“See, a perfect profile,” he said jovially. “Lovely straight nose, chin and jawline perfect for your face, and the most kissable lips.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “Mr. err—”
He had to think quickly. The Russians knew him as Valentin Dragunov. Valentin was indeed his real name. Dragunov was up the family tree somewhere, although his true full name was Leslie Valentin Drake. He’d best use his working name with this girl. “Rake, darling. Haven’t I mentioned that? Lester V. Rake.”
“What does the V stand for?”
“Never you mind,” he said with a comical wince. “What is your name?”
“Sadie Loudon.”
In his mind, he linked the picture of this pretty girl to South London, which included Richmond, where she lived. That way he’d remember her name, since “South London” was close to “Sadie Loudon.” “A very pretty name.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Commonplace. I sound like a chambermaid, don’t I?”
“Not with that accent,” he assured her. “No, you’ll move on to better things, find a husband if you like.”
Flipping past a page of upcoming American movie releases, she pretended to ignore his suggestion. “I only took this job after a fight with my grandfather. I was doing secretarial work for him before.”
Now a secretary was a valuable asset indeed. They had access to everything their guv touched, while being such a low-level employee that they were rarely suspected. And, often women, they were easily swayed with romance. If he could lead this girl into the right sort of job, he could make his career. “Are you hoping to return to secretarial work?”
“No. I like working with my hands, I think. But not cleaning.” She made a disgusted face. “You wouldn’t believe what some of our guests do to their rooms.”
The memory of a blood-spattered guest room in Lambeth, where a couple of Russian gangsters had fought to the death, flashed into his thoughts. But this young girl had seen nothing of the potential ugliness of life, the world he was immersed in. And he needed to keep her ignorant of it.
“I can well imagine,” he agreed. “Listen, darling, I need to toddle off and sell magazines now, but I’ll pick you up around seven tomorrow night. Good?”
“Yes,” she agreed. She was quiet for a moment, then smiled brilliantly. “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Rake.”
“Les,” he said, all but bowled over by the force of that smile. Sadie Loudon had charisma in spades. “I hope you shall call me Les.”
“That’s awfully forward,” she said seriously. “I was raised by a vicar, you see. I’m not as modern of a girl as you might think.”
“Your grandfather is a vicar?”
She nodded.
She’d be a patriot, then. He’d have to investigate her family. It wouldn’t be difficult, as her surname wasn’t a terribly common one. “I bet he is loads more conservative than you.”
She tucked her chin into her hand and stared at a magazine photo of actress Bessie Love in a very low-cut dress. “I could have married his curate and just settled for life there.”
“Any man would be lucky to marry a girl as pretty as you,” Les said, knowing it was the expected phrase.
Her very white teeth flashed. He noted her lips were full and not at all chapped by the January weather. She took care of herself. Vain.
“I flirted with the idea, but I wanted to see more of the world. My older sister left home last month. I didn’t realize how unbearable life would be without her.”
“Where did she go?”
“Up to London proper. She planned the thing better than me.”
“You can go there too. Stick with me. I’m in and out of all kinds of establishments. I’ll keep an ear to the ground for a position for you.”
“That’s just the berries,” she exclaimed. “Thank you so much.”
He smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Miss Sadie Loudon.” He slid one finger along the smooth curve of her cheek and felt her shudder under his touch. Oh, she was delicious.
* * *
Sadie smiled happily at herself in the mirror in an empty bedroom in the inn. Luckily, she was a much better seamstress than her sister, Alecia. She didn’t have a mirror in her own postage stamp of a room. Unlike Alecia, she refused to sew baggy, practical dresses. Her dance frock was her best approximation of a Lanvin dress she’d seen in a magazine, with black-and-white triangles on top of sleekly shaped silver fabric. The result was attractive, well-fitted, and modern, though demure. It wasn’t low-cut like Bessie Love’s dress in the American magazine, but she was no old-fashioned and sweet little Mary Pickford either.
