“I have no idea what a kabob is,” Valentine said to no one in particular, “but I don’t think the monkey’s going to like it.”
Before Harry could reply, Valentine caught sight of something behind him, and he groaned. “Guests,” the assistant muttered.
“Damn it,” Harry said beneath his breath, and turned to face the approaching guests, wondering what he was going to say to them.
A trio of women rushed toward him, two of them in pursuit of a dark-haired girl. A small shock of recognition went through Harry as he recognized Catherine Marks and Poppy Hathaway. He guessed the third was Beatrix, who seemed determined to plow through him in her haste to reach the food lift.
Harry moved to block her way. “Good morning, miss. I’m afraid you can’t go over there. Nor would you want to.”
She stopped immediately, staring at him with eyes the same rich blue as her sister’s. Catherine Marks regarded him with flinty composure, while Poppy took an extra breath, her cheeks infused with color.
“You don’t know my sister, sir,” Poppy said. “If there is a wild creature in the vicinity, she most definitely wants to see it.”
“What makes you think there’s a wild creature in my hotel?” Harry asked, as if the idea were inconceivable.
The macaque chose that moment to utter an enthusiastic screech.
Holding his gaze, Poppy grinned. Despite his annoyance at the situation and his lack of control over it, Harry couldn’t help smiling back. She was even more exquisite than he had remembered, her eyes a dark, lucid blue. There were many beautiful women in London, but not one of them possessed her combination of intelligence and subtly off-kilter charm. He wanted to sweep her away somewhere, that very minute, and have her all to himself.
Schooling his expression, Harry recalled that although they had met the previous day, they weren’t supposed to know each other. He bowed with impeccable politeness. “Harry Rutledge, at your service.”
“I’m Beatrix Hathaway,” the younger girl said, “and this is my sister Poppy and my companion Miss Marks. There’s a monkey in the food lift, isn’t there?” She seemed remarkably prosaic, as if discovering exotic animals in one’s residence occurred all the time.
“Yes, but—”
“You’ll never catch him that way,” Beatrix interrupted.
Harry, who was never interrupted by anyone, found himself biting back another smile. “I assure you, we have the situation well in hand, Miss—”
“You need help,” Beatrix told him. “I’ll return directly. Don’t do anything to upset the monkey. And don’t try to poke him out with that sword—you may accidentally pierce him.” With no further ado, she dashed back in the direction she had come from.
“It wouldn’t be accidental,” Harry muttered.
Miss Marks looked from Harry to her retreating charge, her mouth falling open. “Beatrix, do not run through the hotel like that. Stop at once!”
“I think she has a plan,” Poppy remarked. “You’d better go after her, Miss Marks.”
The companion threw her a beseeching glance. “Come with me.”
But Poppy didn’t move, only said innocently, “I’ll wait here, Miss Marks.”
“But it’s not proper—” The companion looked from Beatrix’s fast-disappearing form to Poppy’s unmoving one. Deciding in a flash that Beatrix posed the greater problem, she turned with an unladylike curse and ran after her charge.
Harry found himself left with Poppy, who, like her sister, seemed remarkably unperturbed by the macaque’s antics. They faced each other, he with his foil, she with her parasol.
Poppy’s gaze traveled over his fencing whites, and rather than staying demurely silent or displaying the appropriate nervousness of a young lady with no companion to protect her . . . she launched into conversation. “My father called fencing ‘physical chess,’ ” she said. “He very much admired the sport.”
“I’m still a novice,” Harry said.
“According to my father, the trick of it is to hold the foil as if it were a bird in your hand—close enough to prevent its escape, but not tight enough to crush it.”
“He gave you lessons?”
“Oh, yes, my father encouraged all his daughters to try it. He said he knew of no other sport that would fall so directly in a woman’s line.”
“Of course. Women are agile and fast.”
Poppy smiled ruefully. “Not enough to elude you, it seems.”
The single comment managed, with wry humor, to gently mock herself and him.
Somehow they were standing closer together, although Harry wasn’t certain who had stepped toward whom. A delicious scent clung to her, sweet skin and perfume and soap. Remembering how soft her mouth had been, he wanted to kiss her so badly that it was all he could do not to reach for her. He was stunned to realize that he was a bit breathless.
