“Are you ready for a photograph?” asked the photographer Les had arranged. A large chap with brown hair and wire rimmed glasses, he smiled at her in a professional manner.
The door to the chapel swung open and Peter Eyre and Ivan Salter rushed in, bringing the chill February night with them just as the room had warmed up. Alecia cried out with joy and gave her fiancé a hug. Emmeline smiled at Peter.
“Our original wedding guests had to work,” Les said, smiling at Sadie. “I was given special dispensation because of my prescheduled event.”
“What was more important than our wedding?” Sadie asked, wondering if the Grand Russe was in danger again.
“They are trying to catch the man you saw in the basement of the hotel that day. The best chance is at ten tonight.”
Sadie shivered. “I hope no one is injured this time.” She touched Les’s cheek. The swelling around his nose had just started to subside.
“There is always a risk in this kind of work. Are you sure you want to marry me?”
Sadie smiled at him as the photographer cleared his throat. “I have to marry you. I love you too much to stay away.”
“Well, then, let’s have that photograph. Everyone crowd around. It will take the attention off my battered face.”
They all crowded into a group photograph, then broke into pairings that the photographer posed in front of a wide navy and gold banner that hung down one wall. Family only, then Les, Sadie, Teddy Fortress and Alecia, then finally, just Les and Sadie. She saw Les was beaming just as delightedly as she was.
When they were finished taking the photographs, the minister rubbed his hands together. “Let’s do this properly, shall we?”
Les winked at the man. “Checked the special license this time?”
The minister tucked a finger into his clerical collar. “You won’t fool me twice.”
Sadie suspected the man was in the pay of Secret Intelligence, but she didn’t care as long as the wedding was legal this time. Olga had assured her the paperwork looked right. She’d allow him to marry them a second time.
Les took her hand and they stepped in front of the altar. Alecia took Sadie’s bouquet from her. The minister stood in front of them. “Life has given the two of you a second chance. For myself, I am happy to see two people I married once be willing to go through the ceremony again. It gives me hope for a blessed future for you both.”
Sadie nodded. Les looked solemn now, as he stared into her eyes. They repeated the simple vows and were married again, under his real name.
Sadie laughed when it was over. “We can do this again next month!”
Everyone chuckled, and Teddy Fortress added, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to use this scenario in my next film! You must tell me what went wrong the first time.”
Sadie smiled and mimicked buttoning her lips.
* * *
After the wedding, Peter Eyre invited the group to return to the Grand Russe.
Sadie gasped when he directed them into the Coffee Room. The usual crowd had been cleared out, and the sideboard held only champagne, lemonade, and a beautiful two-tier wedding cake decorated with sugared lemon slices.
“It’s a special family recipe,” Eyre said, smiling at her. “I’m glad you were part of the Grand Russe family, Sadie, even if it was only for a short time.”
“Me too,” she said, clasping his offered hand. “You’re a good man, Peter Eyre.”
He winked at her then lifted his hand to the band. A female vocalist Sadie didn’t recognize walked between the musicians and smiled at the small crowd. The musicians began the opening bars of the popular song, “Tea for Two” and the woman began to sing.
Les bowed to Sadie and took her hand. They danced alone together for half of the song as their guests watched, then Eyre took Emmeline’s hand and joined them. Soon, everyone danced but Olga, who watched Sadie and Les with a wistful smile drifting around her lips while she drank champagne.
Sadie listened to the lyrics, about the happiness of raising a family together, and wondered if that would truly be the life they lived. Would glamor, and danger, be followed by that baby boy and girl? She had no idea, but she happily committed herself to the adventure.
After an hour of dancing, followed by champagne and cake, Sadie lounged happily, perched on Les’s knee, and watched the others dance. About eleven-thirty, she felt her new husband stiffen, and she glanced away from the sight of Ivan and Olga dancing the polka together to see men at the door. She recognized her original wedding guests, looking worn out and not party-ready. Lord Walling desperately needed a shave and Robbie O’Donnell’s suit had wilted around his stocky frame.