In fact, her sister believed that she’d stolen their grandfather’s curate’s affection away from her, but Sadie didn’t see it that way. In a post-war world where men were still scarce, a girl had to accentuate her best assets, and if Albert Warren had preferred a fun-loving girl who liked to spend time doting on him, to quiet, busy-with-parish-business Alecia, that wasn’t her fault. She’d simply played the game of love better. There had been no declarations between Albert and her sister. Even now, when she realized the curate had been better suited to her sister, she had no regrets.
She took one last look at her teeth, to make sure none of her red lipstick had rubbed off on them, then ran downstairs as fast as she could in her two-inch heeled shoes.
“Happy Birthday, Sadie!” Old Ben called from his post next to the reception desk as she trotted across the checkerboard floor.
“Thank you!” She waved at him then went through the door, still tying the sash around her coat.
Les Rake stood next to a beautiful two-seater sports car. He wore evening dress underneath a long gray wool driving coat and a matching cap and looked like he belonged on the cover of a movie magazine himself. She knew right then and there that she’d landed a date with money. The car, sparkling new, was made for speed.
“What is that?” she asked, making her voice breathless and admiring, which was not difficult.
“A Bentley 3-Litre. Just a Blue Label, I’m afraid, but she goes up to eighty miles per hour like a dream, and I’ve had her to eighty-five.”
She put her hand to her cheek. “Goodness. Hard to keep your hat on.”
He grinned, exposing a good ten upper teeth. An automobile aficionado to be certain.
“Silly of me to think someone who traveled a great deal for his work didn’t have a car,” she said, running a gloved finger lightly over a gleaming headlight.
“I keep her in London for the most part.”
London. What a dream. Of course he lived there. “She’s a girl?”
“A lady, to be sure.” He chuckled and bent to kiss her cheek. “Happy Birthday, Sadie.”
She took a breath of his cologne. Something expensive and peppery. “Thank you.”
He opened the door so she could slide onto the smooth khaki leather seat, then went to the other side. She smiled and leaned her head back. Albert hadn’t had a car. A week away from Bagshot and she was celebrating her birthday in style with a handsome date. Leaving home had been the right decision.
Les started the car as he explained they didn’t have far to go. The house where the party was taking place was on the west side off of Richmond Green. He parked about a block away from the party, saying he didn’t want to be fenced in by all the other partygoers, and before she knew it, they were walking down Old Palace Lane to a row of modest, two-story white terraced houses.
“Here we are,” he said. “Mind those tiny front steps.”
As soon as he said this, the steps came into view. She heard the sound of a gramophone, playing dance music. Exactly what a girl should hear on her birthday. Clutching Les’s arm tightly, hoping she looked as film star-fashionable as he did, she walked next to a damp hedge. It brushed her arm, leaving a wet stain and the scent of evergreen as they passed.
Les stopped walking and pulled out a handkerchief, brushing the damp off her sleeve. “There you go, darling.”
She smiled at him, pleased by how closely he paid attention to her. Then, he helped her up the steps into an overly warm room full of Russians.
“Vodka?” he asked. “Tea?” No one had looked at them yet.
She never drank alcohol. It made her already round face swell. “What kind of tea?”
“Russian tea. It’s smoky. Have you tried it?”
She brushed her short hair off her face and unpinned her hat. “Do you think they have lemonade?” It was too warm for tea. Not to mention smoky tea sounded disgusting.
“Probably.” He flashed that devastating grin at her. “For the children. Maybe we can find a bottle of bubbly?”
“Lemonade,” she said, firmly.
“There’s a place for coats,” he said. “I don’t see anyone wearing theirs.”
She unbuttoned her coat and began to slide it off her shoulders. Expertly, he stepped behind her to receive it, his hand on one of her arms. Such a gentleman.
A song ended and the dancers realigned. People moved in and out of the center of the room. A voice shouted over the already loud room, booming loud enough to be heard over the gramophone. “Valentin!”
