Lady Be Good

by Heather Hiestand

  “You could have both kinds if you like,” he offered, “though it would make the space tight.”

  “I would like that,” she said. “Thank you. I haven’t money to spend on decorations or anything else, so there is room for the chair.”

  “Why not? I pay you fairly.”

  “My cousin has taken most everything I earned since I went to work for your family at the start of last year. Before that, I stayed with Grand Duchess Xenia, and she didn’t pay me.” She paused. “That is, I’ve managed to save a little for art supplies but not much else.”

  “Why did you never tell me about your cousin? I’d like to think of myself as your protector. I’m certainly your employer and your friend, too.” He frowned at her.

  “Konstantin was never your problem. You didn’t know him. I thought I was paying to keep him from making bombs.” She laced her fingers.

  “He became my problem when he made the bomb that came into my hotel and was my unwelcome guest, besides.”

  “I am sorry about that. I had no idea at first. Then I thought, well, if he’s living here he won’t make any more bombs to attack the hotel. It became the safest place in London.”

  Peter pressed his lips together. They were colorless when he spoke again. “Do you understand what was found in his basement lair? Not just dynamite and blasting caps and fuses but weapons, too. A regular little arsenal next to his cot.”

  “I had no idea he would be capable of gathering all that.” Her voice had gone to a whisper. “His father was a very paranoid person, a kind of mental disorder I think. He’d make wild accusations but take no responsibility for his own actions. Or so I heard.”

  “I think you have to be very disturbed to make bombs. You risk killing yourself as well as others.”

  “It is his art,” she said.

  “I’m sorry he is your closest family.”

  “In England, at least.” She swiveled her head to glance at the small family portrait she’d managed to bring to England. Her parents, long gone. Her sister, missing.

  “You’ll tell me if you see him again?”

  “I’ll tell everyone, including Lord Walling. Did you know he was some sort of policeman? I was so shocked. He’s the heir to an earldom. Doesn’t his father exert any control over him?”

  Peter’s lips curved, taking a decade off his face. “He’s not the type to be controlled by anyone. Besides, he is the fourth son, meant to have a career, and a grown man when his last brother died in ’17. Why not have a career?”

  “What about the family estates?”

  “His father is firmly in charge still. I’m not sure there is a place for Lord Walling there.”

  “He’s kissed me,” Olga said, “taken me to dinner. I fancied I might be a match for him.”

  Peter shook his head. “This is what comes of living quietly for so long. You don’t know how to tell who is on the up and up. He’s over thirty, never been married. If he was going to fall in love or marry for duty easily, he’d have done it by now. No, he’s married to his work. You know that, of course.”

  “I just didn’t know what it was,” she said.

  Peter clapped his hands on his legs. “You need a night out, something to paint for your next series. Congratulations on selling out at the gallery, by the way.”

  “Lord St. Martin’s bought most of them.”

  “Not all.” He smiled at her. “I didn’t even have an opportunity to get to the gallery, so you know I wasn’t the one buying anything.”

  She knew he would have and was happy her sales had come so quickly. “I didn’t expect it. You’ve hung my work in the hotel.”

  “I like what you do. Your river view done in soft Impressionist colors is my favorite.”

  “On the first floor?”

  “Yes. I should probably be your patron instead of your employer, but my parents don’t believe in that sort of thing. Too practical, both of them. I had to offer you work.”

  “And I had to take it. It was either that or grow old in grace-and-favor housing with the grand duchess.”

  He tapped the arm of her chair. “Why don’t you come to Maystone’s tonight?”

  She started to say no, but he held up his hands. “I won’t allow you to demur. Change into your best frock, and we’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “We?”

  “Emmeline,” he said, “of course.”

  “Peter,” she protested. Was there anyone she was less interested in spending the evening with?

  “I’ll be the one dancing with her,” Peter said, reaching for his cigarette case and taking it out this time. “You focus on your sketchpad.”

  “I won’t be called down to help her dress?”

  “I had a talk with her. I was hoping you could help me keep an eye on her but not if it means you spend three hours a day being her lady’s maid.” He shook his head. “Not that, but I’d appreciate you being social with us.”

  She sighed. “You both need a keeper.”

  “You’re my conscience, Olga.” He lowered his voice and glanced at her through irritatingly thick sandy eyelashes. “At least, I had thought you were. But that’s the issue with us both, isn’t it? Propping up people we care about whose lives are falling apart?”

  He stood abruptly and walked out. Olga stayed in her chair, knowing he was right. She couldn’t judge him on the subject of Emmeline after the things Konstantin had done. They were both good people but too weak, she and Peter. How could either of them move on, stuck as they were?

  * * *

  Just before midnight, she sat at a small table just off the dance floor at Maystone’s in her old Vionnet. Peter and Emmeline had danced for an hour before he cried off to speak to some friends of his family. He and the two other men were huddled against the drapery on the wall. While they had danced, she had sketched, five pages of couples in movement. Two or three of them had real promise. She had the idea of breaking the couples down geometrically, playing them against the band and the dance floor. There must be a way to show both the static space and the movement.

