Tempt Me at Twilight

by Lisa Kleypas

  Poppy held her breath as they waited for the Special Constable’s reply.

  “Very well,” Hembrey finally said. “I can send you in with a constable while I bring Mr. Kinloch in for questioning. However, I will insist that you abide by our codes of practice during the execution of the search—and the constable will make certain you are aware of those rules.”

  “Oh, have no fear,” Leo replied gravely. “I always follow the rules.”

  The Special Constable seemed rather unconvinced by the claim. “If you’ll wait but a moment,” he said, “I will confer with one of the magistrates, and he will assign the constable to escort you.”

  As soon as he left the office, Poppy leapt up from her chair. “Leo,” she said, “I’m—”

  “Yes, I know. You’re going, too.”

  The Kinloch home was large and fashionably gloomy, the interiors done in dark crimson and green, the walls oak paneled. The cavernous entrance hall was paved with uncovered stone slabs that caused their footsteps to echo repeatedly.

  What Poppy found most distinctive and unnerving about Edward Kinloch’s house, however, was that instead of adorning the rooms and hallways with traditional artwork, he had filled the place with an astonishingly vast array of game trophies. They were everywhere, dozens of pairs of glass eyes staring down at Poppy, Leo, Jake Valentine, and the constable assigned to accompany them. In the entrance hall alone there were heads from a ram, a rhino, two lions, a tiger, as well as a stag, elk, caribou, leopard, and zebra, and other species that were entirely unfamiliar to her.

  Poppy hugged her arms around her middle as she turned a slow circle. “I’m glad Beatrix can’t see this.”

  She felt Leo’s hand settle comfortingly on her back.

  “Apparently Mr. Kinloch enjoys sport hunting,” Valentine commented, gazing at the ghastly assortment.

  “Large game hunting isn’t a sport,” Leo said. “It’s only a sport when both sides are equally armed.”

  Poppy felt cold prickles of unease as she stared at the tiger’s frozen snarl. “Harry is here,” she said.

  Leo glanced at her. “Why are you so certain?”

  “Mr. Kinloch likes to display his power. To dominate. And this house is where he brings all his trophies.” She shot her brother a glance of barely suppressed panic. Her voice was very quiet. “Find him, Leo.”

  He gave her a short nod. “I’m going to walk around the outside perimeter of the house.”

  Jake Valentine touched Poppy’s elbow and said, “We’ll go through the rooms on this floor and inspect the molding and paneling to see if there are discrepancies that would indicate a concealed door. And we’ll also look behind the larger pieces of furniture, such as bookcases or wardrobes.”

  “And fireplaces,” Poppy said, remembering the one at the hotel.

  Valentine smiled briefly. “Yes.” After conferring with the constable, he accompanied Poppy to the parlor.

  They spent a half hour investigating every minute crack, edge, and surface elevation, running their hands over the walls, getting on their hands and knees, lifting edges of carpet.

  “May I ask,” came Valentine’s muffled voice as he looked behind a settee, “did Lord Ramsay really study architecture, or was he more of a . . .”

  “Dilettante?” Poppy supplied, moving every object on the fireplace mantel. “No, he’s quite accomplished, actually. He attended the Académie des Beaux-Arts in Paris for two years, and worked as a draftsman for Rowland Temple. My brother loves to play the part of featherbed aristocrat, but he’s far more clever than he lets on.”

  Eventually Leo came back inside. He went from room to room, pacing the distance from one wall to another, pausing to make notes. Poppy and Valentine continued to search diligently, progressing from the parlor to the entrance hall stairwell. With every minute that passed, Poppy’s anxiety sharpened. From time to time a housemaid or footman passed, glancing at them curiously but remaining silent.

  Surely one of them had to know something, Poppy thought in frustration. Why weren’t they helping to find Harry? Did their misplaced loyalty to their master preclude any sense of human decency?

  As a young housemaid wandered by with an armload of folded linens, Poppy lost her patience. “Where is it?” she exploded, glaring at the girl.