Les’s hand tightened on her arm. He surprised her by pulling her coat off one arm and sliding it across the other, to hide their hands. “Here, take this.”
“What?” she asked, confused.
“It’s my ring. Put it on your wedding finger.”
“What?” she repeated.
“Do it.” He said it in such a firm voice that she complied, entirely flustered and not a little upset.
He pulled her coat the rest of the way off, but to her surprise, he took it from her with a calm smile, no sign of agitation or stress.
“Pretend to be my wife. If the subject comes up.”
Had he even moved his lips? She had heard the words well enough.
“Valentin!” came the call again.
“Yuri!” Les walked over to the great, balding bear of a man who had shouted and clasped his arms. “Dobryj vyechyer.”
Sadie blinked hard and stared down at the little gold ring on her finger. Had her date just said something in Russian? While his looks were film star handsome, she hadn’t thought him an actor. What was he playing at? The two continued to speak, complete physical opposites, one, tall, middle-aged, red-faced, enormous, exuberant, the other slim, young, pale, and comparatively reserved.
Another man joined them. He was yet another type. About thirty, older than she thought Les to be. He wore a variation of the budenovka hat the man Les had chased through the inn had worn on his head. In a minute, Les and the younger man detached from the older and they walked over to her.
“This is Semyon,” Les said. “Semyon, this is my wife, Sadie.”
She could have sworn he spoke good English but now he had a faint Russian accent. What were they doing, some kind of theatrical production? Had he brought her to a Russian home to mock the family?
Semyon didn’t seem like a fun bloke, however. He didn’t smile as he inclined his head. Nor did he speak to her, just spoke a few more phrases in Russian to Les.
“Semyon tells me there is a better party in Chelsea, tonight, Sadie darling. Younger crowd, you know.” He winked. “Adult lemonade.”
Sadie glanced around. It was true, nearly everyone here was over forty, and it was her birthday. Also, she knew her way back to the inn from here. “We could stay here and dance. The records are good.”
“Mazurka,” Semyon said heavily. “Polka. Always these Polish dances here.”
“I like them. At least so far.”
“It will destroy your nerves,” he said, unsmiling.
“Glory,” Sadie said, putting on her brightest smile despite her nervousness. She glanced at Les and he nodded slightly. While she didn’t understand what was going on, she knew he needed her to go with him. And she wasn’t ready to let go of him yet, a man who lived in London and might be her ticket to a different kind of life, with dancing and Chelsea parties. “To the other party we must go, then.”
“Good girl,” Les said approvingly. “We’ll have a much better time there. Let’s put your coat back on, darling.”
As he helped her slide the coat back over her arms, she caught sight of that ring she now wore on her fourth finger. Gold, with a black stone in the center. A ‘V’ was cut into it. V for what. Valentin? Who was Valentin?
Chapter Two
Sadie touched her handbag as they left the Russian party, feeling for the coins at the bottom through the thin fabric, her escape if something went wrong. She was desperate to figure out why her date suddenly had an accent. Questions tipped her tongue. But the Russian man, Semyon, followed them out the door and said several sentences to Les in Russian, who clearly understood him. He walked the block to the car with them and Les opened the passenger door.
Semyon squeezed into the seat next to her, pushing her close to Les on the plush bench. He smelled of spilled spirits and cucumbers. A little of fish, as well.
“Where do you work?” she asked, as Les started the car.
“Mac Fisheries,” he said, proving he understood English. It explained the slight smell.
Les patted her knee in a familiar fashion, reminding her she was pretending to be his wife. She wanted to fire questions at him, Semyon’s presence or not, when Les had to brake alongside a cemetery to let people cross the road, but then he turned to her.
To her surprise, he reached under her right leg and came up with a rectangular box. “Happy Birthday, darling. I thought you might need these. I’m sorry I forgot to give them to you before.”
