Lady Be Good

by Heather Hiestand

  He had thick, springy black hair, creating a further impression of height, and hadn’t put a hat on when he’d left the suite to follow her along to the lift. His black brows matched the hair on his head in thickness and intensity, though the right one had a visible scar running through it, creating a space in the center that made the perfect symmetry of his features even more obvious.

  Why was he staying at the hotel? Normally incurious about the guests, she was dying to know. With a title herself, and hoping to find some version of her old Russian life here in England, she’d studied Debrett’s Peerage & Baronetage when she arrived. She knew Walling was the heir to the earl of St. Martin’s. The earldom had plenty of money and surely still owned St. Martin’s House on Hanover Square.

  Maybe he had argued with his father. While she hadn’t had brothers, she’d had cousins and could remember the fights the boys had had when first in the age of young manhood. They’d all died one way or another, in the war or the revolution. So many ghosts.

  Lord Walling smiled at her as the lift operator held open the door for them. They exited onto the ground floor of the hotel. Her senses came to life as they turned the corner and arrived in the Grand Hall. The marble checkerboard floor and vaulted ceilings exaggerated every noise, from tapping ladies’ shoes to men’s canes to bellboys shouting guests’ names. Words seemed to echo in the space, meaning secrets were never meant to be shared here. Everyone was bundled in thick coats, hats, and furs, trying to stay warm and dry in the incessant rain London had experienced recently. It seemed that spring would never come.

  She slipped in a puddle someone’s umbrella had left on the floor. Lord Walling captured her elbow to keep her upright. She felt more ungainly than ever as she struggled to stay on her feet. It served her right for the vanity of wearing inappropriate shoes. When Peter had promoted her officially to head of housekeeping, she’d stopped wearing her lace-up shoes and replaced them with black leather pumps. While she grimaced less when she caught her image in the wall mirrors on every floor of the hotel, she did present a hazard for herself on the marble floors.

  “You can let go of me now,” she said once she felt secure.

  “Maybe I don’t want to,” he said.

  She saw the twinkle in his eyes. It was far from the first time a guest had been fresh with her. Usually her manner and less-than-youthful age put them off, but not the bolder souls. “I want you to,” she said with a direct stare.

  He nodded and let her arm drop. “I apologize if I offended you.”

  “It is not my place to be offended. We’ll have to pass behind the reception desk to reach Peter’s office.” They arrived at the desk. Hugh Moth, the front desk clerk, stood over his guest ledger. He was a nice boy, but next to him was Frank Russell, the concierge, who was a rougher character. She couldn’t figure out how to stop him from asking her to attend the pictures with him. He’d been asking her for weeks on an annoyingly regular basis.

  “Let us through, please,” she said to Hugh. “Lord Walling has business with Mr. Eyre.”

  Hugh sneezed. He pulled a large white handkerchief from inside his coat pocket and wiped his nose. “Sorry, Olga.”

  She noticed his pale blue eyes were glassy. “You should be home in bed.”

  “I’d rather be here,” he said and sneezed again. He lifted the folding part of the desk, gestured them through, and wiped his nose again.

  She passed by, making sure no part of her touched the desk. The concierge smirked at her and winked.

  “Friend of yours?” Lord Walling asked as they ventured past the rows of cubbyholes for guest mail and the key wall.

  “Absolutely not. He’s terribly impertinent.”

  “That way with all the female staff?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed.” In the back the switchboard operators were busy on their headsets, moving cables around as they connected guests to the outside world. Focused on the people speaking into their ears, none of them turned in their seats as she and Lord Walling walked past.

  “Lots of girls to choose from,” Lord Walling commented, swiveling his head as he took in the secretarial group in the middle of the business office. One of them, a pretty brunette who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, simpered and blushed in his direction and stuck her pencil behind her ear. “Why is that man focused on you?”

  “He is the concierge,” she said. “It’s a rather important position, and I’m the only woman in authority here at the hotel. I expect I would increase his prestige.”