  The maid dropped the linens in surprise. Her eyes went as round as saucers. “Wh-where is what, ma’am?” she asked in a squeaky voice.

  “A hidden door. A secret room. There is a man being kept against his will somewhere in this house, and I want to know where he is!”

  “I don’t know noffing, ma’am,” the housemaid quavered, and burst into tears. Scooping up the fallen linens, she fled up the stairs.

  Valentine spoke quietly, his brown eyes filled with understanding. “The servants have already been questioned,” he said. “Either they don’t know, or they don’t dare betray their employer.”

  “Why would they keep their silence about something like this?”

  “There’s little hope for a servant who is dismissed without references to find a job nowadays. It could mean devastation. Starvation.”

  “I’m sorry,” Poppy said, gritting her teeth. “But at the moment I don’t care about anyone or anything save my husband’s welfare. And I know he’s here somewhere, and I’m not leaving until he’s found! I’ll tear the house apart if I must—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” came Leo’s voice as he strode into the entrance hall. He jerked his head purposefully in the direction of a hallway that branched off the main entrance. “Come to the library. Both of you.”

  Galvanized, they hurried after him, while the constable followed as well.

  The library was a rectangular room filled with heavy mahogany furniture. Three of the walls were fitted with shelved alcoves and bookcases, all topped by a cornice that was continuous with the wall joinery. The area of oak flooring uncovered by carpet was scarred and mellow with age.

  “This house,” Leo said, going straight to the draped windows, “is a classical Georgian, which means that every design feature in this half of the house is a perfect reflection of the other half. Any deviation is felt as a deep flaw. And according to the form of strict symmetrical arrangement, this room should have three windows on that wall, to match the corresponding room on the other side of the house. But obviously there are only two in here.” Deftly he tied back the drapes to admit as much daylight as possible.

  Waving impatiently at a cloud of dust motes in the air, Leo went to the second window, fastening those drapes as well. “So I went outside and noticed that the brickwork pointing is different on the section of the wall where a third window should be. And if you pace out this room and the one beside it—and compare the measurements with the exterior dimensions of the house—it appears there’s an eight- to ten-foot space between these rooms with no apparent access.”

  Poppy flew to the wall of bookcases, examining them desperately. “Is there a door here? How do we find it?”

  Leo joined her, lowering to his haunches and staring at the floor. “Look for fresh scuff marks. The floorboards are never level in these older houses. Or look for fibers caught in the seams between the cases. Or—”

  “Harry!” Poppy shouted, using her fist to bang on a bookcase frame. “Harry!”

  They were all still, listening intently for a response.

  Nothing.

  “Here,” the constable said, pointing to a small white crescent scuff on the floor. “This is a new mark. And if the bookcase swung out, it would correspond.”

  All four of them gathered around the bookcase. Leo pried, pushed, and pounded on the edge of the frame, but the unit remained firmly in place. He scowled. “I know how to find the room, but I’ll be damned if I know how to get inside.”

  Jake Valentine began to pull books from the shelves and toss them heedlessly to the floor. “The concealed doors we have at the hotel,” he said, “are locked according to a pulley-and-dowel mechanism, with a wire running to a
nearby object. When you tilt the object, the wire lifts the dowel and frees a doorstop wedge, and the door opens.”

  Poppy grabbed books and tossed them aside as well. One of the volumes she found was stuck in place. “This one,” she said breathlessly.

  Valentine slid his hand over the top of the book, found the wire, and pulled gently.

  The entire bookcase swung open with stunning ease, revealing a locked door.

  Leo pounded on the door with a heavy thump of his fist. “Rutledge?”

  They were all electrified by a distant, nearly inaudible reply, and the quiet vibration of the door being pounded from the other side.

  A few openmouthed servants gathered at the library doorway, watching the proceedings.

  “He’s in there,” Poppy said, her heart thundering. “Can you open the door, Leo?”

  “Not without a bloody key.”

