Free Autumn Glory and Other Stories by Bárbara Metzger Page B

early.”
    “Lodgings? You’ll stay here, of course.”
    Where he could find Miss Ferguson in any number of compromising situations, like his bed? Arthur congratulated himself on bespeaking rooms at the princess’s hotel. He’d not wanted to discompose his sister-in-law, nor make her feel in any way de trop. Now he did not feel as though parson’s mousetrap was closing on his good leg. He stood, with the aid of his lion’s-head cane. “I really must be off.”
    “I won’t hear of it. What am I to tell people when they ask why you are not biding in your own home? They’ll think we’ve had a falling out. That I did not make you welcome. Or that you do not wish to know your own family. Or—”
    Captain Hunter had been making his way out of the drawing room, with Sylvia trailing crumbs and complaints behind. As he reached the hall he pointed his walking stick at the stairs to the bedrooms, the steep marble stairs that climbed endlessly, it seemed. “You may merely tell anyone rude enough to inquire that I was unable to negotiate the steps.”
    “After you walked here?” Sylvia screeched.
    “Quite right. Udall, find me a hackney.”
    *
    More stairs, confound it. The blasted hotel had enough steps to lead straight to the top of Mt. Olympus, it seemed to Captain Hunter. Half-naked gods and goddesses looked down from every niche and on every painted, carved, or woven surface, to watch the poor mortals struggle upward. Arthur’s suite was on the third floor, of course. His batman, Browne, clicked his tongue.
    “It’s a rum go, Cap’n. You’ll be settin’ that leg of yours back a month, less’n you intend to spend all the time in your room, eatin’ there, too.”
    Worse, it would set the cat among the pigeons if he took accommodations more inhospitable to his leg than Huntingdon House. His sister-in-law would have an apoplexy, at the least.
    “You would of done better, I’m thinkin’, to bunk down in the library at Cavendish Square, less’n a’ course, you was plannin’ on entertainin’ that princess in your bedchamber.”
    Which was exactly what Captain Hunter was not planning on doing. He was not going to become her royal highness’s lover, despite the knowing looks at the War Office and the grins at the Horse Guards barracks. Escort duty was one thing, tupping her Teutonic majesty was quite another. Besides, he’d already done so, in Paris, in his cups, which was most likely why he’d been chosen for this assignment. It was the German schnapps, Arthur recalled with a shudder, swearing never again, not even for the sake of world peace. Princess Henrika was nearly his height, nearly his weight, and nearly insatiable. His leg had required more surgery after that night, and infection had set in. Arthur was barely recovered now, and doubted he’d live through another amorous encounter with the heroically proportioned Hafkesprinke scion.
    The captain ignored his servant’s overly familiar comments. He and Browne had been through too much together to take offense, especially as the old sergeant only spoke the truth. “I’ll see what I can do. Don’t carry our bags up yet.”
    So Arthur limped back across the leagues-long lobby to the reservations desk. The clerk, who gave his name as Kipling, seemed ready to weep that he was not able to accommodate the captain, especially when Arthur reached for his purse. The Grand Hotel might be recently opened, but it was already gaining a reputation for its elegant appointments, for its kitchens, and for being so pleasantly located near the parks. In other words, the hotel had no vacancies. With so many visitors in Town for the victory celebrations, every facility of note was full, including this newest. Kipling puffed out his thin chest at the success of his establishment.
    Arthur asked to see the manager. “Oh, Mr. Simmons is much too busy, Captain. And truly, there is nothing he could do.”
    Another guest approached the desk, simpering that his shaving water