Autumn Glory and Other Stories

by Barbara Metzger

  Thinking of money reminded Arthur that he needed to visit his bank, no matter what other errands he put off for another day. Putting up at this hotel was putting a hole in his pocket.

  *

  “Oh, my, what a lovely suite of rooms!”

  Mrs. Storke was fluttering between the sitting room and the two bedrooms, inspecting the water closet and the wardrobes while the hotel’s maids unpacked their trunks. Hope’s little terrier, Trumpet, was so excited to be out of his traveling bag that he managed to get in everyone’s way. Hope was equally as pleased to be so well situated. The rooms were the most luxurious she had ever stayed in, including her chamber at Thurstfield. Every amenity she could think of was provided by the hotel, from the bowl of fruit to a selection of books and newspapers. And her window looked out over a tree-filled park, so she would not feel so homesick for the country. “You see, Nancy, coming to London was not such a bad idea after all.”

  “Oh, but what would we have done without that nice Mr. Arthur? I shudder to think what could have happened to us without his help.”

  “He was everything accommodating,” Hope agreed as she placed the wrinkle-free papers on the floor in a corner for the little dog’s use. She only hoped the poor servant whose duty it was to iron the newspapers did not hear of their current use.

  “And devilishly handsome, didn’t you think?”

  She hadn’t thought of much else since the hotel manager had come to their rescue. Why, every maidservant on the staff must be smitten with his blond hair and blue eyes, his broad shoulders and cleft chin. Even his hands were attractive, she’d noticed when he handed her the key, strong and capable, yet graceful in a manly way.

  “Too bad about his limp,” Mrs. Storke was saying around a bite of apple from the fruit bowl.

  “He limps?” Hope found a silver bowl filled with sugared walnuts, so she nibbled on one. Trumpet had located a plate of biscuits, so he whined till Hope fed him. Nancy just shook her head and left to direct the maids in unpacking their gowns and bonnets.

  Hope could not seem to get the handsome hotelier out of her mind. She knew he found her comely, too, for she’d seen that look in a man’s eyes often enough in her nineteen years to recognize masculine admiration. What foolishness, though. As if her papa would let a mere Mr. Arthur court his daughter. He swore not to settle for anything less than a baronet. In truth, Hope could not envision herself living behind a reservations desk as Mrs. Arthur. But he was certainly well spoken and refined. She supposed he must be educated to hold such an important position, managing this enormous establishment.

  Heavens, she told herself, it was more important than ever to locate Sir Malcolm, if her eye and imagination were wandering to upper servants and tradesmen. Papa would have her married to their gouty neighbor, Lord Ormsby, in a flash, if he suspected such a possibility. He’d given her this one last chance to enjoy herself at the victory celebrations and to find her errant intended.

  Contrary to her papa’s oft-stated belief, the intentions were not solely on Hope’s part. Sir Malcolm Fredenham had spoken to her of his respect and affection, and they had sealed their understanding with a kiss. Before he could make a public announcement, however, Sir Malcolm had to inform his aunt and uncle in London, the relatives who were going to remember him fondly in their wills. And he wished to purchase a ring, he’d said, no trumpery bauble like those found in the hinterlands. Only the best would do for his bride-to-be, only a London jeweler’s craftsmanship and artistry.

  A month after he’d left, Hope had received a letter, the only letter she was to get, stating that Sir Malcom’s uncle was ailing, begging his nephew to stay on. That was four months ago. The man must be either recovered by now or dead. As for her ring, that London jeweler had enough time to mine a deuced diamond, much less set it in a ring. Five months was long enough for a man to be away from the woman he loved, and too long for her father’s patience. By the end of December, Lord Thurstfield had decreed, she’d be married and out of his house by the new year or he’d give her hand and handsome dowry to his good friend, Lord Ormsby. Ormsby was forty if he was a day, and covered in snuff and orange hair. Worse, he owned a vicious cur he entered in dogfights. No, Hope could not marry such a man. Trumpet would be a crumpet for the beast.