  Emmeline stood abruptly, clutching her handbag. The table rocked. “Going to powder my nose.”

  “You can do that at the table these days,” Olga said, putting both hands on the table to steady it. Champagne had already sloshed down the side of Emmeline’s glass. “Powder and lipstick for everyone to see.”

  Emmeline sneered. “It’s a euphemism, darling. You’re such a child.” She vanished into the crowd behind them.

  The band had been on break since Peter stepped away, but before Emmeline returned, they appeared on their small stage again and struck up a dance tune. Two men arrived at the table. Olga recognized Emmeline’s twin cousins, Harold and Gerald. They were often at the Coffee Room in the evenings, but she didn’t know they made it into Maystone’s later on. Both had their cousin’s heavy-lidded eyes and mousy brown hair, but they weren’t bad-looking, had broad shoulders, and always dressed correctly.

  One of them held out his hand. “A dance, Your Serene Highness?”

  She could almost wish they were just a few years older, if only they weren’t tied to Emmeline. “My pleasure. Which one are you?”

  “Harold.” He inclined his head.

  She stood up and went to the dance floor, happy to live a little, even if her feet did hurt. As she reached it, she saw Emmeline returning, a bounce to her step that hadn’t been there before. Her eyes looked unfocused. She’d taken something; that was the reason for her euphemism comment. No wonder she never had any money, if she was spending her income on cocaine.

  Harold danced well. Gerald had taken Emmeline onto the floor and attempted to trade partners with his brother when the dance was over, but Harold refused and spirited her away to the far end of the floor.

  “I wanted to speak with you,” he said in her ear as the band struck up a waltz.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I saw the show at the Imperial,” he said. “Do you know I was trying to com
e up with the budget for one of your paintings, but when I returned to see it again, it had all sold?”

  She blushed with pleasure. “You didn’t. I had no idea you were an art lover.” In fact, she didn’t even know his surname. Was it Plash?

  “Very much so. I took a first in art history at Oxford. Gerald studied geology. I know we look alike, but otherwise, we don’t have much in common.”

  “Other than spending most evenings at the Grand Russe drinking Peter’s champagne.”

  He grinned. “Well, there is that. Free to us, you know, because of Emmeline. Peter’s a good chap.”

  “I know. He really is.”

  “In love with him?”

  “Who? Peter? Oh, I knew him as a child, just like Emmeline. I didn’t know her, though.”

  “Or us,” Harold said. “Say, why don’t you come out with me sometime? See a picture? Since you aren’t in love with Peter.”

  “I’m too old for you,” she said. “But I’d love to sell you a painting if you can afford one.”

  “Rather have me spend my money on art?”

  “Yes.” She squeezed his shoulder lightly. “Which painting did you want?”

  “The still life with the array in front of the window and the river beyond?”

  “Right. That was meant to intrigue the Russian clients because I had painted in a photograph of the tsar on the table.”

  “So it was sold to a Russian?”

  “Yes, someone visiting from Paris. It was the first piece that went.”

  “You must be very happy.”

  “Oh very. What did you like best about it?”

  “Everything—the color, the mood, the scenery.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Could you do one for me with Grand Duchess Anastasia instead of the tsar?”

  She laughed. “Of course. I’ll happily take your commission.”

  “Then I’ll save my pennies. Draw up a contract if you like.”

  The song changed again while they spoke. She saw Gerald leaving the floor and didn’t think of it again until a dark-skinned female singer came on stage from a hidden corner to the far right and began to belt out an American Old South spiritual number. Harold pulled her to the far side of the dance floor, and they leaned against the drapery, catching their breath while the woman sang about cotton and working the fields.

  Just as the singer reached the peak of a soaring crescendo, Olga blinking away tears at the deep emotion, she noticed someone sitting on the piano bench with Judd Anderson, the piano player.

  She nudged Harold with her elbow. “What is your cousin doing?”

  Harold reoriented his gaze from the singer to the piano. Emmeline leaned her head against Anderson’s shoulder and put her arm around his back, forcing him to sway in time to the music. Olga heard her laugh under the singer’s vocal.

  “I’m sweating feathers,” Harold exclaimed. “What is that minx doing? Peter will kill her.”

  “How can you get her off stage?” Olga asked.

  Harold took her hand. “We’ll have to dance up to the front, then drag her off. If I can get her into hold you can leave gracefully.”

  Olga nodded, sad to ruin her lovely interlude with Harold. She hoped he really wanted the painting he’d asked for. As the spiritual ended, the singer moved on to a sad show tune, and they danced toward the stage. The piano player had stopped playing, but the new song had a lot of horn.

  When they reached the stage, Harold climbed up and went to his cousin, taking her arm. Emmeline tried to shake him off as Olga gracefully attempted to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Peter taking her into hold. They danced in front of the stage while Harold pried Emmeline’s arm off Judd Anderson. He pulled her off the side of the stage. Tears had dripped black mascara down Emmeline’s face.

  “It was so sad,” she heard Emmeline cry; then she buried her face in her cousin’s shoulder.

  When Olga glanced at Peter, she saw his lips in a thin line, the edges downturned. “I’m sorry,” she whispered in his ear.

