“My family can be of no interest to you, Lord Walling.” She took a step closer to him, enough that he could smell bleach and orange oil. “If I could collect what I need I shall leave you to settle in.”
“A distinguished name doesn’t mean I can allow you to take a painting from the suite.”
She placed one hand over another, on top of the keys that she wore at her waist. “Not only am I head of housekeeping, I am also a personal friend of the hotel owner.”
“And your point?”
“I am curating a Russian art exhibit for the hotel. I require the Firebird painting.”
Glass might have let her take a painting, but not that one. He was glad to know the woman, with her suspicious surname, had no idea that the Firebird had been permanently installed over the surveillance equipment. “I am convinced that the hotel manager did not give you permission to take that particular piece. It is the centerpiece of the room.”
The princess drew herself up. “I’m well aware of the importance of Mr. Bakst’s work,” the princess said. “But it is not the room’s centerpiece. That is the Konstantin Somov watercolor over the fireplace.”
Glass stiffened at the name “Konstantin.” Konstantin Novikov was the name of the bomber. He could not bring himself to merely send away the self-assured princess. “Let us take a look and see if I agree with you.”
He stepped back so that she could enter the foyer, then went into the sitting room. Above the fireplace was the work she had mentioned.
“It is a study for Somov’s masterwork ‘Echo of Bygone Days,’” she said, gesturing. “You can see the bodice is unfinished, as is the garden off to the right, yet the pale dress, and the dark walls to her right, make this the perfect painting for this room.”
Glass said nothing, merely stepped toward the Firebird, grateful his equipment didn’t make any noise, at least until the recording device came to the end of the disk and turned itself off. “How can you say such a thing? This Echo girl is nothing but a bland apparition next to the doll face of the Firebird. Look at the dark eyes. And her dress! All those vibrant oranges and reds.”
“You are teasing me, my lord,” she said. “While I am a mere housekeeper now, I assure you that I know art. Removing the Firebird will harmonize this room.”
“I don’t want it harmonized.” He forced the corners of his lips up, then turned them down again, knowing she was intelligent enough to pick up the falseness of his expression.
“My lord.” She attempted to stare him down.
“Don’t be headstrong,” he chided. “I am a guest in one of the most expensive suites in this hotel. I expect my wishes to be respected.”
Very deliberately, she bobbed into a curtsy.
“I must say, you are far more beautiful than any of the women depicted in these paintings, though I can see the resemblance between you and this painting next to the Firebird. A relative of yours?”
The princess went to the sleeping beauty painting. “It is another Somov,” she said. “But I do not know its history. Somov was a part of the Mir iskusstva group and I didn’t know any of those artists.”
“Why not?” he asked. He observed that the fiery light behind her eyes had softened. She’d gone deep, into the past.
“The artists I knew were Symbolists, friends of my fiancé, not the homosexual crowd Somov ran in. They are mostly in Paris now, the survivors.”
“Why aren’t you there?” he asked.
“I—” She swallowed hard. “It is a long story, my lord. And I am taking too much of your time.”
His smile flashed genuine this time. “I assumed you would refuse to leave until you had what you wanted.”
“No, I need to return to work. I had a break, but that is long past now.”
“Then you will have to leave empty-handed.”
Her gaze sharpened again, the melancholy faded.
Now he remembered there was a time when it was suggested she be developed as a source for the Secret Intelligence Service. Now, her surname made her more of a point of suspicion rather than someone they’d pay money for information from. Besides, he had no one to run her as a source. He’d have to take her on himself. Before he could consider what that might mean, she spoke.
“I insist we discuss the matter of the painting with Peter Eyre,” she said, all show of obsequiousness departing the lines of her statuesque, Athena-like body.
“I am sure the hotel manager will side with me,” Glass said, “but I will not object to the conversation. Do you want to take the time now?”
She hesitated. “I should have someone come and unpack for you.”
“That is the floor butler’s duty, surely.”
Her head swiveled toward the door, just as he heard a click behind the Firebird painting. The disk was full. But she didn’t seem to notice the out-of-place sound. “I can’t imagine why he hasn’t stopped by.”
“Busy with other guests. All those Russians next door must keep his schedule full.”
She shook her head. “I do not understand why that party has not been removed. Boorish, my lord. They are not our kind.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you for the advice, Olga. I shall endeavor to steer clear of them.”
“Let us go downstairs if it pleases you, and see if Mr. Eyre is available.”
“Excellent. I am very curious to know exactly how close your friendship is.”
Her gaze darted frantically to his face, a quick movement of her eyes, a trapped bird trying to escape the otherwise serene expression. What was she afraid of?
All of a sudden, his curiosity was thoroughly piqued. The princess had secrets.
Heather Hiestand was born in Illinois but her family migrated west before she started school. Since then she has claimed Washington State as home, except for a few years in California. She wrote her first story at age seven and went on to major in creative writing at the University of Washington. Her first published fiction was a mystery short story, but since then it has been all about the many flavors of romance. Heather’s first published romance short story was set in the Victorian period and she continues to return to historical fiction. The author of many novels, novellas, and short stories, she has achieved bestseller status on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. With her husband and son, she makes her home in a small town and supposedly works out of her tiny office, though she mostly writes in her easy chair in the living room. She’s probably sitting there right now!
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