  “Excuse me,” Valentine said, shouldering his way to the door and pulling a small rolled cloth from his coat pocket. He extracted two thin metal implements, knelt beside the door, and set to work on the lock. Within thirty seconds, they heard a distinct clack as the tumblers shifted.

  The door opened.

  Poppy sobbed in relief as Harry emerged, dressed in fencing whites that were gray with dust. Her husband was pale and dirt smudged, but remarkably composed considering the circumstances. Poppy launched herself at him, and he caught her and said her name hoarsely.

  Squinting in the brightness of the room, Harry kept Poppy against him as he reached out to shake the other men’s hands in turn. “Thank you. I didn’t think you’d be able to find me.” His voice was ragged and rough, as if he’d been shouting for some time. “The room is insulated with slag wool to muffle sound. Where’s Kinloch?”

  The constable replied. “He’s at the Bow Street Office, sir, being questioned. What do you say to accompanying us there and making a report, so we can detain him indefinitely?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Harry said feelingly.

  Ducking behind him, Leo ventured into the dark room.

  “Quite professional,” the constable told Valentine, as he replaced the lock picks in his pocket. “I don’t know whether to commend you or arrest you. Where did you learn to do that?”

  Valentine sent a grin in Harry’s direction. “My employer.”

  Leo emerged from the concealed room. “Little more than a desk, a chair, and a blanket,” he said grimly. “Commissioned you to do a bit of mechanical engineering, did he?”

  Harry nodded ruefully, reaching up to touch a tender spot on his skull. “The last thing I was aware of was something crashing down on my skull at the fencing club. I awoke here with Kinloch standing over me, ranting. I gathered the plan was to keep me locked away until I had developed a set of drawings that would result in a workable gun prototype.”

  “And after that,” Valentine said darkly, “when you were no longer useful . . . what did he intend to do with you then?”

  Harry smoothed his hand over Poppy’s back as he felt her tremble. “We didn’t discuss that part.”

  “Have you any idea whom his accomplices were?” the constable asked.

  Harry shook his head. “I didn’t see anyone else.”

  “I promise you, sir,” the constable vowed, “we’ll have Kinloch in the Bow Street strong room within the hour, and we’ll obtain the names of everyone involved in this wretched business.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you hurt?” Poppy asked anxiously, lifting her head from Harry’s chest. “Are you well enough to go to Bow Street? Because if not—”

  “I’m fine, love,” he murmured, smoothing a stray wisp of hair back from her face. “Just thirsty . . . and I wouldn’t mind having some dinner when we return to the hotel.”

  “I was afraid for you,” Poppy said, and her voice broke.

  Harry pulled her close with a comforting murmur, tucking her body into his, clasping her head against his shoulder.

  In tacit agreement, the other men drew away to allow them a moment of privacy.

  There was much to be said between them—too much—so Harry simply held her against him. There would be time later to disclose what was in their hearts.

  A lifetime, if he had his way.

  Harry lowered his mouth to Poppy’s flushed ear. “The princess rescues the villain,” he whispered. “It’s a nice variation on the story.”

  After what seemed an interminable time at Bow Street, Harry was finally allowed to return to the Rutledge. As he and Poppy left the police office, they were told that Edward Kinloch and two of his servants were already being held in the strong room, with Runners in pursuit of another, yet unnamed suspect. And every last one of the charlatans trying to claim Harry’s identity had been banished from the building.

  “If there’s one thing that today has made clear,” Special Constable Hembrey quipped, “it’s that the world needs only one Harry Rutledge.”

  The hotel employees were overjoyed at Harry’s return, crowding around him before he could go upstairs to his apartments. They displayed a level of affectionate familiarity that they once wouldn’t have dared, shaking Harry’s hand, patting his back and shoulders, exclaiming their relief over his safe return.

  Harry seemed a bit bemused by the demonstrations, but he tolerated it all quite willingly. It was Poppy who finally put a stop to the happy uproar, saying firmly, “Mr. Rutledge needs food and rest.”

  “I’ll have a tray sent up at once,” Mrs. Pennywhistle declared, dispersing the employees efficiently.

