-up curls, Amelia had threaded a thin blue ribbon through it.
Leo had arrived, as promised, to accompany the family to the ball. He held out his arm for Poppy and escorted her up the stairs, while the family followed en masse. They entered the overheated house, which was filled with flowers, music, and the din of hundreds of simultaneous conversations. Doors had been removed from their hinges to allow for the circulation of guests from the ballroom to the supper and card rooms.