“Sir!” Valentine’s voice recalled him from his thoughts. “The macaque is climbing up the rope.”
“It has nowhere to go,” Harry said curtly. “Try moving the lift upward and trapping it against the ceiling.”
“You will injure the macaque!” the Nagarajan exclaimed.
“I can only hope so,” Harry said, aggravated by the distraction. He didn’t want to be bothered with the logistics of capturing an unruly macaque. He wanted to be alone with Poppy Hathaway.
William Cullip arrived, carrying the Dreyse with extreme care. “Mr. Valentine, here it is!”
“Thank you.” Harry began to reach for it, but at that second Poppy reared back in a startle reflex, her shoulders colliding with his chest. Harry caught her by the arms and felt the thrills of panic running through her. Carefully, he turned her to face him. Her face was bleached, her gaze not quite focused. “What is it?” he asked softly, holding her against him. “The shotgun? You’re afraid of guns?”
She nodded, struggling to catch her breath.
Harry was shocked by the force of his own reaction to her, the tidal wave of protectiveness. She was trembling and winded, one hand pressing on the center of his chest. “It’s all right,” he murmured. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had sought comfort from him. Perhaps no one ever had. He wanted to draw her fully against him and soothe her. It seemed he had always wanted this, waited for it, without even knowing.
In the same quiet tone Harry murmured, “Cullip, the shotgun won’t be needed. Take it back to the cabinet.”
“Yes, Mr. Rutledge.”
Poppy stayed in the shelter of his arms, her head downbent. Her exposed ear looked so tender. The fragrance of her perfume teased him. He wanted to explore every part of her, hold her until she relaxed against him. “It’s all right,” he murmured again, stroking a circle on her back with his palm. “It’s gone. I’m sorry you were frightened.”
“No, I’m sorry, I . . .” Poppy drew back, her white face now infused with color. “I’m not usually skittish, it was only the surprise. A long time ago—” She stopped herself and fidgeted, and muttered, “I’m not going to babble.”
Harry didn’t want her to stop. He found everything about her endlessly interesting, although he couldn’t explain why. She simply was.
“Tell me,” he said in a low voice.
Poppy made a helpless gesture and gave him a wry glance as if to convey that she had warned him. “When I was a child, one of my favorite people in the world was my Uncle Howard, my father’s brother. He had no wife or children of his own, so he lavished all his attention on us.”
A reminiscent smile touched her lips. “Uncle Howard was very patient with me. My chattering drove everyone else to distraction, but he always listened as if he had all the time in the world. One morning he came to visit us while Father went shooting with some of the village men. When they returned with a brace of birds, Uncle Howard and I went to the end of the lane to meet them. But someone’s rifle discharged accidentally . . . I’m not certain if it was dropped, or if the man was carrying it incorrectly . . . I remember the sound if it, a boom like thunder, and there were a few hard pinches on my arm, and another on my shoulder. I turned to tell Uncle Howard, but he was crumpling very slowly to the ground. He’d been fatally wounded, and I had been hit by a few stray pellets.”
Poppy hesitated, her eyes glittering. “There was blood all over him. I went to him and put my arms beneath his head, and asked him what I should do. And he whispered that I must always be a good girl, so that we could meet again in heaven someday.” She cleared her throat and sighed shortly. “Forgive me. I talk excessively. I shouldn’t—”
“No,” Harry said, overwhelmed by a baffling and unfamiliar emotion, white-knuckled with it. “I could listen to you all day.”
She blinked in surprise, jostled out of her melancholy. A shy grin rose to her lips. “Aside from my Uncle Howard, you’re the first man ever to say that to me.”
They were interrupted by exclamations from the men gathered around the rope lift, as the macaque climbed higher.
“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered.
“Please wait just a moment more,” Poppy said to him earnestly. “My sister is very good with animals. She’ll have him out with no injury.”
“She has experience with primates?” Harry asked sardonically.
Poppy considered that. “We’ve just been through the London season. Does that count?”
Harry chuckled, with a genuine amusement that didn’t often occur, and both Valentine and Brimbley glanced at him with astonishment.
Beatrix hurried back to them, clutching something in her arms. She paid no attention to Miss Marks, who was following and scolding. “Here we are,” Beatrix said cheerfully.
