Her brittleness was palpable. “Princess Olga,” he said in a low voice, “I meant you no disrespect.”
“The rules are different here.” She stood and took the dripping towel into the bathroom.
He didn’t follow. She’d veered from one emotion to another over the past fifteen minutes. Besides, he had what he needed from her. Or at least, he had what he needed for His Majesty’s government: Konstantin Novikov.
For himself, he wanted something rather different. An image of her smiling up from his pillow, the white sheets contrasting with her slightly darker skin, came to mind. He forced that away. Not at the hotel.
She walked back into the sitting room and moved past him rapidly, hardly limping at all. Her well-bred, haughty expression left no room for apologies or kisses. Even a few minutes of ice had helped her, though it had ruined their relationship. He sat, motionless, as the door closed. Alone again.
But he couldn’t worry about the princess now. His Majesty’s government needed him too much for that.
He rubbed his hands over his face and remembered that noise he’d heard along the wall just as she had knocked. He needed to get on the headphones and see what he could learn.
* * *
Olga had not seen or thought of Emmeline Plash since she’d seen her on Friday. Now that they were no longer boardinghouse neighbors, she wouldn’t see the nice side of her any longer, just the rude woman who surfaced under the roof of her lover’s hotel.
When Hugh Moth at the reception desk asked her to unpack a new arrival on the fourth floor just after her luncheon break, she thought nothing of it. But there stood thirty-four-year-old Emmeline in the center of the small suite, one arm over her ribs and supporting her other arm, which held a long cigarette holder.
She gasped impatiently when she saw Olga. “I thought you’d never get here. Have you got a light?”
Two bellboys came out of the bedroom, followed by the bell captain. Olga surveyed the small space, not nearly as fancy as one of the five Duchess Suites on the fifth floor that Emmeline had inhabited before she physically attacked Peter. This suite did have a wireless installed, and the furnishings were well upholstered and of good wood, but the walls were bare of ballet-inspired artwork. The space was almost too small for pacing.
“What are you doing here?” Olga asked, attempting to gauge how long the woman might inhabit the space. How completely did she need to unpack? To the level that her trunks needed to be installed in basement storage?
She turned to the bell captain, but Emmeline’s hiss made her turn around.
“A light?” she demanded again.
“Allow me, miss,” a bellboy said. He stepped forward, bony wrists emerging from the red uniform jacket that apparently he’d grown out of in the past three months, and pulled a hotel-insignia lighter from his pocket.
After he lit her cigarette, she tapped the lighter. “Leave it, boy.” She turned her attention back to Olga. “I’ll need you to unpack me, Olga.”
The bell captain caught Olga’s eye and, in a quick flash, turned his lips down in irritation before his face went impassive again. The three men left the room, knowing Emmeline would never bother to tip any of them.
“Have you left Bert Dadey entirely?” Olga asked, stalling. If she had to spend hours unpacking to the woman’s specifications, she’d have to stay late tonight. Peter never allowed extra hours to be paid without his personally authorizing them. Not to mention her leg had begun to ache again. She should have put it up in the staff dining room, but the room had been full, and she didn’t want to show weakness.
“Yes, of course. Peter didn’t want my mother in the hotel hiding in the bathrooms and behind the ferns, stealing random objects, but now that she’s gone…” Emmeline shrugged.
Olga couldn’t deny that Mrs. Plash had been a point of pain, but Emmeline’s actions had sent her away. How had she found her way back inside? The mysteries of human sexual activity never failed to fascinate her.
If only Peter had better taste. “You had better show me what you want done. I can give you an hour of my time; then the fourth-floor maid can finish up after the next shift change.”
“Oh no, Olga. You must act as my personal maid.” Emmeline gave her a snaky smile.
Had she offended the woman at some point recently? Olga couldn’t remember a time, though she had heard a rumor that Emmeline had been furious to be living in a boardinghouse where chambermaids resided.
“No, I mustn’t, Emmeline. I am sorry, but I have other duties. You’ll need to hire a maid of your own.”
