She thought she’d like to be in a column herself, with her title prominent as well as his: Princess Novikova and Lord Walling dancing the night away at Maystone’s. In frustration, she huffed out a breath. If only she’d had j ewels to pack on her way out of Petrograd instead of just clothing and books. But she hadn’t been a very worldly girl, and her mother hadn’t been one to share her jewelry with her daughters. “I’d never fit in either. Too sensible.”
“Sensible and single-minded,” he said. He lifted the champagne flute that a waiter had just filled and held it up to her. “To a life of hard work and good sense.”
She lifted her own glass and made a face. “Must we toast to that?”
He set his glass down. “Very well, we won’t. Shall we dance?”
She nodded, despite her work-sore feet, and took his hand. The band started a new tune, the band leader dancing in his tuxedo as he lifted his cornet. They stayed on the floor for two dances; then a couple was pushed onto the floor to do an exhibition of a new dance from Broadway. Their high kicks and gymnastics were exhilarating even if Olga couldn’t imagine doing the routine herself.
At the end of the couple’s performance, she couldn’t hold back a yawn. Lord Walling noticed and brought them back to their table. “Is it time to escort you home?”
“I’m good for another hour, if I stop drinking champagne. I already had two glasses of wine with dinner.”
“I have commitments early tomorrow myself,” he said.
She realized he was trying to end the evening, not the best sign for a future relationship. “I’m happy to go then. You don’t want to yawn through your meeting.”
The doorman whistled for a taxi when they walked outside. Wind rustled through the alley, kicking up old newspaper pages as they went to the cab. Olga’s cape blew up as she bent over to climb in, and goose bumps covered her arms. She was glad for Lord Walling’s warmth beside her as the driver pulled away, going much too fast on the wet roads.
Lord Walling didn’t seem to mind the speed, but when her hand accidentally brushed his coat-covered thigh, he captured her fingers in his and put her knuckles to his lips, surprising her with the gesture. Perhaps all was not lost.
When they arrived at her boardinghouse, he opened the door and stepped out first before escorting her up the steps of the old Regency-era mansion.
“I hope you had a nice time,” he said before she could speak.
Instinctively, she leaned toward him, half closing her eyes. She had the wine to excuse her impulsiveness with this handsome man. He took the hint and touched his lips to hers. Before she could do more than feel the glide of his smooth lips against hers, she slid her hands up his arms and wrapped them around his neck.
He tilted his head and intensified their kiss. Her body tingled as she pressed against him. She felt alive for the first time that day. When his tongue brushed her lower lip, she parted her lips, allowing him to taste her. She felt something on her foot, and alarmed, she jumped away, letting her arms fall from his shoulders.
A cat brushed against her, its tail knocking against her leg. It jumped off the step into bush below.
“My stars,” she said with a laugh. “That startled me.”
“And disrupted a very nice kiss,” he said.
“It was wonderful.” She smiled at him. “I hope you don’t think your kissing skills will improve your service at the Grand Russe.”
He let out a short bark of laughter. “Of course not. Merely the end of a pleasant night.”
“Yes, well, I’m sorry I ended it so abruptly,” she said.
He nodded at her and turned to the taxicab waiting below. “Must go. Busy morning.”
“Of course, my lord. Best of luck with your meeting.”
“Hmmm.” He forced a smile and went back down the stairs.
She stared at his back until he entered the cab. She fumbled for her keys as it drove away. The evening would have ended better with a kiss alone and not their awkward exchange. “Blasted cat,” she muttered, shoving her key into the door.
Chapter 3
Glass had his shoes kicked off, and his coat lay over the umbrella stand by the suite door. The sofa was too white, and the table, where his feet were propped, was too ornate to risk scuffs. Peter Eyre, or whoever had designed the hotel, must spend a fortune renewing upholstery and finishings. It made no sense to him how the hotel could make money.