  Hope believed her father’s threats were occasioned by the recent arrival of a dashing young widow in the neighborhood. The widow’s virtues, or lack thereof, were not suitable topics of conversation for innocents such as Miss Thurstfield but were the talk of the shire, nevertheless. The baron would never entertain the notion of inviting Mrs. Longstreet to his daughter’s drawing room; entertaining her in his own cold, lonely bed was another matter entirely, an inviting matter that Thurstfield would dearly like to address before some other enterprising gentleman extended the widow his protection.

  Hence Hope’s journey to London, with her papa’s blessings, but without her papa. His own duties and dislike of doing the pretty kept him in the country, he claimed, Mrs. Longstreet’s name hanging between them. Of course, Lord Thurstfield believed his precious girl was traveling with her godmother, Lady Mildred Maythorpe. Lady Mildred knew everyone in Town, and was received everywhere. She fully intended to introduce Hope to every unmarried gentleman of her acquaintance. She did not intend to break her ankle tripping over her own cat.

  Hope saw no reason to mention Lady Mildred’s mishap to her father, since the news would only upset him. She left for London anyway, accompanied only by her companion and friend, not caring that she wouldn’t receive invitations to Carlton House or the other grand social events. She only wanted to find her fiancé. Unfortunately, he’d never mentioned his uncle’s name or address, nor any other friends. Surely someone in the vast city could give her his direction.

  If she could not locate Sir Malcolm, however, Hope would not be precisely heartbroken, although she had found the baronet’s countenance, company, and compliments everything pleasing. The decision to accept his hand had less to do with her heart and more to do with her head, and her father, telling Hope that she was nearing her twentieth birthday, and she’d already turned down every gentleman in the north of England, by her father’s reckoning. She wanted to be married, to have a home of her own, and babies. She did not want those babies to be little Lord Ormsbys, covered in snuff and ugly orange hair, patrons of blood sports. So she had to find Sir Malcolm Fredenham, or find some way to meet other eligible partis before her funds and her father’s patience wore out.

  The new wardrobe Nancy was helping the maids unpack was a start. Au courant and elegantly copied straight from the latest fashion journals under Lady Mildred’s supervision, the gowns were a showcase for Miss Hope Thurstfield’s wealth and beauty and ladylike bearing.

  Mrs. Storke dropped a pair of matching slippers and rushed to Hope’s side near the window. “Oh, my lands and larks! You’ll never believe what one of the girls just told me, my dear. There have been robberies, right here in the hotel! Valuables have been stolen right out of guests’ rooms.”

  Hope scooped up her dog, ready to stuff Trumpet back in his satchel.

  “Not that kind of valuable,” Nancy chided. “Jewels and watches and cash!”

  Hope glanced at the carved wood jewel box sitting in plain sight on the dressing table in her new bedroom. She planned on selling the contents if she could not find Sir Malcolm, to finance a fall Season in Town. Surely one of her mother’s old friends would be willing to sponsor her, if Lady Mildred did not recover in time. With the jewels, Hope could take time to select a husband of her own, someone she could respect, if not love. With the jewels, she would not come empty-handed to her marriage even if her father disowned her or denied her dowry if he did not like her choice. She could not, under any conditions, afford to lose those jewels.

  “The hotel must have a safe,” she declared, stuffing her rings and necklaces and brooches into an empty embroidered reticule. She left out the pearls she intended to wear for dinner and a simple gold locket for the next
day, before going to seek out that nice Mr. Arthur. No, Nancy did not need to run up and down all those stairs with her. What could happen in the halls of this magnificent establishment?

  Captain Hunter called “Enter” when he heard the light tap on his door. Supposing his visitor to be Simmons, needing to use his desk, or his batman Browne returned from his errands at the haberdashers, Arthur did not bother putting down the bottle he was currently emptying. Still holding the bottle, he jumped to his feet when he saw Miss Thurstfield at the door instead. He winced, that she should see him like this, and from the pain the sudden movement caused his leg. “Yes, miss? What can I do for you?” he asked more brusquely than he intended.

  Hope was staring at the bottle, rather than the tousled blond waves of his hair or the sleepy look to his blue eyes. “You’re drinking, on duty?”