Emmeline sneered. “We both know that you had best do what I say. If you want Peter to order you about instead of me one last time, I’ll have him brought upstairs so he can tell you himself.”
“You’ll have him brought?” Olga echoed. “Last I heard, your family sold their stake in this hotel over twenty years ago. He is in charge, not you.”
Emmeline looked down her cigarette holder as she took a long drag. “If you’d ever lose that holier-than-thou virgin-princess act, you’d discover men can be led along quite easily. I assure you that a smart woman is in charge of her man, no matter what title the man holds.”
Olga shook her head. “Your appetite for self-delusion is vast, Emmeline. I happen to know your entire history at the Grand Russe, and I doubt you’ll be here for long.”
Emmeline pointed to the open bedroom door. Her voice lost the singsong air it had held, going flat and cold. “Unpack me.”
“If you had Peter Eyre wrapped around your finger, you’d have a ring on yours,” Olga said in a low voice. With every word, she knew she’d risk everything. “I’ll give you one hour, and that will be an end to it.”
“You’ll finish the job,” Emmeline said, crossing her arms back into their previous posture, apparently having decided she’d won.
“Not without overtime authorization,” Olga said. “I’ll let you work on that, shall I?” Calmly, slowly, she walked toward the bedroom to see what Emmeline had brought.
* * *
During the Russians’ habitual three-hour dinner out of their suite, Glass took a taxicab over to Cosway Street and the one-bedroom flat where he met with his agents. When he entered he found Bill Vall-Grandly and Tim Swankle waiting for him, perched on chairs around the small table. Tea had already been made by the section’s secretary, Lucy Drover. Redvers Peel arrived just after him, completing the arrivals for his staff meeting. He’d heard stories of rooms full of special intelligence agents during the war, but he only had three people operating locally at this time.
He seated himself and poured a cup of Assam. “Lucy, go ahead and sit with us. I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t have to activate you as a proper agent soon.”
“I’d like that, my lord,” Lucy said eagerly.
Glass nodded and rubbed one of his eyes. It had been an overlong day. Hours on the headset after that ghastly scene with Princess Olga. He had to force himself to the matter at hand.
“Swankle, it must be about time to sever your connection to the Grand Russe. Would you say the new head of security, Ivan Salter, is ready to be our source?”
“I’ve only been there two months, sir,” Swankle said. Twenty-eight, he looked no more than twenty-four, and his snaggle-toothed grin and countryish manner fooled people into believing he had a far lesser mind than he did.
“We were concerned that the Grand Russe would be a hotbed of Bolshevik activity.”
“We weren’t wrong,” Swankle said, mirroring him with a tea mug. “Just not the way we expected, with this bombing.”
“I know you were involved in clearing up all that, but there really are very few Russian employees, and with Salter in place, and me currently on-site, I think it is time to give notice and move on. I’m thinking of turning you into a journalist. You can volunteer at one of these Bolshie papers to try to discover which government secretaries are sharing their beds with the wrong people.”
“Very good, sir,” Swankle said. �
��Salter moved into the hotel on Sunday, and I think we can trust him to keep us informed. I’ll tell him who I am and set up a dead-drop system with him before I go.”
“Give a week’s notice,” Glass said. “That will give Lucy time to have your new papers organized.”
Swankle nodded.
“Vall-Grandly? Peel? Anything of note to report?”
Vall-Grandly monitored several sources and mostly had a desk job. Peel had been undercover at the docks, watching cargo coming in from Russia. That was all his section did: Russia. Half of his operatives were outside the Home Counties area, with a few scattered inside the Home Counties but too far away to make a meeting like this.
Neither of them had much to report. Intelligence work was like that. Quick bursts of activity followed by weeks of monitoring and reviewing.
“Very good.” He forced a smile. “Lucy, would you retrieve a family tree for Princess Olga Novikova? Go back to Nicholas the First, and I want to see every relative. For everyone still living, I want to know their present whereabouts.”
Miss Drover opened her notebook. “Anyone in particular I should focus on?”
“Konstantin Novikov.”