Eyre walked up and bent over Les’s ear. “You can meet in my office.”
Sadie stood so that Les could greet the guests. Surprisingly, he walked them over to the sideboard. The waiter served them both champagne and cake. Then, Les gestured to Sadie, holding her hand as they left the party and went to Eyre’s office. The new arrivals followed, holding their glasses and plates.
Peter Eyre unlocked his door then turned to the men. “Is this anything I should stay for?”
Lord Walling shook his head. “No good news, I’m afraid. Konstantin slipped the knot yet again.”
Eyre put his hands on his hips. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We’ll get him next time.” The man’s face transformed with a surprisingly boyish, naughty smile. “I guarantee it.”
Eyre nodded and departed. The tall man went behind the desk and sat down. Les gestured Sadie and Robbie to the other chairs and leaned against the wall.
The tall man rubbed his chin. “I’m Walling, Mrs. Drake, as you know. But I’m also known as Glass, in the Service.”
“Yes, my lord,” Sadie said, shocked.
“You know Detective McCall from Special Branch?”
“Not under that name, my lord.”
“Call me Glass, like everyone else in the Service,” he said evenly.
She nodded.
“Can you speak in a convincing Russian accent?” Glass asked.
She turned to Les, who held out his hand to her. “Give it a try.”
“But we never had time for the lessons,” she protested, then in a smaller voice said, “I’d like the samovar, please,” attempting to thicken her voice and roll her Rs like Olga would.
Glass shook his head sadly. “You’ll have to play an Englishwoman after all.”
“I can practice,” Sadie said. “I didn’t know what you needed, or really, that I needed to do anything.”
“Given your issue with Georgy Ovolensky, you aren’t going to be able to stay here,” Glass said. “But Peter Eyre knows the way the wind blows these days, and I think we can get what we need from him.”
“Where does that leave us?” Les asked.
Glass stroked his chin again. “You will be moving to the Newcastle area to monitor labor unrest.”
“Glory,” Sadie exclaimed.
“You remember the Russian assassin’s daughter you met in Hull, Mrs. Drake?”
“Yes. Irina Kozyrev.”
“We’ll want a relationship there. Your job is to befriend the wives of labor leaders because some of the best intelligence comes from loose-lipped wives.”
Les smiled. “That shouldn’t be a problem. My wife is one who knows how to keep a secret.”
“I’m going to be a spy?” Sadie asked.
Glass nodded. “Will you serve your country?”
She nodded. “Of course, sir. As long as I can be with Les.”
“That goes without saying. There’s no point in separating newlyweds unless it’s due to wartime.”
“Glory,” Sadie repeated. “We really are married this time.”
Les chuckled as Glass said, “I am sorry about that, Mrs. Drake. But you’re one of us now. No need to tell anyone you are doing anything but enjoying being a wife, of course.”
“No, sir. I was never the most dedicated chambermaid. My friends are aw
are of how much I wanted to be Mrs. Drake and take care of my husband and home. They won’t be suspicious.”
“Excellent,” Glass said. He reached into his overcoat and pulled out a slim leather portfolio, then handed it to Les.
Her new husband opened it up and then raised his eyebrows. “Train tickets and arrangements for a hotel in Cornwall?”
“A honeymoon?” Sadie squealed.
“Training,” Glass corrected. “You’ll need to learn the basics of weapon management and hand-to-hand combat, Mrs. Drake, along with the basics of spycraft. A month of hard work should do it, then you’ll be off to the north before spring.”
She shook her head. “You’re not just a husband, darling, you’re a calling all of your own.”
Les nodded. “I couldn’t have found a better woman to share my life with.”
She jumped out of her chair and wrapped her arms around him. “I never thought, when we first came to stay at the Grand Russe, that I’d be so eager to leave. But I am.”
“Tomorrow, darling. Let’s have a proper wedding night first at our flat.”