  “So you are the bachelor girl in demand here?” he said, that twinkle returning to his eye.

  “Rubbish,” she said and knocked on Peter’s door. When she heard the manager’s voice, muffled behind the wood, she pushed open the door a few inches.

  Peter Eyre stood behind his desk, gesturing toward John Neville, the new day manager. At twenty-seven, he was a year older than Peter, but the hotel manager’s assured manner and aristocratic background made him seem much more mature.

  At this time of morning, he wore a dark bespoke suit, cut tightly against his lean body. A gold chain created a half-moon across his waistcoat, and his coat was unbuttoned. Although Peter never seemed to take exercise, a steady diet of little more than cigarettes and champagne kept him trim. A slight air of exoticism had been inherited from his half-Indian mother, though few knew the truth of his family background. Sandalwood underlay the smoke from freshly smoked cigarettes, an American brand. The butt of one still smoldered in the battered ashtray engraved with the previous name of the hotel, now gone down in infamy as the Sodom and Gomorrah of its day.

  He and Lord Walling knew how to look like gentlemen. While Lord Walling’s suit was cut for more movement, his imposing height gave him just as much presence as Peter’s more careful appearance. John Neville, on the other hand, was not quite up to snuff for his new role. She wondered when Peter would force him to reorder his wardrobe to better represent the Grand Russe.

  Peter glanced at her. “Ah, Olga, what have you brought me today?”

  “Lord Walling, sir.”

  The aristocrat in question smiled with closed lips, the skin around his eyes crinkling. Peter came around the desk and clasped hands with Lord Walling. The two men were an interesting contrast, the bon vivant versus the sportsman. She had felt the strength of Lord Walling’s hand when he took her arm at the puddle and suspected he had limbs of steel.

  “Just moved in, Walling?” Peter’s sandy-brown eyebrows lifted.

  Olga had the sense the men had met before. Had they gone to school together? No, Lord Walling was definitely in the middle age between Peter and his older brother, Noel, too old to be the contemporary of one yet too young to be the contemporary of the other. But they might belong to the same clubs, though Peter rarely left the hotel, preferring to hold court here.

  “Indeed, Eyre.” The way he said Peter’s last name held a hint of amusement. Lord Walling obviously knew Eyre was not Peter’s true surname.

  While the men spoke, she recalled everything she knew about their seventh-floor guest. Lord Walling was the youngest of four brothers. All the elders had died in the war, of which he was also a veteran. She’d read the dates in Debrett’s. Ypres for the second eldest, the Marne for the eldest, and Cambrai at the end of the war for the third. What a shock it must have been for a fourth son to find himself the heir, yet it was not so uncommon in the previous decade. Maybe it had been one of his brothers who knew Peter’s elder brother, now a long-term resident of a hospital in Suffolk.

  “Did we have luncheon plans?” Peter glanced at the clock on top of a file cabinet.

  “No, your head of housekeeping wants to remove the Firebird from the Artists Suite.”

  Lord Walling said the words calmly enough, but Peter’s reaction confused her. He stiffened, his shoulders going back.

  “You said I could have whatever I need, and that suite has the best art in the hotel. I want the Firebird to be the centerpiece of my Russian art exhibit.” She spoke in
her most persuasive tone.

  “If Lord Walling wants the art for his own private use, so be it,” Peter said. “He has hired the room; therefore, the decision is his.”

  Olga felt her lips part. Normally she was better at hiding her reactions. But she didn’t understand the strange behavior of either man. Peter seemed to be deferring to Lord Walling.

  She forced her voice to remain calm. “I admit the situation is inexcusable. We should have removed the painting before he arrived, but you’ve changed the locks on that suite so that the master key doesn’t open it.”

  Peter glanced at Lord Walling again. What was going on? Was he a secret investor in the hotel or something? She knew Peter’s family had silent partners in ownership. They had needed them because the hotel had received a massive facelift after having been closed for a couple of years as a result of the infamous Starlet Murders.