He rubbed his fingers against his temples and finished the last half inch of whiskey in his glass. The peaty taste of the stuff had helped clear the impression of Princess Olga Novikova from his senses.
For all her regal manners, he sensed a little girl lost behind the glossy surface, the professional mien. Their erotic moment had ended in complete awkwardness. He had not thought of her as a chambermaid currying his favor with a kiss. If she’d been that kind of girl, Peter Eyre never would have promoted her into management. No, she’d created discomfort out of her own confusion. She’d had no idea why he’d invited her out, and therefore, it had ended badly.
He needed to work on his spycraft. The girl should have been dazzled by his savoir faire, but he must have let a little of the spy out of hiding. He hadn’t questioned her smoothly enough about her family in his quest to discover if she had any relationship to Konstantin Novikov. That had caused her to be less than wrapped into a cotton cloud of kisses, and the cat had exposed her nerves.
He pressed his hands against his thighs and rose. Time to check on the Russians and change the recording disk before retiring for a few hours. His subjects tended to carouse until the wee hours, and it was just past midnight. He couldn’t risk going to bed until they were within an hour of retiring because of the limited amount of time he could record on a single disk.
“Hello, Firebird,” he whispered as he unhooked the painting. She looked sad to him, with her dark eyes and strangely shaped mouth. Now she was hiding deception behind her angular, heavily bosomed body. He couldn’t help but compare the painted female form to that of the princess in her slinky black gown. It had been the wrong choice for February. Her nipples had pebbled from the fabric the entire time they were at dinner. He hoped she hadn’t noticed him staring, but they had looked like ripe fruit, ready for the plucking, and he’d been thinking of them when he took her mouth.
Had he been too rough, too eager? He’d thought he had more restraint, but the thought of those straining cherries under her silk-and-fur cape had sent the blood rushing south.
He stared at the recording equipment. As he watched, the arm swung back over the disk. The recording was full. Forcing his mind to the task at hand, he put the headphones over his ears and blanked his mind. A native Russian would be better at this, but he had a good ear for languages, so he caught most of the conversations.
A party had begun in the hour he’d been skulking on the sofa. He heard female, as well as male, voices. Music played, but the people were closer to the microphone hidden in the wall than the gramophone was. Feet drummed against the carpet as people danced. There must be a drinks table just below the microphone. He could hear glasses and bottles clinking, and the partygoers had had an hour to fill up with vodka.
Setting the headphones down, he slid the used disk into a paper sleeve and set a fresh disk on the device but didn’t start the recording. Then, he fetched a chair and placed it in front of the wall so he could listen for a while. Unlikely anything useful would come of a party, but he wanted to know where the girls had come from.
They knew this group of “trade delegates” had dealt in white slavery. Were the girls local prostitutes, or had they somehow come in from Russia?
For twenty minutes, he enjoyed the music, all Russian and Polish. By then, voices had become shriller, slurred. He heard someone fall, the loud guffaws of the witnesses. Just as he was thinking he’d turn on the recording and take a bath, he heard a man speak in a guttural bark.
“Hvatit,” the Russian commanded. Stop.
Glass heard a woman giggle nervously, t
hen the sound of something ripping—a slap, probably on a cheek.
“Bop,” the Russian man growled. Thief.
The woman protested in English, hardly making sense due to her acutely drunken state. Another woman spoke, defending her. The man insisted on searching her. People moved away from the wall. Glass imagined them surrounding the woman.
She shrieked; then her voice was strangled. Had she been grabbed? Another woman protested, and he heard the sound of another slap.
“Hell,” Glass mouthed. He turned the recording on. His gentlemanly code of honor warred against his need to stay above the fray as a spy. But the prostitutes probably had nothing to do with the case. After all, he now knew they were East Enders from their accents, not Eastern Europeans.
He swore again. The so-called trade delegation had no idea who he was.
Before he could second-guess himself, he went into the hallway and shrugged back into his coat, shoved his feet into his shoes. After he tucked everything back against the wall, he shut the Firebird against the wall, grabbed an unopened bottle of whiskey, and went to join the party.
