Rowan flicked the next letter to the side, then the next. But the fourth he snatched up, ripping open the seal as soon as the rough paper brushed his fingertips.
“Something of interest?” Poppins asked.
“Yes. The Barlows are coming.” Rowan frowned. They weresupposed to invite him to Stevenage, not invite themselves to London, and—“Hell. They’ll be here today.”
“Good thing the maid who’s not a maid is here. Convenient, yes?”
Terribly. Rowan bolted for the door.
“Some say you’ll toss her in the Thames when you’re done with her,” Poppins called after him.
“I’m not going to kill the girl.” Rowan threw on his jacket and threw open the door. Where in hell was she?
Fast footsteps behind him. “Some say you’ll give her a permanent position at Hestia.”
“Being your employer, Poppins, I’m well aware of what other work you have to do. Are you?”
“Quite. Hold on, though.” The secretary swung Rowan around, reached for his cravat. “You’re a damned mess.”
Rowan swatted his hands away. “That hardly matters. Find a drawing room—on any floor—that is uninhabited. Prepare it for tea and lock it so no one makes use of it before we do. If you have your choice of situation, choose the one with the best view and the newest furnishings. We’ll host the Barlows there. I’ll find Miss Crewe.”
“She’s in the large third floor sitting room, sir.” Said with too much of a chuckle.
It took Rowan less than three minutes, according to his pocket watch, to find her. Kneeling. In the corner behind a folding screen. Cleaning up a spilled chamber pot with only half of her attention. She’d pressed her ear to a crack between the screen’s panels. A small group of men occupied a table across the room. She was eavesdropping on them no doubt, though what she could hear at this distance, he couldn’t tell.
“Isabella.” He kept his voice low.
She peered up at him, squeaked. “Mr. Trent!”
He grabbed her upper arm and hoisted her to her feet. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing now.” She glared at the empty pot, the soapy puddle on the floor, and the discarded cloth. She glared through the screen at the men across the room.
“Someone else can do that. I’ve need of you.” He pulled her toward the door.
She hurried to keep up, lifting her too-long skirt. “Oh! Has this to do with the Barlows?”
“They’re arriving today. A surprise visit.”
“Today?” She sounded breathless as he bustled her up the stairs.
“I estimate we only have a few hours before their arrival.”
She glanced at the door of the sitting room, where he’d caught her cleaning, and pulled her arm out of his grasp. “I was rather busy with something else.”
“You’re busy with this now.” His hand felt empty without the weight of her slender muscle wrapped up in it. He shook it out, tried to shake the need to touch her again off his fingertips like water droplets. “This is more important than spilled piss.”
“You’ve no idea how important what I do is.”
“Mr. Trent!” Poppins ran down the hall toward them, huffing and doubling over to slap his hands on his knees when he reached them. “No… rooms.”
“Pardon? Stand up straight and speak plainly, Poppins.”
Rowan’s secretary did as he’d been asked but with an inhale to suck up all the air in London. He exhaled it in an equally heavy breath, then said, “All the sitting rooms, parlors, coffee rooms, private dining rooms… all occupied. We’ll have to host the Barlows in a bedroom.”
“No.” God, how awkward to take tea with an older couple right next to a damned bed. “We’ll not do that.”
“Then you wish me to toss out the occupants of one of the parlors?” He threaded his fingers together and rolled his palms outward, cracking his knuckles.