  “I’m sorry, Olga, but the painting will need to remain where it is. We don’t need to disturb Lord Walling any further.” Peter pulled his cigarette case out of his coat. “A butt, Walling?”

  “Cigars only,” the other man replied.

  “We’ll have to try the cigars my uncle brought back from a recent voyage. Maystone’s, tonight?” Peter pulled a cigarette from the fine gold case and removed his Dunhill lighter.

  “I might be able to stop by late,” Lord Walling said.

  “Come to the Coffee Room,” Peter urged. “I’ll be there until ten.”

  “Good morning.” Their guest walked out of the office without glancing at her.

  Once again, Olga had the distinct impression that Lord Walling was in charge, not Peter. How abrupt he had been. “I am sorry, Peter. I let my desires get the best of me. It won’t happen again.” She hurried after their guest.

  * * *

  Glass expected that to be the end of the Firebird controversy. He assumed Eyre remembered that the painting was attached the wall now. If he had control over his staff, the princess would let it go.

  But she was still a princess, and however life had humbled her, her spirit remained intact. He couldn’t help but like her for it. She said good-bye to Eyre, who shut the door behind her, and stepped right to him, a picture of regal grace despite her sensible work attire.

  “Have you been in the Grand Russe before?” Olga asked over the scratching of pencils in ledgers and the clacking of typewriter keys in the business room.

  He regarded her. Because of what he did for work, he preferred to say as little about his private life as possible. Anonymity was the key to the game.

  She shook her head. “No, I suppose not. I wonder why you are staying here, my lord?”

  He narrowed his eyes and walked past the row of desks. They passed the switchboard. When he moved to the door where they’d come in, she took his arm.

  “There is another way out.” She took him toward a door on the left. It led onto a featureless corridor. “We aren’t meant to come in this way because we need to have approval to see Peter.”

  “Why do you call him by his first name?” he asked. “It’s very informal.”

  “We are old friends. I spent time in London as a girl. We played in Kensington Gardens together.”

  “Very old friends,” he said.

  “May I show you around the hotel?” she asked. “Since you are new here.”

  He needed to be at his listening post, but Princess Olga Novikova was a cipher that needed solving. Was she related to the bomber? Would she be a good source of information about the dealings around this hotel, a hotbed of Russian activity? For now, the woman was a higher priority than his post. If only he had more men to spare. “The penny tour, please.”

  She smiled, exposing good teeth and dimples on either side of her mouth. They transformed her face, giving her an impish quality completely lacking when in repose. “Penny it is, Lord Walling.”

  They went out of a door at the south end of the corridor and were back in the Grand Hall. Olga stood, head cocked, and began to gesture in a counterclockwise pattern. “The reception desk, of course. Past that are the stairs leading to the basement and the public bathrooms are at the base of the stairs. The Reading Room is on the other side of the staircase, then the dress shop.”

  “Very good.”

  “There is a tailoring service if you need repairs,” she said. “Then on the other side of the front doors is the Restaurant. Next to that is the Salon.”

  “No ballroom on this floor?”

  “No, that is one level up, along with meeting rooms, including a suite of rooms that can be used as a theater.”

  “That is where the bomb was laid, correct?”

  She nodded. “Explosives, but without the fuses attached. But I wouldn’t worry, my lord. Security is very good here.”

  He wondered if she believed that. For himself, he considered the Grand Russe Hotel one of the most dangerous locations in London.

  Chapter 2

  “The centerpiece of the hotel, in my opinion, is the Coffee Room.” Olga tugged gently on Glass’s arm, pulling him to the left as they traversed the Grand Hall. “When I was a young girl, it was a tearoom, and we came here for tea with our nanny.”

  “Who is we?” Glass asked as they approached the four-panel door.

  “My sister, Fyodora, and me. She is a year older than me.”