  The Rutledges went to their private apartments, where Harry took a shower bath, shaved, and donned a dressing robe. He wolfed down a meal without even seeming to taste it, drained a glass of wine, and sat back in his chair looking exhausted but content.

  “Bloody hell,” he said, “I love being home.”

  Poppy went to sit on his lap, curling her arms around his neck. “Is that how you think of the hotel now?”

  “Not the hotel. Just wherever you are.” He kissed her, his lips gentle at first, but heat rose swiftly between them. He became more demanding, almost savaging her mouth, and she responded with an ardent sweetness that set fire to his blood. His head lifted, his breathing uncontrolled, and his arms cradled her tightly against him. Beneath her hips, she felt the insistent pressure of his arousal.

  “Harry,” she said breathlessly, “you need sleep far more than this.”

  “I never need sleep more than this.” He kissed her head, nuzzling into the glowing locks of her hair. His voice softened, deepened. “I thought I’d go mad if I had to spend another minute in that blasted room. I was worried about you. I sat there thinking that all I want in life is to spend as much time with you as possible. And then it occurred to me that you had visited this hotel for three seasons in a row—three—and I’d never met you. All that time I wasted, when we could have been together.”

  “But Harry . . . even if we had met and married three years ago, you’d still say it wasn’t enough time.”

  “You’re right. I can’t think of a single day of my life that wouldn’t have been improved with you in it.”

  “Darling,” she whispered, her fingertips coming up to stroke his jaw, “that’s lovely. Even more romantic than comparing me to watch parts.”

  Harry nipped at her finger. “Are you mocking me?”

  “Not at all,” Poppy said, smiling. “I know how you feel about gears and mechanisms.”

  Lifting her easily, Harry brought her into the bedroom. “And you know what I like to do with them,” he said softly. “Take them apart . . . and put them back together again. Shall I show you, love?”

  “Yes . . . yes . . .”

  And they put off sleep just a little longer.

  Because people in love know that time should never be wasted.

  Epilogue

  THREE DAYS LATER

  “I’m late,” Poppy said thoughtfully, tying the sash of her white dressing gown as she approached the breakfast tabl
e.

  Harry stood and held a chair for her, stealing a kiss when she was seated. “I wasn’t aware you had an appointment this morning. There’s nothing on the schedule.”

  “No, not that kind of late. The other kind of late.” Seeing his incomprehension, Poppy smiled. “I’m referring to a certain monthly occurrence . . .”

  “Oh.” Harry stared at her fixedly, his expression unfathomable.

  Poppy poured her tea and dropped a lump of sugar in it. “It’s only two or three days past the usual time,” she said, her voice deliberately casual, “but I’ve never been late before.” She lightened her tea with milk and sipped it cautiously. Glancing at her husband over the rim of the china cup, she tried to gauge his reaction to the information.

  Harry swallowed and blinked, and stared at her. His color had heightened, making his eyes look unusually green. “Poppy . . .” He was forced to stop by the necessity of taking an extra breath. “Do you think you could be expecting?”

  She smiled, her excitement tempered with a flutter of nervousness. “Yes, I think it’s possible. We won’t know for certain until a bit more time has passed.” Her smile turned uncertain as Harry remained silent. Perhaps it was too soon . . . perhaps he wasn’t entirely receptive to the idea. “Of course,” she said, trying to sound prosaic, “it may take some time for you to become accustomed to the idea, and that’s only natural—”

  “I don’t need time.”

  “You don’t?” Poppy gasped as she was snatched off the chair and hauled into his lap. His arms went fast around her. “You want a baby, then?” she asked. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Mind?” Harry pressed his face against her chest, feverishly kissing her exposed skin, her shoulder, her throat. “Poppy, there are no words to describe how much I want it.” His head lifted, the depth of emotion in his eyes making her breath catch. “For most of my life, I thought I’d always be alone. And now to have you . . . and a baby . . .”

  “It’s not entirely certain yet,” Poppy said, smiling as he scattered kisses over her face.