Sadie blushed, and Les saluted the other two men. “If you don’t mind.”
McCall and Glass both jumped to their feet as Les escorted Sadie out the door. Glass held up his champagne glass to them both. “To an abundant and exciting future.”
McCall grinned and lifted his own glass. “May you live and may you wear it out!”
Sadie gasped as Les laughed uproariously. “You Irish bastard.” He shook both men’s hands, and McCall bussed Sadie on the cheek, then Les all but hauled her from the room.
Sadie leaned against the other side of the wall and put her hands to her cheeks. “I’m still blushing.”
Les stepped very close to her and kissed the top of her head. “It won’t be an ordinary life.”
She ran her hands from his shoulders to his waist. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll marry you again in Newcastle if I have to.”
“Maybe it can be arranged,” he said with a wink. “Anything can happen at a wedding.”
Keep reading for a special sneak preview of the next Grand Russe
Hotel novel, Lady Be Good, available in September 2017!
And don’t miss the first in the series, If I Had You, on sale now,
along with all of Heather Hiestand’s Redcakes series:
The Marquess of Cake
One Taste of Scandal
His Wicked Smile
The Kidnapped Bride
Christmas Delights
Wedding Matilda
Trifling Favors
Chapter One
London, February 23, 1925
Though Lord Walling was his true title, some days it served as an alias. Douglas “Glass” Childers, Viscount Walling, reflected on the irony of his new posting as he surveyed the Artists Suite on the seventh floor of the glorious Grand Russe Hotel. His Hermès steamer trunk, shoe case, and vanity case were piled against the wall between the entryway and the sitting room, along with his Louis Vuitton hat box and a couple of porte-documents voyage. All of the accoutrements of the modern travelling nobleman, whether he was a spy or not. He had only needed to transport his luggage a short distance; from Knightsbridge, in fact, where he lived just below Hyde Park.
Not that he liked people to know that. As far as his network of agents was concerned, he worked and possibly even lived, out of a one-bedroom flat in Cosway Street, Marylebone.
“Nice digs, eh?” said Bill Vall-Grandly, one of his operatives. He’d been posted here for a few days, and his less impressive luggage waited just inside the suite door.
For now, Glass’s usual activities were curtailed due to the threat to national security presented by certain hotel guests. Higher priorities prevailed and he had to take his place as a spy instead of a spymaster. Surveillance came first. “Indeed. Show me the operation.”
Vall-Grandly, a rotund man with a kindly air who nonetheless possessed the steely nerves and stamina required of intelligence work, went to the inside wall of the sitting room and found the clasp holding a painting against the wall. As he opened it, he said, “Behind this is a shelf created by Secret Service technicians. It holds our listening equipment.” He pulled on the headset for a moment to ensure that the recording device trained on the Russian trade delegation next door was working properly, then pointed out the features to Glass.
Normally, Glass supervised secret agents, rather than acting as one himself. But staff had been thinned to unacceptable levels since the war ended. The present government didn’t want to believe there were any present threats to Great Britain worthy of the expense of spycraft. Glass knew better. The service monitored German intriguers, Irish anarchists, and worst of all, Russian bomb-makers, among others.
For now, he’d had to pass management of his section to his own chief and dig into the daily work of a spy himself. He’d lost his last operative installed here full-time in the suite to matrimony and an assignment in the north, monitoring the infiltration of trade unions by the Bolsheviks.
“Thank you. Have you heard anything new regarding this so-called trade delegation’s dabbling in human smuggling?”
“No, but they’ve only been here a month. Plenty more time for mischief before their official meetings commence.” Vall-Grandly pressed the painting back against the wall.
At least staying at the listening post should be uncomplicated work. Only last month this hotel had nearly been damaged by Bolsheviks, but they’d caught wind of the plot in time. The Metropolitan Police’s Special Branch had sealed off the tunnels beneath the hotel proper, which had once harbored the tools of the bomb-maker’s trade, including a nice little nest where at least one Russian had been hiding. The hidey hole in the basement had been dank and dark, as unpleasant as any Great War trench. Nothing like the rest of the hotel.
