A sardonic smile flitted across Amelia’s soft lips. “You would voluntarily attend a flower show?”
“I like flowers,” Cam said innocently.
“Yes, scattered across meadows and marshes. But you hate seeing them organized in raised beds and neat little boxes.”
“I can tolerate it for an afternoon,” Cam assured her. Idly he toyed with a loose lock of hair that had fallen on her neck. “I suppose it’s worth the effort to gain an in-law like Bayning.” He smiled as he added, “We need at least one respectable man in the family, don’t we?”
Chapter Five
An invitation was sent to Michael Bayning the next day, and to Poppy’s elation, it was accepted immediately. “It’s only a matter of time now,” she told Beatrix, barely restraining herself from hopping in excitement the way Dodger did. “I’m going to be Mrs. Michael Bayning, and I love him, I love everyone and everything . . . I even love your smelly old ferret, Bea!”
Late in the morning, Poppy and Beatrix dressed for a walk. It was a clear, warm day, and the hotel gardens, intercut with neatly graveled paths, were a symphony of blooms.
“I can hardly wait to go out,” Poppy said, standing at the window and staring down at the extensive gardens. “It almost reminds me of Hampshire, the flowers are so beautiful.”
“It doesn’t remind me at all of Hampshire,” Beatrix said, “It’s too orderly. But I do like walking through the Rutledge rose garden. The air smells so sweet. Do you know, I spoke with the master gardener a few mornings ago, when Cam and Amelia and I went out, and he told me his secret recipe for making the roses so large and healthy.”
“What is it?”
“Fish broth, vinegar and a dash of sugar. He sprinkles them with it right before they bloom. And they love it.”
Poppy wrinkled her nose. “What a dreadful concoction.”
“The master gardener said that old Mr. Rutledge is especially fond of roses, and people have brought him some of the exotic varieties you see in the garden. The lavender roses are from China, for example, and the Maiden’s Blush variety comes from France, and—”
“Old Mr. Rutledge?”
“Well, he didn’t actually say Mr. Rutledge was old. I just can’t help thinking of him that way.”
“Why?”
“Well, he’s so awfully mysterious, and no one ever sees him. It reminds me of the stories of mad old King George, locked away in his apartments at Windsor Castle.” Beatrix grinned. “Perhaps they keep Mr. Rutledge up in the attic.”
“Bea,” Poppy whispered urgently, filled with an overwhelming urge to confide in her, “There’s something I’m bursting to tell you, but it must remain a secret.”
Her sister’s eyes lit with interest. “What is it?”
“First promise you won’t tell anyone.”
“I promise promise.”
“Swear on something.”
“I swear on St. Francis, the patron saint of all animals.” Seeing Poppy’s hesitation, Beatrix added enthusiastically, “If a band of pirates kidnapped me and took me to their ship and threatened to make me walk the plank over a shiver of starving sharks unless I told them your secret, I still wouldn’t tell it. If I were tied by a villain and thrown before a herd of stampeding horses all shod in iron, and the only way to keep from being trampled was to tell the villain your secret, I—”
“All right, you’ve convinced me,” Poppy said with a grin. Dragging her sister to the corner, she said softly, “I have met Mr. Rutledge.”
Beatrix’s blue eyes turned huge. “You have? When?”
“Yesterday morning.” And Poppy told her the entire story, describing the passageway, the curiosities room, and Mr. Rutledge himself. The only thing she left out was the kiss, which, as far as she was concerned, had never happened.
“I’m so terribly sorry about Dodger,” Beatrix said earnestly. “I apologize on his behalf.”
“It’s all right, Bea. Only . . . I do wish he hadn’t lost the letter. So long as no one finds it, I suppose there’s no problem.”
“Then Mr. Rutledge is not a decrepit madman?” Beatrix asked, sounding disappointed.
“Heavens, no.”
“What does he look like?”
“Quite handsome, actually. He’s very tall, and—”
“As tall as Merripen?”
Kev Merripen had come to live with the Hathaways after his tribe had been attacked by Englishmen who had wished to drive the Gypsies out of the county. The boy had been left for dead, but the Hathaways had taken him in, and he had stayed for good. Recently he had married the second oldest sister, Winnifred. Merripen had undertaken the monumental task of running the Ramsay estate in Leo’s absence. The newlyweds were both quite happy to stay in Hampshire during the season, enjoying the beauty and relative privacy of Ramsay House.