  “Does she live in London too?” As they entered the room, the first thing he noticed was the smell of coffee and toast. Tall beverage urns, along with toast racks and a selection of jams and butter, stood on a table alongside the wall.

  Obviously, he was hungry because the room itself should have been noticed first. The walls were covered in silver-and-blue geometric wallpaper, a sight that dazzled the eyes. While tables were spread across the floor, he could see a square of raised dance floor covering the parquet of the main floor, plus a small raised dais for a band. Right now, the room appeared unfinished because there were at least twenty thin rectangular wrapped shapes leaning against the rear wall.

  “Is that your art exhibit?” he asked.

  “Yes, the start of it. We are going to cover the wall in white silk, then put up the paintings. It’s a magnificent space, don’t you think? The Firebird will make the exhibit.” She smiled at him.

  For himself, he thought anything would be dwarfed in the magnificence of the room. The wallpaper was so showy, the flooring so ornate, that it could be likened to a royal palace. “I think the oranges and reds in the painting will clash with the wallpaper in here,” he said.

  “Oh, no,” she assured him. “We’re going to set up screens, you see, pairs of them, running down the center of the room. Paintings there, too. It will lead the viewers straight to the wall. They won’t notice the wallpaper at all.”

  Despite himself, he asked, “Why this room? Why not the ballroom?”

  “Peter feels that the evening scene is out of control,” Olga said. “He wants to kill the champagne and dancing hours for a week or two. The faithful will return, but hopefully the others will find some new pattern to their evenings while the room is off the circuit.”

  “You’ve been reopened less than four months,” Glass observed.

  “Yes. The hotel has done marvelously well, despite the controversies.”

  “That’s what you call a bomb attempt?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing happened.”

  “As a senior member of staff, surely you are aware that more than one attempt to bomb the place has occurred. Men have been discovered living in your basement. A cache of weapons and explosives was found down there.”

  She pursed her lips into a pretty bow and clasped her hands behind her back in a military pose. His stomach growled. He had revealed too much. What was he trying to prove to this focused, arrogant young woman? Or was he merely trying to frighten her?

  He needed a plan. He needed to strategize, to develop her properly. She was a target, at least until her connection to the bomber was uncovered. He needed to think like an operative.

  “How
did you come by that information?” she asked after glancing around to make sure no one else was in the room.

  He noticed his hands were shaking as he moved toward one of the coffee urns. He took a cup, held it under the spigot, and let the coffee flow. Then he added sugar for good measure. He preferred tea, a good malty Assam, but this would have to do.

  “I’d have preferred this remain a tearoom,” he said. “This hotel used to be known for its tea service.”

  “We still have afternoon tea in the Restaurant. On the seventh floor you can order in a full tea from the butler. It’s just as good as ever. Our kitchens are marvelous.”

  As he drank his coffee, standing, he hoped he had successfully deflected her from his remarks about the basement, but she was not the woman to let anything go.

  “Lord Walling? Who told you about the basement? It’s very private information, but I can assure you the situation was dealt with.”

  “Rumors,” he said, deciding to go vague for want of a better idea. She had him in knots. This afternoon he would decide on a plan to manage her. He’d get to the bottom of her name and her loyalties. While he’d been repeatedly assured that Peter Eyre trusted her, and he even understood why, now that he knew they were childhood friends, he could not trust her.

  The British government, of which he was an important cog, could not afford to trust her.

  “I have a table at the Criterion tonight,” he said. “Eight o’clock. Will you dine with me?”

  “I merely want the painting, my lord,” she said. “Don’t think my interest in spending time with you results from some other motive.”

  “Dine with me,” he repeated. “Where do you live?”

  “Montagu Square,” she said. “In a boardinghouse.”

  Obviously her family money was long gone. She must have been one of those unfortunates who escaped Russia by the skin of their teeth. He admired her for wanting to work instead of living off the charity of friends, but what a comedown. She fascinated him.

  “Very good. I’ll call for you at seven thirty.” He set down his empty coffee cup on a silver-plated tray.