“Our comfit jar?” Poppy asked.
“We’ve already offered him food, miss,” Valentine said. “He won’t take it.”
“He’ll take these.” Beatrix strode confidently to the opening of the food lift. “Let’s send the jar up to him.”
“Have you adulterated the sweets?” Valentine asked hopefully.
All three of the Nagarajan envoys exclaimed anxiously to the effect that they did not want the macaque to be drugged or poisoned.
“No, no, no,” Beatrix said, “He might fall down the shaft if I did that, and this precious animal must not be harmed.”
The foreigners subsided at her reassurance.
“How may I help, Bea?” Poppy asked, approaching her.
Her younger sister handed her a length of heavy silk cord. “Tie this ’round the neck of the jar, please. Your knots are always much better than mine.”
“A clove hitch?” Poppy suggested, taking the twine.
“Yes, perfect.”
Jake Valentine regarded the two intent young women dubiously, and looked at Harry. “Mr. Rutledge—”
Harry gestured for him to be silent and allow the Hathaway sisters to proceed. Whether or not their attempt actually worked, he was enjoying this too much to stop them.
“Could you make some kind of loop for a handle at the other end?” Beatrix asked.
Poppy frowned. “An overhand knot, perhaps? I’m not sure I remember how.”
“Allow me,” Harry volunteered, stepping forward.
Poppy surrendered the end of the cord to him, her eyes twinkling.
Harry tied the end of the cord into an elaborate rope ball, first wrapping it several times around his fingers, then passing the free end back and forth. Not above a bit of showmanship, he tightened the whole thing with a deft flourish.
“Nicely done,” Poppy said. “What knot is that?”
“Ironically,” Harry replied, “it is known as the ‘Monkey’s Fist.’ ”
Poppy smiled. “Is it really? No, you’re teasing.”
“I never tease about knots. A good knot is a thing of beauty.” Harry gave the rope end to Beatrix, and watched as she placed the jar atop the frame of the food lift cab. Then he realized what her plan was. “Clever,” he murmured.
“It may not work,” Beatrix said. “It depends on whether the monkey is more intelligent than we are.”
“I’m rather afraid of the answer,” Harry replied dryly. Reaching inside the food lift shaft, he pulled the rope slowly, sending the jar up to the macaque, while Beatrix kept hold of the silk cord.
All was quiet. The group held their breath en masse as they waited.
Thump.
The monkey had descended to the top of the cab. A few inquiring hoots and grunts echoed through the shaft. A rattle, a silence, and then a sharp tug at the line. Offended screams filled the air, and heavy thumps shook the food lift.
“We caught him,” Beatrix exclaimed.
Harry took the line from her, while Valentine lowered the cab. “Please stand back, Miss Hathaway.”
“Let me do it,” Beatrix urged. “The macaque is much more likely to spring at you than me. Animals trust me.”
“Nevertheless, I can’t risk one of my guests being injured.”
Poppy and Miss Marks both drew Beatrix away from the food lift opening. They all gasped as a large, blue black macaque appeared, his eyes huge and bright above a hairless muzzle, his head comically tufted with a shock of fur. The monkey was stocky and powerful in appearance, with hardly any tail to speak of. His expressive face contorted in fury, white teeth gleaming as it screeched.
One of the front paws appeared to be stuck in the comfit jar. The irate macaque tugged frantically to get it out, without success. His own clenched fist was the reason for his captivity—he refused to let go of the comfits even to remove his paw from the jar.
“Oh, isn’t he beautiful!” Beatrix enthused.
“Perhaps to a female macaque,” Poppy said dubiously.
Harry held the cord attached to the jar with one hand, his fencing foil with the other. The macaque was larger than he had expected, capable of inflicting considerable damage. And it was clearly considering whom to attack first.
“Come on, old fellow,” Harry murmured, attempting to lead the monkey to the open crate.
Beatrix reached into her pocket, pulled out a few comfits, and went to toss them into the crate. “There you are, greedy boy,” she said to the macaque. “Your treats are in there. Go on, and don’t make such a fuss.”
Miraculously, the monkey obeyed, dragging his jar with him. After casting a baleful glance at Harry, he entered his crate and scooped up the scattered comfits with his free paw.