“No one’s as tall as Merripen,” Poppy said. “But Mr. Rutledge is tall nonetheless, and he has dark hair and piercing green eyes . . .” Her stomach gave an unexpected little leap as she remembered.
“Did you like him?”
Poppy hesitated. “Mr. Rutledge is . . . unsettling. He’s charming, but one has the feeling he’s capable of nearly anything. He’s like some wicked angel from a William Blake poem.”
“I wish I could have seen him,” Beatrix said wistfully. “And I wish even more that I could visit the curiosities room. I envy you, Poppy. It’s been so long since anything interesting has happened to me.”
Poppy laughed quietly. “What, when we’ve just gone through nearly the entire London season?”
Beatrix rolled her eyes. “The London season is about as interesting as a snail race. In January. With dead snails.”
“Girls, I’m ready,” came Miss Marks’s cheerful summons, and she entered the room. “Make certain to fetch your parasols—you don’t want to become sunbrowned.” The trio left the suite and proceeded at a dignified pace along the hallway. Before they turned the corner to approach the grand staircase, they became aware of an unusual disturbance in the decorous hotel.
Men’s voices tangled in the air, some agitated, at least one of them angry, and there was the sound of foreign accents, and heavy thumping, and a queer metallic rattling.
“What the devil . . .” Miss Marks said under her breath.
Rounding the corner, the three women stopped abruptly at the sight of a half dozen men clustered near the food lift. A shriek rent the air.
“Is it a woman?” Poppy asked, turning pale. “A child?”
“Stay here,” Miss Marks said tensely. “I’ll undertake to find out—”
The three of them flinched at a series of screams, the sounds blistered with panic.
“It is a child,” Poppy said, striding forward despite Miss Marks’s command to stay. “We must do something to help.”
Beatrix had already run ahead of her. “It’s not a child,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s a monkey!”
Chapter Six
There were few activities Harry enjoyed as much as fencing, even more so because it had become an obsolete art. Swords were no longer necessary as weapons or fashion accessories, and its practitioners were now mainly military officers and a handful of amateur enthusiasts. But Harry liked the elegance of it, the precision that required both physical and mental discipline. A fencer had to plan several moves in advance, something that came naturally to Harry.
A year earlier, he had joined a fencing club consisting of approximately a hundred members, including peers, bankers, actors, politicians, and soldiers from various ranks of the military. Thrice weekly, Harry and a few trusted friends met at the club, practicing with both foils and quarterstaffs beneath the watchful eye of a fencing master. Although the club had a changing room and shower baths, there was often a queue, so Harry usually left directly from practice.
This morning’s practice had been especially vigorous, as the fencing master had taught them techniques for fighting off two opponents simultaneously. Although it had been invigorating, it was also challenging, and they had all been left bruised and tired. Harry had gotten a few hard strikes on his chest and bicep, and he was soaked in sweat.
When he returned to the hotel, he was still in his fencing whites, although he had removed the protective leather padding. He was looking forward to a shower bath, but it quickly became evident that the shower bath would have to wait.
One of his managers, a bespectacled young man named William Cullip, met him as he entered the back of the hotel. Cullip’s face was drawn with anxiety. “Mr. Rutledge,” he said apologetically, “I was told by Mr. Valentine to tell you immediately upon your return that we are having a . . . well, a difficulty . . .”
Harry stared at him and remained silent, waiting with forced patience. One could not rush Cullip, or the information would take forever to get out.
“It involves the Nagarajan diplomats,” the manager continued.
“Another fire?”
“No, sir. It has to do with one of the articles of tribute the Nagarajans had planned to present to the Queen tomorrow. It has disappeared.”
Harry frowned, reflecting on the collection of priceless gemstones, artwork and textiles the Nagarajans had brought. “Their possessions are stored in a locked basement room. How could something go missing?”
Cullip let out a ragged breath. “Well, sir, it has apparently left on its own.”
Harry’s brows lifted. “What the hell is going on, Cullip?”