Vall-Grandly spoke up. “The bomber?”
“I think so. I’ve seen him now, and I could definitely identify him,” Glass confirmed. “I believe the bomber and the princess’s second cousin are the same person.”
“Anyone else?” Miss Drover asked.
“Drill into the history of anyone who spent time in the United Kingdom,” he instructed. “Also, why don’t you find out where Princess Fyodora Novikova is, if she is still living? Last our local princess heard, her sister was headed toward China.”
“I’ll reach out to Shanghai,” Miss Drover said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Excellent. Drover and Swankle have their new orders. Vall-Grandly and Peel, stay the course. We’ll meet again the same time next Monday evening, if nothing changes.” He stood and thrust his hands into his pockets.
“Any word on the budgets, sir?” Vall-Grandly asked. He’d had to start wearing spectacles recently because of the rigors of so much desk work.
Glass forced a smile. “Nothing good.”
* * *
Peter Eyre nodded at Alecia Salter, who sat at the switchboard being trained for her new position. “All settled in upstairs?”
She nodded. “It’s a lovely suite. Thank you so much, Mr. Eyre.”
“We’ll change your husband’s hours as soon as we can so you don’t have to work opposite shifts,” he said.
“We still have midnight at the nightclub’s back door.” The new bride’s gaze softened with romantic happiness. She fairly glowed with it.
Peter’s brain hazed over for a moment. Men weren’t meant to have jealous thoughts, but what little brother didn’t wish he could have some of the accomplishments of his older brother? Jealousy was something he’d fought against since his childhood, forever overshadowed by Noel, eleven years older than he and good at everything.
Little did the bastard know how lucky he’d been to be jilted by Emmeline Plash. Peter had taken her on out of a sense of improving on his brother’s rare failure, and look where it had landed him.
“I’m so glad it’s worked out for you. Very touching ceremony,” he said to Alecia and turned with a jerk, simultaneously pulling out his cigarette case.
Then he saw Olga, who’d asked to speak with him at the end of her shift. The blond beauty appeared a little worse for wear. She had dust stains along the hem of her black dress, and her white apron had colorful streaks across it.
He waved her over, and they went into his office.
“If I may.” She put her hand on the edge of the door.
“Yes, you can close it,” he said and put a cigarette to his mouth.
He realized she’d gone pale. Dropping the cigarette to his desk, he poured water from a carafe and handed her a glass.
She took it and drank it down. “That was entirely too much Emmeline,” she said. “She stood over me while I unpacked. Unwashed clothes, heavy perfume, three years’ worth of powders. A dreadful mess.”
“Is that what is on your clothing?”
“Yes, makeup and dust from the bottoms of the trunks. I’m going to have to find the time to wash and iron my clothes tonight.” She passed a hand over her forehead and set the glass on the edge of his desk.
He poured a glass of water for himself. An attempt to be healthier. Water or tea during the day; champagne only after seven. Also, he attempted to only have as many cigarettes as fit into his case once each day, though he hadn’t had a perfect day yet.
“I can’t do this, Peter,” Olga said, lifting her eyes to his. “I can’t be Emmeline’s maid. I’ll move back the boardinghouse before I allow myself to be on call to her all day and night.”
“I didn’t ask you to be,” he said.
“Why did you allow that disturbed creature to return to the hotel? She’s already tried to strangle you once.”
“She wasn’t sleeping before because of her mother’s illness. Once Alecia went to care for Mrs. Plash, Emmeline slowly calmed down. She’s been very sweet.”
“She’s manipulating you,” Olga said. “I wouldn’t call her a fool. She’s keeping you from having a life. You don’t find a nice woman to marry, to have a family with. One day, she’ll be over forty, you’ll be over thirty, and you’ll both be alone.”
“I don’t know what the future holds.”
“You know it doesn’t hold her. You’d have married her by now if you were ever going to.”
“Her mother—” Peter started.
“Is an excuse, one she’d never have allowed to get in the way of a marriage if you’d offered. But you won’t. Deep down, you know she’s a horror.”