  “What did she do?” he asked.

  “She said she was going to powder her nose. Told me it was a euphemism.”

  He growled. “Who gave her the blow?”

  “I think she already had it, Peter.”

  “I’m going to find out, and then I’m going to kill whoever gave it to her.” Peter dropped her hand and strode away, leaving Olga in the middle of the dance floor partner-less.

  When Olga reached the table after trying very hard not to let anyone catch her eye, she found her sketchpad and pencil had vanished. Leave it to Emmeline to create enough drama to ruin every last part of everyone’s evening.

  * * *

  On Friday morning, Glass bit back a yawn as he opened the front door of his suite to housekeeping’s knock. He hadn’t been here the past two mornings, and he hoped Princess Olga was at the door. Exhaustion kept him from more complex thoughts.

  She stood at the edge of the carpet, mirage-like in her black dress, apron, and cap, that blond hair underneath two neat waves around her temples curving into a tight bun at the apex of her neck. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “The sight of you is good for sore eyes!”

  She stared at him, an incredulous look on her face. “How can you sound happy to see me after what has happened?”

  He took her hand, the one not holding a bucket, and pulled her in. “How can I not be? You aren’t at fault for your cousin’s actions.”

  Before he shut the door, he saw the lift door open. Two Russians flanked three cheaply dressed young girls. The men wrapped beefy hands around the upper arms of two of the girls and pulled them off the elevator. The other, stumbling and probably drunk despite the midmorning hour, followed in their wake. One of the men knocked on their suite door, and it opened a crack. He shoved the girl he held through the crack and pushed the drunk girl in. The second man moved his charge through the door then followed, leaving the first one in the hallway.

  Glass ducked past his doorway and shut his door. He didn’t want them to think he paid attention but wondered if he would have to pull out his party-eager viscount act and join the group to protect the girls. The thought of a drunken rout at ten in the morning did not please him.

  Chapter 9

  Glass checked his watch. Twenty minutes until the floor butler was due to knock. He considered asking Princess Olga to get him but didn’t want the Russian in the hall to notice her beauty and try to take her to the party next door.

  “You stay out of Ovolensky’s suite, don’t you?” he asked the princess.

  She turned from wiping a smudge on a window pane. “Only men serve that suite.”

  “Good. I was afraid you might ignore that edict because of your supervisory role.”

  “I’m still a woman, and being a Russian princess might cause additional problems.”

  “Best they don’t know,” he said.

  She frowned at him. “Don’t you want to talk about Konstantin?”

  “Yes, but right now I’m more concerned about those three girls.”

  “They are being paid,” she said in a monotone.

  “For sex,” Glass said bluntly. “Not to be beaten.”

  The princess set her bucket down and fisted her hands at her sides. “What?”

  “It’s happened before. We have a listening post in the wall. Do you remember that morning when you came in and I’d been up half the night?” The night we kissed. “I was over there trying to stop them from hurting the girls they’d brought in.”

  She blinked and shook her head as if her body rejected what he was telling her. “Why is an earl’s heir running a listening post?”

  He forced a smile. “Why not? I am a section head, but we are so ill staffed that I had to take my turn here. Ovolensky and his men are here until May.”

  She wiped under her eyes. “You have more to do than protect prostitutes. Let Peter handle that.”

  “His hands are tied because we have refu
sed to allow him to kick the delegation out of the hotel.”

  “Because of the listening post?”

  “Exactly. I’m glad you know the truth now. I didn’t want to hide myself from you.”

  “It does make any kind of honest discourse difficult,” she said.

  “Now we don’t have to hide: you and your cousin, me and my work. It is good.”

  Her lips trembled. “Where does it all leave our friendship?”

  “I hope we are becoming good friends.”

  “Just friends? Only friends?”

  “I dream about kissing you all the time,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to live this life I currently have and be a man who can kiss you.”

  He could hear her breath rushing through her nose as she sighed. “I understand completely. I don’t know either. We are both trapped in our duty: me by the need to make a living and my family and you by duty to your post.”

  He took a step closer and stroked a finger down one shining wing of hair, following it behind her ear, to where it twisted around the back of her head. Then, he spread his fingers and massaged down her neck. She took a step closer to him, her head tilting. He felt her breath on his skin, smelled floor polish and ammonia and orange oil.

  Her lips parted. He tucked his chin down, ready to kiss her. A loud thump jarred the wall between the suites. His arm jerked, and he let Princess Olga go so he could sprint to the listening post. He pulled at the painting, ignoring her soft exclamation of shock as the Firebird swung away from the wall, and put the headphones on.

  He heard a shriek. One of the prostitutes. How long had they been inside? Ten minutes? And one of them was already being hurt? The activities on the other side were deteriorating.

  “Has housekeeping finished next door?” he asked the princess after he’d pulled the headphones off.

  She pulled a small clipboard from her bucket. “They haven’t signed off.”

  “I wish there was a telephone in this suite,” he muttered. “I don’t want to go down the hall and let the Russian guarding the door see what I’m doing.”

  “You could go downstairs in the guest lift, then come up in the service lift,” she suggested.