Two years earlier, Miss Marks had been hired as a governess, not to supplement the girls’ academic learning, but to teach them the infinite variety of rules for young ladies who wished to navigate the hazards of upper society. Now her position was that of paid companion and chaperone.
In the beginning, Poppy and Beatrix had been daunted by the challenge of learning so many social rules. “We’ll make a game of it,” Miss Marks had declared, and she had written a series of poems for the girls to memorize.
For example:
If a lady you wish to be,
Behave with all formality.
At supper when you sit to eat,
Don’t refer to beef as “meat.”
Never gesture with your spoon,
Or use your fork as a harpoon.
Please don’t play with your food,
And try to keep your voice subdued.
When it came to taking public walks:
Don’t go running in the street,
And if a stranger you should meet,
Do not acknowledge him or her,
But to your chaperone defer.
When crossing mud, I beg,
Don’t raise your skirts and show your leg.
Instead draw them slightly up and to the right,
Keeping ankles out of sight.
For Beatrix, there were also special codas:
When paying calls, wear gloves and hat,
And never bring a squirrel, or rat,
Or any four-legged creatures who
Do not belong indoors with you.
The unconventional approach had worked, giving Poppy and Beatrix enough confidence to participate in the season without disgracing themselves. The family had praised Miss Mark for her cleverness. All except for Leo, who had told her sardonically that Elizabeth Barrett Browning had nothing to fear. And Miss Marks had replied that she doubted Leo had sufficient mental aptitude to judge the merits of any kind of poetry at all.
Poppy had no idea why her brother and Miss Marks displayed such antagonism toward each other.
“I think they secretly like each other,” Beatrix had said mildly.
Poppy had been so astonished by the idea, she had laughed. “They war with each other whenever they’re in the same room, which, thank heavens, isn’t often. Why would you suggest such a thing?”
“Well, if you consider the mating habits of certain animals—ferrets, for example—it can be quite a rough-and-tumble business—”
“Bea, please don’t talk about mating habits,” Poppy said, trying to suppress a grin. Her nineteen-year-old sister had a perpetual and cheerful disregard for propriety. “I’m sure it’s vulgar, and . . . how do you know about mating habits?”
“Veterinary books, mostly. But also from occasional glimpses. Animals aren’t very discreet, are they?”
“I suppose not. But do keep such thoughts to yourself, Bea. If Miss Marks heard you, she would write another poem for us to memorize.”
Bea looked at her for a moment, her blue eyes innocent. “Young ladies never contemplate . . . the ways that creatures procreate . . .”
“Or their companion will be irate,” Poppy finished for her.
Beatrix had grinned. “Well, I don’t see why they shouldn’t be attracted to each other. Leo is a viscount, and he’s quite handsome, and Miss Marks is intelligent and pretty.”
“I’ve never heard Leo aspire to marry an intelligent woman,” Poppy had said. “But I agree—Miss Marks is very pretty. Especially of late. She used to be so dreadfully thin and white, I didn’t think much of her looks. But now she’s filled out a bit.”
“At least a stone,” Beatrix had confirmed. “And she seems much happier. When we first met her, I think she had been through some dreadful experience.”
“I thought so, too. I wonder if we’ll ever find out what it was?”
Poppy hadn’t been certain of the answer. But as she glanced at Miss Marks’s weary face this morning, she thought there was a good chance that her recurrent nightmares had something to do with her mysterious past.
Going to the wardrobe, Poppy viewed the row of tidy, neatly pressed dresses made up with quiet colors and prim white collars and cuffs. “Which dress shall I find for you?” she asked softly.
“Any of them. It doesn’t matter.”
Poppy chose a dark blue wool twill, and laid the dress out on the rumpled bed. Tactfully she looked away as her companion removed her nightgown and donned a chemise and drawers and stockings.
The last thing Poppy wanted to do was trouble Miss Marks when her head was aching. However, the events of the morning had to be confessed. If any hint of her misadventure involving Harry Rutledge ever got out, it was far better for her companion to be prepared.
“Miss Marks,” she said carefully, “I don’t wish to make your headache worse but I have something to tell you . . .” Her voice trailed away as Miss Marks shot her a brief, pained glance.
“What is it, Poppy?”