Peter leaned back in his chair and tipped his head toward the ceiling. The medallion surrounding the ceiling lamp still had the initials “GH” for Grand Haldene, the former name of the hotel.
“Peter,” Olga said sharply. “Can’t you admit she’s bad for you? Send her away to a spa town, somewhere in France. You can afford it. Maybe if she’s out of your hair for a couple of months you could move on.”
“I know you resent her,” he said. “But like you, I’ve known her since childhood. And I helped you, didn’t I?”
“Your sister helped me. Once I was trained by her, I became an asset to you.”
“I promoted you,” he said. “I could have left you as a chambermaid.”
“That would have been a waste,” Olga insisted, “after your sister took all that time to work with me. Besides, I still do plenty of maid work right now. What does Emmeline do? Earn her suite on her back?”
Peter drank another glass of water. “Don’t be coarse, Olga. It doesn’t become you.”
“Oh, don’t think I consider you any better than she is,” Olga snapped. “You are who you spend time with.”
“You were such a quiet girl. What happened?” he mused.
“The revolution happened. Maxim’s death. All of it. I cannot allow life to happen to me any longer.” Olga leaned forward. “I’m telling you now I will not be your mistress’s maid. Today was the end of it. She screamed at me when I left, demanding I continue to serve her, even though I had clearly stated how much time I had and that I couldn’t work overtime without authorization.”
“I’ll authorize the overtime,” Peter said quickly. Is this about money?
“I’ll refuse,” Olga said. She spoke each word with thorough emphasis. “I will not be that woman’s maid.”
“I need help with her. Her drinking is out of control.” He pointed at the empty carafe. “I have the discipline to rein myself in when I’m going too far, but she doesn’t.”
“You only think you do.” She stared hard at him. “I’ll never believe you are a disciplined man until you rid yourself of that woman. She’s a danger to both you and the hotel.”
“Come now,” he chided.
“Think about Richard
Marvin? The actor? How he let the Bolsheviks set up a bomb at his performance of Macbeth in the hotel all because he’d become romantically entangled with a Bolshevik whore? You break with Emmeline while she’s still allowed on the premises and who knows what damage she’ll let inside your home.”
“First, that Bolshevik whore is Ivan Salter’s sister, so be careful what you say. Second—” He paused, uncharacteristically unsure of what to say next. Olga had a point.
“She’s your weakness, Peter. I don’t know what skills she has in the bedroom, but I know you don’t actually like her. Pay her off. A trust would be best, something she can’t waste.”
“She already has a trust. But she spends more than she has.”
“You aren’t equipped to run this hotel and deal with a troubled woman who is out of control. Why on earth did you move her back in?”
“She promised it would be different this time.”
Olga shook her head. “Her mother was never the problem, just an excuse. I don’t want to talk in circles. Sack me if you like, but don’t expect me to answer Emmeline’s summons again. I don’t work the fourth floor. I only supervise the chambermaids there.”
“What should I do?” Even to him, his voice sounded uncharacteristically hopeless.
“If you are going to keep her here, hire her a dresser. It won’t fix anything, but it might keep disaster at bay long enough for you to put your head on straight.”
“Olga.” He trusted her to help him.
“I’ve known you for many years.” She stood. “And I’m aware that your history with her has a great deal to do with Noel and what happened to him. I feel terrible for you both, but no one our age has escaped great suffering. Don’t ruin the rest of your life, and please don’t hurt the hotel. You owe your employees your best efforts.” She turned, very straight-backed, and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Peter pulled his cigarette case from his coat and opened it. Empty. “What is eating at me?” he muttered. “What isn’t eating at me?”
He saw a lone cigarette on his desk and remembered he’d pulled it out earlier. He stuck it in the corner of his mouth but leaned back instead of lighting up, remembering the days where he never had a problem so big that his big brother Noel couldn’t fix it. But he and Emmeline were long past anything Noel could make better. Unfortunately, it seemed he’d wrung the last drop of patience from Olga. He’d have to deal with Emmeline on his own.
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