  “My leg was hurting me.” Now it hurt worse, thanks to this beautiful, bespoken female.

  “But such a thing could cost you your job.” No one she knew would keep on a servitor who imbibed, especially not in a position of such authority.

  “No chance of my being dismissed, I assure you.” He did put the bottle down and straighten his waistcoat.

  She was still uncertain. “Your employers must be very understanding.”

  “What, to hire a cripple?” he bristled.

  “No, to permit drinking on the job.”

  “I am not in my cups, dash it, so you can remove that scowl and the sermon. Ah, your pardon for speaking familiarily, miss.” Damn, now he was sounding like that addlepate George. “You wished to see me about something? If you had rung, one of the staff could have taken care of your problem, I am sure.”

  “Since one of the staff is possibly the culprit, that would not have been wise.”

  Culprit? What, did one of the footmen ogle her? It was Miss Thurstfield’s own fault for being so deuced pretty. Arthur found himself staring, if not precisely ogling. One of those brown curls was caressing her cheek, nearly touching her mouth. He almost reached out to brush it aside. “I am afraid you’ll have to be a bit more explicit, Miss Thurstfield.”

  “The robberies, Mr. Arthur. I have come about the robberies.” At his continued blank look, she went on: “There is no need to pretend, sir, to protect the hotel’s reputation. All of the maids know things have gone missing recently.”

  “They have? That is, we have an investigation going on at this very minute. I am certain you have nothing to fear.”

  She plunked the embroidered reticule on Simmons’s desk. “I am not so certain. I very much fear for the safety of my jewelry and wish it locked in the hotel’s safe.”

  “The safe?”

  “Surely the hotel has a safe for the day’s receipts and the patrons’ valuables. Even posting houses sometimes offer such a precaution.”

  Surely the hotel did boast a safe, but deuce take it if Arthur knew where it was or how to get into it. Now was the time to confess his imposture, but hell, she had a fiancé; he could have some fun. “Sorry, but only the night manager has the combination.”

  “That’s ridiculous. What if I want to wear a ring in the morning?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a new hotel, you know. All of the difficulties have not been worked out.”

  “I see what it is. They have not trusted you with the information.” She eyed the bottle he’d placed on the desk.

  He might not be a hotel manager, but he was no sot either, by George. “The head manager trusts me implicitly. Why, he lets me sleep in his room. It’s just that I have not been here long enough to learn all the ins and outs of the hotel. Luckily I did know about the special reserved suite. I trust the rooms met with your satisfaction?”

  Reminded of what she owed this man, who was like no other employee she had ever encountered, Hope smiled. “Everything is perfect, thank you, especially the view.”

  And the view from Arthur’s eyes was perfect, too. That smile was worth all the faradiddles he was telling, even if his soul were sentenced to purgatory. “I’ll take charge of your treasures, then, and hand them over to Simmons myself. And I promise to watch him put them in the safe. If you come to me whenever you wish to remove a bit of jewelry, I’ll make sure Simmons is available.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Arthur. Now here is a list of the pieces. Do you want to go over it, to familiarize yourself with the contents? You will be responsible for them, after all.”

  He had absolutely no desire to view her hoard of gems, of course, especially not when they might have come from the bastard she was betrothed to. On the other hand, he didn’t want her to leave, so he nodded and swept his hand across the desk, clearing it of Simmons’s notes and papers.

  Hope poured the expensive jewelry out of the pouch, and ticked each item off her list as she showed it to Mr. Arthur, who was standing quite close to her in order to see better. She could smell his lemon and spice cologne and see the fine gold hairs on the backs of his hands. “My, it is growing warm today, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm,” he agreed, inches away from nibbling on a dainty earlobe. He hadn’t seen one necklace or ring, only her silken cheeks and long brown lashes.

  “That’s the lot, then,” Hope said with a sigh, stuffing her fortune and her future back into the reticule. She handed the drawstring pouch and the list over to Mr. Arthur. “I suppose I should have a receipt, you know.”