Forgetting the sight of the grave monuments alongside them, she took the box and squinted at it. “Hermès? Glory.” She opened the box and found a butter-soft pair of beige leather driving gloves. Her breath caught in her chest. French gloves. She had been given French gloves for her birthday. The only other gift she’d received was an extra roll at breakfast. When she and her sister moved in with their grandparents after their parents died in the sinking of the Lusitania, presents had been outlawed. All the money spent on gifts previously had to go toward the poor boxes, the curse of having a vicar grandfather.
She forgot about the Russian accent, the fake wedding ring. She wanted to belong to a man who thought to buy her fancy gloves. Her old knitted mittens were off in a flash, and she slid on the new gloves. Flexing her fingers, she sighed with happiness. “Thank you, Les.”
He squeezed her knee again then winked and drove on. She placed her old mittens in the Hermès box and tucked it under the seat, then rested her head on his shoulder. Semyon made some comment to Les that made him chuckle and respond. She listened to the cadence of the foreign language, trying to pick out words, but it made absolutely no sense to her.
Not twenty minutes later they were parking in front of a row of white-stone and brown-brick-faced terraced houses in Chelsea. “Where is the party?” she asked.
“In a basement flat. This is where the artistic types live,” Les said.
“Whose party is it?”
“That never matters. It’s who is there. Probably a mix of artists, Bright Young Things, and socialists.”
“Where do we fit in?” she asked, extending her lushly gloved hand to Les so he could help her out.
Raindrops slid off her tight-fitting hat as she stepped onto the pavement. When had it begun to rain? Semyon slammed the street-side door and crossed over to them.
“Are you an artist, a Bright Young Thing, or a socialist?” Les asked.
“I’m a young matron of means,” she said uncertainly. She’d like to be a Bright Young Thing. Her sister had gone to London in search of the flapper lifestyle, a strange dream for quiet Alecia, who’d taken a position as secretary to a couple of famous actors. But then, her sister was smart.
Les nodded his approval, then glanced at Semyon. She crossed her arms, knowing she’d never have the truth out of him while the Russian was present, and followed the two men past a couple of the houses. Semyon glanced
at a door number then grasped the gate hiding a flight of steps leading to the basement level and went down. They followed him into an exceedingly small flat. In the back, past the bedroom, was a tiny reception room, which was open, despite the rain, to a postage stamp-size courtyard that nonetheless nearly doubled the party space. A fox-trotting couple danced back into the flat, cawing with laughter and shaking the rain off. The woman’s bare back was covered with gooseflesh.
Les swiped an open bottle of champagne off a table and reached for glasses, then poured for two. He handed a glass to Semyon then took a sip of his. “I had better find you some lemonade, darling.”
She tossed her head. “I’ll find it myself.” The kitchen was in full display to the right of the courtyard. No baize door hiding it in a flat of this size. She found a jug of water on the counter with some teacups and decided that was good enough. When she’d drunk her fill she leaned against the wall and watched Les talk with two men who approached him, both of the scruffy variety, rather than the foppish evening dress–wearing fashionable young men who were dancing with scantily clad girls.
“Spasibo,” she said, trying out the one word of Russian she knew. She blushed when a slightly older girl stared at her quizzically.
“It’s thank you in Russian,” she explained.
“I know. I’m married to a Russian,” the girl said, tucking a stray lock of black hair behind her ear. “Oh, I must have lost a pin somewhere.”
“Impossible to find in this crush.”
“Yes, and the flat belongs to a man,” the girl agreed. “No spare pins in the lavatory.”
“I’m Sadie Loudon,” she said impulsively. “I mean, Sadie Rake.”
“Newlywed?” the girl inquired.
Sadie pulled off her gloves and flashed the signet ring. “Very newly wed, I’m afraid. I keep forgetting.”
The girl smiled. “Doris Ikanov. We married last spring. Which one is your husband?”
Sadie lifted her chin in Les’s direction. He’d taken off his hat, and his sandy brown hair flopped charmingly over his brow. She noticed the hint of a beard was starting to show.
I Wanna Be Loved by You Page 2