* * *
Olga had been up at 4 a.m. because she had to leave work early that day so she could be at Alecia’s wedding to Ivan Salter, the head of security at the Grand Russe. Peter had allowed her to leave a change of clothes in his hidden private rooms, and they would arrive together.
At 10 a.m. she went to do a room check on the seventh floor. Because this was where the Grand Russe housed the aristocrats, the movie stars, the notables, she still took it upon herself to at least check the rooms once a day. Even with a new title, she did not put herself above cleaning if necessary. Not yet. She’d even take their pets downstairs for a bellboy to walk if necessary.
Unlike the floors with salesmen, the denizens upstairs tended to rise rather late. Ten was the absolute earliest she thought she might be able to check rooms. She started at the northeast corner, having seen the maids’ carts at the southwest and southeast corners, respectively. By ten forty-five, she had worked herself around to the Artists Suite.
She gave a brisk knock since the Do Not Disturb sign was not placed on the doorknob. Impatiently, she pushed images of those kisses, the ones that had kept her up for half of her already shortened night, to the back of her mind. At work, Lord Walling was a customer, not a date. Besides, she’d ended their evening so awkwardly that he probably wouldn’t ask her to dinner again.
As she waited for him to open the door, she wondered if there was a way to resurrect the situation. He had kissed her after all. There was an attraction there. What if she invited him to Alecia’s wedding? There was no better way to see what a man’s intentions were. A man who shied away from weddings wasn’t ready to contemplate such a thing. A man who agreed to go to one was curious.
She knocked again after a minute and was about to turn away when she heard the lock slowly being disengaged. A moment later, the door opened.
Lord Walling stood in the doorway, barefooted with his hair in wild disarray, standing up in tufts. Bloodshot eyes peered at her as he attempted to smooth back his hair with both hands.
“What happened?” she gasped. “Are you unwell?”
One side of his mouth curled up. “I was drinking with the Russians next door most of the night.”
“Why?” she asked. She shook her head. At work, she must be incurious about the goings-on of guests. “Would you like your room cleaned?” She didn’t have a cart, but she had a bucket with supplies for fine-tuning the cleaning efforts if needed.
He chuckled. “They were having a party, loud enough that I couldn’t have slept, so I joined in.”
She hadn’t thought him the type, but it wasn’t her place, here at work, to have an opinion. She filed all these facts about Lord Walling away to consider them later. “Would you like your room cleaned?” she repeated.
“There isn’t much to do. Not even the towels.”
“Ashtrays? The bins? Glasses?”
“Oh, yes, all of that.”
She inclined her head. “One of the maids is just down the corridor. I’ll have her bring the cart.”
“Can’t you come in? I’d rather have you.”
Last night she dined with him at the Criterion, and today he wanted her to empty his ashtrays? She abandoned all hope of a second date right then and there.
He stepped back but still blocked the door, putting his hand to his head. “Could you ask the floor butler to bring me a tea service? I need something to clear my head. The Assam I prefer?”
“Of course, sir.” She set her bucket against the wall and went to fetch Thatcher, the butler on duty.
“Come right back,” he called out.
She gritted her teeth and went to the den where Thatcher and the valets spent their time. Thatcher, a very thin South African who’d been a Londoner for some fifteen years now, was setting out trays.
“The aristos are waking up,” he said in a cheerful lilt when he saw her.
“Precisely. Lord Walling has asked me for a tea tray. His Assam.”
“He’s the new one in the Artists Suite, yes? I must say I enjoyed having Sadie Loudon in there before, but I suppose she had to go north when her husband was transferred.”
Sadie had briefly been a chambermaid at the Grand Russe but had decidedly married up and found herself a resident while still cleaning the floors below. Now, her sister, Alecia, was marrying the head of security and had taken a position as a switchboard operator at the hotel, to start after a couple days’ honeymoon at a borrowed flat.