“Among the items the Nagarajans brought for the Queen are a pair of rare animals . . . blue macaques . . . which are found only in the Nagarajan teak forest. They are to be housed at the zoological gardens at Regent’s Park. Evidently each macaque was kept in its own crate, but somehow one of them learned to pick a lock, and—”
“The devil you say!” Incredulity was rapidly crushed by outrage. Yet somehow Harry managed to keep his voice quiet. “May I ask why no one bothered to inform me that we’re harboring a pair of monkeys in my hotel?”
“There seems to be some confusion on that point, sir. You see, Mr. Lufton in reception is certain that he included it in his report, but Mr. Valentine says he never read anything about it, and he lost his temper and frightened a housemaid and two stewards, and now everyone is searching while at the same time making certain not to alert the guests—”
“Cullip.” Harry gritted his teeth with the effort to stay calm. “How long has the macaque been missing?”
“We estimate at least forty-five minutes.”
“Where is Valentine?”
“The last I heard, he had gone up to the third floor. One of the housemaids discovered what she thought might be droppings near the food lift.”
“Monkey droppings near the food lift,” Harry repeated, disbelieving his own ears. Christ. All the situation needed was for one of his elderly guests to be frightened into apoplexy from having a wild animal spring out from nowhere, or to have a woman or child bitten, or some other outrageous scenario.
It would be impossible to find the damned creature. The hotel was a virtual maze, riddled with hallways and concealed doors and passages. It could take days, during which the Rutledge would be in an uproar. He would lose business. And worst of all, he would be the butt of jokes for years. By the time the humorists got through with him . . .
“By God, heads are going to roll,” Harry said with a lethal softness that caused Cullip to flinch. “Go to my apartments, Cullip, and get the Dreyse from the mahogany cabinet in my private office.”
The young manager looked perplexed. “The Dreyse, sir?”
“A shotgun. It’s the only percussion cap breechloader in the cabinet.”
“A percussion . . .”
“The brown one,” Harry said gently. “With a large bolt sticking out of the side.”
“Yes, sir!”
“And for God’s sake, don’t point it at anyone. It’s loaded.”
Still gripping the foil, Harry raced up the back stairs. He took them two at a time, swiftly passing a pair of startled housemaids carrying baskets of linens.
Reaching the third floor, he headed to the food lift, where he found Valentine, all three of the Nagarajan diplomats, and Brimbley, the floor steward. A wood and metal crate had been positioned nearby. The men had gathered around the opening to the food lift, and were looking inside.
“Valentine,” Harry said curtly, striding up to his right-hand man, “have you found it?”
Jake Valentine threw him a harassed glance. “He climbed up the rope pulley in the food lift. Now he’s sitting on top of the movable frame. Every time we try to lower it, he hangs onto the rope and dangles above us.”
“Is he close enough for me to reach him?”
Valentine’s gaze flickered to the foil in his employer’s grasp. His dark eyes widened as he understood that Harry intended to skewer the creature rather than let it roam freely through the hotel.
“It wouldn’t be easy,” Valentine said. “You’d probably only end up agitating him.”
“Have you tried to lure it with food?”
“He won’t take the bait. I reached up in the shaft with an apple, and he tried to bite my hand.” Valentine cast a distracted glance at the food lift, where the other men were whistling and cooing to the obstinate monkey.
One of the Nagarajans, a slim middle-aged man dressed in a light suit with a richly patterned cloth draped over both shoulders, stepped forward. His expression was fraught with distress. “You are Mr. Rutledge? Good, yes, I thank you for coming to help retrieve this most important gift for Her Majesty. Very rare macaque. Very special. It must not be harmed.”
“Your name?” Harry asked brusquely.
“Niran,” the diplomat supplied.
“Mr. Niran, while I understand your concern for the animal, I have a responsibility to protect my guests.”
The Nagarajan glowered. “If you damage our gift to the Queen, I fear it will not go well for you.”
Leveling a hard stare at the diplomat, Harry said evenly, “If you don’t find a way to get that animal out of my food lift and into that crate in five minutes, Niran, I’m going to make a kabob out of him.”
This statement produced a stare of purest indignation, and the Nagarajan rushed to the opening of the food lift. The monkey gave an excited hoot, followed by a series of grunts.