“I’ll be going now, Glass. I have a dead drop that I have to monitor rather closely to pick-up time, or the messages tend to be destroyed. Waste bin near a nursery playground. You need a break, just let me know. I’ll be happy to give up a few hours of sleep to keep the operation going.”
“Thanks, Bill. It is men like you who are going to keep these bloody Russians from wreaking any more havoc on London.”
Lines creased diagonally under Vall-Grandly’s eyes as he smiled. “Thank you, sir.” They shook hands before the operative picked up his modest bag and glanced over the sitting room one last time.
Glass’s gaze took in the luxury of the Artists Suite as he stepped away from the Russian-style painting of a dancer dressed as the Firebird. The furniture glowed starkly, all white, in order to harmonize with the richly decorative Russian artwork on the walls. He had no knowledge of the artists’ names or styles, but he could appreciate the sheer exuberance of the jewel-tones. Reds, purples, blues, greens, all blazed as brightly as any stained-glass window letting in the sun. The stenciling high on the walls of the hotel’s public spaces was absent here, so the eye could feast strictly on what was inside the frames.
“Be a pity if this place was destroyed,” Vall-Grandly ruminated. “I’ve been told that ballet is the primary theme of the hotel, but art in general is a strong second.”
“I recognize the Firebird as being a character in a ballet, but I have no idea who the sleeping lovely in the next painting is meant to be,” Glass said. In a blue and white ball gown, the sleeper rested on a dainty pillow, her blond curls done up in a sapphire ribbon. The settee holding her petite body was upholstered in blue, pink, and cream stripes. It would never work at the Grand Russe Hotel, which had been decorated in reds and greens. He took in the rest of the painting at a glance, having trained his eye to detail. Olive walls, floral screen, gold occasional table. A window, the bottom half of a painting. A bookcase.
A knock at the door made him turn away from his fledgling art appreciation. The floor butler, he expected, or the hotel’s head of security, ready to verify his communication needs. He opened the door, ready for one of these men.
/>
Instead, he found a tall, ash blond beauty in a severe black dress. A serviceable dress. Despite the bearing of an empress, she must be an employee.
“Yes?” he asked.
“My lord,” the woman said in an imperious Russian accent, stepping in. “My apologies. I have come to collect a painting from the suite.”
Vall-Grandly smiled broadly at the woman and laid a finger next to his nose before sliding out of the door, shutting it behind him.
The Russian accent lifted the tiny hairs on the back of Glass’s neck. Yes, some of the hotel employees were Russian, but that didn’t mean they were above suspicion. “Who are you?”
“I am Olga Novikov, the head of housekeeping,” she said calmly.
“Novikov,” he said slowly. “Shouldn’t it be Novikova?”
“The English do not feminize their surnames so I do not either.”
She was trying to prove a point, but he had no idea what it was. Unfortunately for her, Novikov was also the surname of the bomber his section was searching for. This woman could be a connection to the man he sought, but the cool beauty did not appear to be a woman who would give up her secrets easily. “I’ve heard of you. Serene Highness, correct?”
“I am a great-great-great-granddaughter of Nicholas I,” she said, tilting her head.
“A distinguished lineage,” he murmured, noting the perfection of her nose, the slim neck. He suspected a chain of ancestors who only married the most beautiful women in Russia. “I have just moved in, Your Serene Highness. The suite is satisfactory to me as it is.”
She frowned. “I am merely Olga here. Titles are for guests, not staff.”
He let his eyebrows settle over his eye sockets, knowing that when his eyes narrowed it gave him a most forbidding look. “If you say so. Are you the only Novikov on staff here, or is it a common name?”
“I have no relatives at the Grand Russe.”
“Did many of your family escape the Revolution?” he inquired.
I Wanna Be Loved by You Page 29