Olga enjoyed both of the Loudon sisters and was glad at least one of them would be around the hotel. Better educated than the average employee, they were pleasant conversationalists of genteel backgrounds. “I’m sure she’ll visit. I plan to correspond with her, and I will tell her that you asked after her.”
“Very good,” Thatcher said. He placed a vase with a rose in it on the top center of a teak tray. “Don’t touch the teapot. The metal will burn you.”
“Understood.”
“Would you like me to carry it for you?” Teddy Fortress’s valet walked into the room. She couldn’t remember his name but appreciated the quality of his care for the famed movie comedian’s expensive clothing.
“I’m used to hauling buckets. I’ll be fine,” she said with a smile. After hefting the tray, laden with the pot and a cup, the vase, and a rack of toast with all the accoutrements, she slowly walked down one corridor and up the south-most side, where the Artists Suite was located.
She knocked on the door with her elbow, and Lord Walling opened it quickly. His hair had been smoothed down, and he wore leather slippers. She missed the sight of his bare feet. They had made him seem rather vulnerable.
His mantle of authority had not departed him, however. He sat with his coffee tray at a small table under the stained-glass windows. Glancing up at her, he asked, “Just one cup?”
“Of course, sir. I’ll tidy up while you have your tea.” Irritated, she turned away and went into his bedroom.
Lord Walling’s scent, rich with exquisite cologne and clean linen, hit her at a visceral level. Last night she’d been pressed up against him, all his attention on her as he stole her breath away with his expert kisses. She’d lost all regard for place and time and had thrown herself into the experience.
Now she pulled up his sheets and tidied the blankets, wondering if she could have spent the night beneath them. Would she ever know the love of a man? Tonight these sheets wouldn’t be quite fresh since he didn’t want them changed. The pillows might smell faintly of his head as he lay down. She picked one up and plumped the feathers. A thought struck her. He’d been drinking with the Russians. What if they had supplied him with a companion for the night?
Breathe through your mouth. Quickly, she finished the bed, not wanting to know if more feminine scents were there, too. Nothing else was necessary. Even his clothing must be put away in the wardrobe as nothing lay out. No socks on the floors, no towels. She won
dered who had trained him.
After that, she did a quick wipe-up in the bathroom, noting how tidy he was there as well. He’d be an easy man to work for, as a maid. She pulled back the curtains. Outside, rain clouds hovered over Hyde Park, making for yet another gloomy day. March was coming at the end of the week. While they wouldn’t have much of a break in the rain yet, at least spring approached. She would never become used to this English damp. And she missed the White Nights, too, that time of year in St. Petersburg where the sun only set for two hours. She wanted to revel in the sun. Someday, when she was old, she hoped to see Italy. Russian aristocrats loved the country. The weather was so different from theirs. She could only imagine all that heat baking into her skin.
“Something happening in the street?” Lord Walling said from behind her.
Her heart leaped in her breast. She pressed her hand to it and turned around. “I apologize. Woolgathering. The sight of all those clouds.”
He came up to the window. “An ordinary sight.”
“That was the problem,” she admitted. “I’m done with the bedroom and bath. I’ll just take out your used glasses and return with clean ones.”
Before she could turn away, he put his hand on her arm. “Can you tell me how many Russians are staying in the suite next door?”
“They have three bedrooms. I’ve heard a dozen of them came to the Macbeth performance, but I don’t think all of them sleep there, at least, not at the same time.”
“A dozen,” he muttered. “Thank you.”
He dropped his hand from her arm, and she left the bedroom. The exchange had been so brief that she hadn’t even really realized they’d been alone in a room with a bed together. He had no real interest in her at all. Had last night merely been about loneliness or even simple impulse? All he wanted from her was good service and information.
She stiffened her back and gently placed a used glass into her bucket. Just one used glass. He might have been alone the night before, but it didn’t matter. She doubted he’d be asking her to dinner again.
Lady Be Good Page 4