Now was not a good time, Poppy decided. In fact . . . was there any obligation to say anything ever? In all likelihood, she would never see Harry Rutledge again. He certainly didn’t attend the same social events the Hathaways did. And really, why would he bother causing trouble for a girl who was so far beneath his notice? He had nothing to do with her world, nor she with his.
“I dropped a bit of something-or-other on the bodice of my pink muslin frock the other evening at supper,” Poppy improvised. “And now there’s a grease stain on it.”
“Oh, dear.” Miss Marks paused in the middle of hooking up the front of her corset. “We’ll mix a solution of hartshorn powder and water and sponge the stain. Hopefully that will take it out.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea.”
Feeling only the tiniest bit guilty, Poppy picked up Miss Marks’s discarded nightgown and folded it.
Chapter Four
Jake Valentine had been born a filius nullius, the Latin term for “son of nobody.” His mother Edith had been a maidservant for a well-to-do barrister in Oxford, and his father the selfsame barrister. Contriving to rid himself of mother and son in one fell swoop, the barrister had bribed a loutish farmer to marry Edith. At the age of ten, having had enough of the farmer’s bullying and beatings, Jake had left home for good and struck out for London.
He had labored in a blacksmith’s forge for ten years, gaining significant size and strength, as well as a reputation for hard work and trustworthiness. It had never occurred to Jake to want more for himself. He had been employed, and his belly had been full, and the world outside London held no interest for him.
One day, however, a dark-haired man came to the blacksmith’s shop and asked to speak to Jake. Intimidated by the gentleman’s fine clothes and sophisticated bearing, Jake mumbled answers to a multitude of questions about his personal history and his work experience. And then the man astonished Jake by offering employment as his own valet, with many times the wages he was now getting.
Suspiciously, Jake had asked why the man would hire a novice, largely uneducated and roughcast in nature and appearance. “You could have your pick of the finest valets in London,” Jake had pointed out. “Why someone like me?”
“Because those valets are notorious gossips, and they’re acquainted with the servants of leading families across England and the continent. You have a reputation for keeping your mouth shut, which I value far more than experience. Also, you look as though you could give a good account of yourself in a dustup.”
Jake’s eyes had narrowed. “Why would a valet need to fight?”
The man had smiled. “You’ll be doing errands for me. Some of them will be easy, some of them less so. Come, are you in or not?”
And that was how Jake had come to work for Jay Harry Rutledge, first as a valet, and then as an assistant.
Jake had never known anyone like Rutledge—eccentric, driven, manipulative, demanding. Rutledge had a shrewder understanding of human nature than anyone Jake had ever met. Within a few minutes of meeting someone, he sized them up with complete accuracy. He knew how to make people do what he wanted, and he nearly always got his way.
It seemed to Jake that Rutledge’s brain never shut off, not even for the necessary act of sleeping. He was constantly active. Jake had seen him work out some problem in his head while simultaneously writing a letter and carrying on a fully coherent conversation. His appetite for information was voracious, and he possessed a singular gift for recall. Once Rutledge saw or read or heard something, it was in his brain forever. People could never lie to him, and if they were foolish enough to try, he decimated them.
Rutledge was not above gestures of kindness or consideration, and he rarely lost his temper. But Jake had never been certain how much, if at all, Rutledge cared for his fellow men. At his core, he was cold as a glacier. And as many things as Jake knew about Harry Rutledge, they were still essentially strangers.
No matter. Jake would have died for the man. The hotelier had secured the loyalty of all his servants, who were made to work hard but were given fair treatment and generous salaries. In return, they safeguarded his privacy zealously. Rutledge was acquainted with a great many people, but these friendships were rarely discussed. And he was highly selective about whom he admitted into his inner circle.
Rutledge was besieged by women, of course—his rampaging energy often found outlet in the arms of some beauty or another. But at the first indication that a woman felt the merest flicker of affection, Jake was dispatched to her residence to deliver a letter that broke off all future communications. In other words, Jake was required to endure the tears, anger, or other messy emotions that Rutledge could not tolerate. And Jake would have felt sorry for the women, except that along with each letter, Rutledge usually included some monstrously expensive piece of jewelry that served to mollify any hurt feelings.