  “A receipt?” His mind was benumbed by her—and by the half-empty brandy bottle.

  “Yes, something back from you.”

  “You want something in return?”

  “Yes.”

  So he gave her a kiss.

  4

  No spitting, fisticuffs, or rowdy behavior.

  Whap!

  Arthur deserved the slap, of course, had been expecting it, in fact, but who would have thought this delicate flower of femininity had a roundhouse swing? He staggered back, but his bad leg gave way and he collapsed onto his back. Fine, he thought as he waited for the room to stop spinning, now he was a clumsy jackass as well as a lecher. What in the world possessed him to kiss Miss Thurstfield? Only a world of desire that grew every time he saw the woman. But he was no libertine, and she was no doxy to be mauled about. She was a lady, and an affianced one at that. Her blasted betrothed had every right to call him out. Thunderation, if she were not already engaged to be wed, he’d owe her an honorable offer. All he could offer now was his sincerest apologies, although he did not regret the kiss for an instant. “I am ashamed, Miss Thurstfield,” he told her, still prone, looking up into her concerned eyes. “Perhaps I did have too much to drink after all. For my leg, don’t you know,” he hastened to add. “I swear such a thing will never occur again, gentleman’s honor.”

  But he wasn’t a gentleman, Hope thought. He was a jumped-up clerk, taking liberties not even Sir Malcolm had dared. The nerve of the scoundrel! The magic of his lips on hers! Why, she hadn’t even struggled when he kissed her, hadn’t so much as taken a step backward. In fact, Hope very much feared she’d put her own arm around the cad’s neck. She knew for sure that she’d stared at him, dumbfounded or moonstruck, for ages before recalling that her virtue had just been assaulted. That’s when she finally got around to slapping him. Angry at herself for not resisting the handsome rogue, she had swung with all her might, toppling poor Mr. Arthur. Good grief, she’d struck a crippled person! “I am so sorry, Mr. Arthur. I didn’t know my own strength. Here, let me help you up.”

  “No, I can manage, thank you.” He wasn’t in his dotage yet, by Jupiter. “If you could just hand me my cane, I would be grateful.”

  Hope found a walking stick leaning against the desk and put it in his hand, then turned her back so she would not witness Mr. Arthur struggle to his feet. Bad enough she had to see the red imprint of her hand on his cheek when he finally stood and scrawled his initials on her jewelry inventory list. “There, now you have a receipt. If you think you can trust me, that is.” Hope was not sure. There was definitely something peculiar about Mr. Arthur, and the e
xpensive, ornately carved lion’s-head cane was merely one more discordant note. On the other hand, he obviously had a position of trust at the hotel, so her jewels ought to be safe, if her person was not. At least she was certain he was not the thief, for Mr. Arthur could never manage to sneak into the guests’ chambers, even if he could climb the flights of stairs. “I would rather see my belongings placed in the safe myself, naturally, but I suppose I can trust you to see them there.”

  Trust him? The general had trusted him to carry battle plans for the entire Peninsular Campaign, by Zeus. And this milk-and-water country miss deigned to put her trinkets in his keeping? Arthur supposed he deserved that, too. He’d told Miss Thurstfield one rapper after another, masquerading as a caper merchant, and then pressed his unwelcome attentions upon her. In the back of his mind was the niggling notion that perhaps she had enjoyed those attentions, just a tad. Now was the time to confess his deceit, but how could he ever excuse such perfidy? She would despise him for sure, if she did not already, and that he could not bear.

  Moving toward the door as if to say the disastrous interview was over, the captain nodded to acknowledge her tepid endorsement. “Your jewels will be safe, never fear. Now you are free to enjoy your visit in London without worry.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure I shall. Good day, Mr. Arthur.”

  “Good day, Miss Thurstfield,” he said as he bowed her out of the room. “It was a very nice kiss.”

  Certain that her cheeks were flaming, Hope hurried across the lobby toward the stairs. Very nice, indeed!

  “Did that charming Mr. Arthur take your jewelry away, then?” Nancy asked when Hope arrived, out of breath and out of countenance, back in their rooms.