There were certain areas of Rutledge’s life where women were never allowed. He did not allow them to stay in his private apartments, nor did he let any of them into his curiosities room. It was there that Rutledge went to dwell on his most difficult problems. And on the many nights when Rutledge was unable to sleep, he would go to the drafting table to occupy himself with automata, working with watch parts and bits of paper and wire until he had settled his overactive brain.
So when Jake was discreetly told by a housemaid that a young woman had been with Rutledge in the curiosities room, he knew something significant had occurred.
Jake finished his breakfast in the hotel kitchens with dispatch, hurrying over a plate of creamed eggs scattered with crisp curls of fried bacon. Ordinarily, he would have taken the time to savor the fare. However, he couldn’t be late for his morning meeting with Rutledge.
“Not so fast,” said Andre Broussard, a chef whom Rutledge had lured away from the French ambassador two years earlier. Broussard was the only employee in the hotel who possibly slept less than Rutledge. The young chef had been known to rise at three in the morning to begin preparing for a day’s work, going to the morning markets to personally select the best produce. He was fair-haired and slight of build, but he possessed the discipline and will of an army commander.
Pausing in the act of whisking a sauce, Broussard regarded Jake with amusement. “You might try chewing, Valentine.”
“I don’t have time to chew,” Jake replied, setting aside his napkin. “I’m due to get the morning list from Mr. Rutledge in—” he paused to consult his pocket watch, “—two and a half minutes.”
“Ah, yes, the morning list.” The chef proceeded to mimic his employer. “ ‘Valentine, I want you to arrange for a soirée in honor of the Portuguese ambassador to be held here on Tuesday with a pyrotechnic display at the conclusion. Afterward, run to the patent office with the drawings for my latest invention. And on the way back, stop by Regent Street and purchase six French cambric handkerchiefs, plain not patterned, and God help me no lace—’ ”
“Enough, Broussard,” Jake said, trying not to smile.
The chef returned his attention to the sauce. “By the way, Valentine . . . when you find out who the girl was, come back and tell me. And in return I’ll let you have your pick of the pastry tray before I send it to the dining room.”
Jake shot him a sharp look, his brown eyes narrowing. “What girl?”
“You know very well what girl. The one Mr. Rutledge was seen with this morning.”
Jake frowned. “Who told you about that?”
“At least three people mentioned it to me in the past half hour. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“The Rutledge employees are forbidden to gossip,” Jake said sternly.
Broussard rolled his eyes. “To outsiders, yes. But Mr. Rutledge never said we couldn’t gossip amongst ourselves.”
“I don’t know why the presence of a girl in the curiosities room should be so interesting.”
“Hmmm . . . could it be because Rutledge never allows anyone in there? Could it be because everyone who works here is praying that Rutledge will soon find a wife to distract him from his constant meddling?”
Jake shook his head ruefully. “I doubt he’ll ever marry. The hotel is his mistress.”
The chef gave him a patronizing glance. “That’s how much you know. Mr. Rutledge will marry, once he finds the right woman. As my countrymen say, ‘A wife and a melon are hard to choose.’ ” He watched as Jake buttoned his coat and straightened his cravat. “Bring back information, mon ami.”
“You know I would never reveal one detail of Rutledge’s private affairs.”
Broussard sighed. “Loyal to a fault. I suppose if Rutledge told you to murder someone, you’d do it?”
Although the question was asked in a light vein, the chef’s gray eyes were alert. Because no one, not even Jake, was entirely certain what Harry Rutledge was capable of, or how far Jake’s allegiance would go.
“He hasn’t asked that of me,” Jake replied, and paused to add with a flash of humor, “yet.”
As Jake hurried to the private suite of unnumbered rooms on the third floor, he passed many employees on the back stairs. These stairs, and the entrances at the back of the hotel, were used by servants and deliverymen as they went about their daily tasks. A few people tried to stop Jake with questions or concerns, but he shook his head and quickened his pace. Jake took care never to be late for his morning meetings with Rutledge. These consultations were usually brief, no more than a quarter hour, but Rutledge demanded punctuality.
Jake paused before the entrance of the suite, tucked at the back of a small private lobby lined with marble and priceless artwork. A secure inner hallway led to a discreet staircase and side door of the hotel, so that Rutledge never had to use the main hallways for his comings and goings. Rutledge, who liked to keep track of everyone else, did not allow anyone to do the same to him. He took most of his meals in private, and came and went as he pleased, sometimes with no indication of when he would return.