“Her sister, Princess Olga, escaped earlier with some of the more European-focused imperial family members because her fiancé was murdered,” Glass explained. “But her sister didn’t leave then. Neither of them had money in foreign accounts, but because Olga was sent to the dowager empress, she was able to leave on a British battleship in ’19 with trunks of possessions.”
“The family should have sent them both,” Miss Drover said.
“They may not have had that option. There was so much chaos, and when you consider how many members of the imperial family perished, it may not have seemed very safe to send anyone to them.”
“I, for one, am very glad you are restoring this woman to her sister,” Miss Drover said. “Bravo, sir.”
Les nodded his approval. “Olga is a good girl. If her sister is anything like her, she’ll be a survivor.”
“She’d have to be. In Shanghai, Russians are the lowest of the low,” Peel said. “To work at the Del Monte. She’s at the top of pyramid of penniless Russian women. There is very little opportunity. They aren’t offered jobs in shops, and even if they find husbands they usually have to work.”
“We’ll get her out,” Glass said. No matter what shape she was in. “Let me know if you have any trouble, Miss Drover; otherwise, I expect her to be on the next ship out of Shanghai. In terms of assignments, Les, I assume you’ll be on the first train north after the funeral.”
“Yes, sir.” Les nodded.
“Peel, I want you to liaise with Special Branch regarding the Konstantin search. This Shanghai princess is also Konstantin’s cousin, and we might be able to use her to catch him.”
“Especially if she appears seeming to have money,” Peel said. “Konstantin will come out of his hidey-hole to gather more funds.”
Chapter 12
“Exactly.” Glass smiled at his operative. If only Princess Fyodora were already in London. “We need to keep her completely out of sight until we decide what use we can make of her. For the rest of you, Swankle, stay the course with your new journalistic career. As for you, Mount, Bill was embedded in the local activist activities. He took over where Les had begun. He had a sales cover. We’ll have to put you in with another angle.”
“I’m well used as a translator,” Mount suggested. “Anything where being bilingual is of use.”
“Let’s work on your papers,” Glass said. “Maybe we can get you into the so-called trade delegation next month. Don’t go anywhere near the Grand Russe. We want to keep you clean.”
“What should I do for now?”
“Work with Miss Drover to establish an identity. Then offer your services anywhere in the city that is servicing Russians. Charities, hospitals, schools. Start meeting people.”
“Very good,” Mount said, smoothing his mustache with two fingers.
Glass nodded and poured himself another cup of tea. The change of his roster, and the emergence of the new princess on the scene, might change the dynamic of his mission. Whatever happened, he hoped Konstantin would be brought in soon—or wiped off the face of the earth, like Bill Vall-Grandly.
* * *
Douglas had left the hotel, muttering something about a meeting just after lunch. Olga stayed with her latest charge, the new chambermaid, until three; then John Neville took her on as he did inventory in the Restaurant with the chef. She’d managed to persuade him to escort her to her room so she could change out of her dress, and she picked up her sketchbook on the way out. Amusing herself with sketches of the kitchen and its busy workers passed a few hours easily enough, but then it was 7 p.m., and Mr. Neville needed to go home.
Lionel Dew, the night manager, brought her into the nightclub, which was opening earlier right now since the Coffee Room didn’t have the usual champagne and appetizers in the early evening because of her art exhibit.
She sat at one of the small cocktail tables with her sketchpad while Mr. Dew and Mr. Friend, the nightclub manager, discussed stocking the bar. Eventually, the band came in and began to warm up. The only one she knew by name was Judd Anderson, the piano player with the golden hands. He had a good-humored face. Even his most vague expression held a hint of a smile. The rest of the band was good, but even the talented band leader/ cornet player didn’t match his charisma.
The band settled into a rhythmic tune after they’d warmed up their instruments individually. So far, the singer hadn’t appeared, and instead of listening to words, she could appreciate the syncopation. When they started into a tango, she dropped into a reverie. The pulsing song returned her to the previous night with Douglas, his fingers making her body writhe. He’d taken her to heaven, something Prince Maxim had told her about, had prepared her for mentally, but had never managed to make happen. She’d had la petite mort for the first time, and it had felt like a miracle. How could she deny herself that again? She needed to exercise caution though. Douglas was her cousin’s enemy, and not exactly her friend. He was a spy, a deceiver.
But he was also someone who seemed to genuinely want to protect her.
She stared down at her sketchpad and drew Douglas with a gun in his hand. Could she trust him?
Emmeline sauntered into the nightclub. She stopped at the table.
“What are you doing?” Emmeline asked. She wore a loose sweater and skirt in pale pink wool, not yet dressed for the evening, though she had a full face of makeup.
Olga turned over her sketchpad. “Just gathering ideas.”
“Is Peter opening his playground to staff now?” the other woman sneered.
“I’ve been here before,” Olga said in her most neutral tone.
Emmeline snorted and stalked off, leaving a cloud of heavy perfume in her wake. She didn’t normally douse herself with the stuff. Walking straight to the stage, she stepped up the pair of steps on the side and leaned against the piano, her back to the dance floor.
Mr. Anderson’s affable face didn’t betray anything, though she could see Emmeline chatting at him. Olga wondered if Peter knew about his mistress’s latest hobby. Was Judd Anderson actually having relations with Emmeline, and when Peter found out, would he sack one of the main reasons people crowded Maystone’s every night?
* * *
Lionel Dew escorted Lord Walling into Peter’s office that evening, having been under orders to bring the spymaster to him as soon as he arrived at the hotel. He’d finally rung through to Quex, chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. Peter wasn’t exactly certain who Lord Walling reported to directly, but he’d used the contacts of his uncle, the Marquess of Hatbrook, to make his way to the former director of Naval Intelligence who had run SIS since soon after the end of the war.
They’d spoken for an hour, Peter impressing on him the idea that the so-called Russian trade delegation was damaging the reputation of his business with their antics, and surely surveillance could be better managed in a house, which they could set up with a full staff of informers and listening posts. They had also nearly led to the hotel being bombed, which could have killed hundreds of people, including British government ministers. Eventually, Quex had agreed and said he would assign someone to find a suitable location to house the Russians, possibly nearer to the site of the upcoming meetings.
Peter straightened his tie and used his handkerchief to gloss his desktop, which was unusually free of debris. He hadn’t had a cigarette since just after tea, only three total that day. While he felt dizzy, a week from now he’d be grateful he’d cut back.
Dew, decidedly middle-aged and the oldest of his staff, walked in, followed by Lord Walling, fifteen years younger and a dark devil to Dew’s angel.
“Thank you, Mr. Dew,” Peter said, rising slightly. He gestured Lord Walling into a chair but stayed behind his desk.
His night manager closed the door on the way out.
“Where is the princess?” Lord Walling asked in a tone that showed whatever had happened during his day, he was entirely in business mode.
“At Maystone’s under the eye of my manager there, Cuddy
Friend.”
“Anyone can get into a nightclub.”
Peter picked up his elephant, letting the cool jade soothe his fingers. “We have men on the door.”
“Konstantin is better than anyone you might be employing,” the lord snarled. “She ought to be locked up in the hotel somewhere. Even your office would be a vast improvement.”
“She’s been at Maystone’s less than an hour, after being passed around management for most of the day. She’s never been alone, and no one has spotted Konstantin.”
“This isn’t good enough.”
“Olga is an old, dear friend of mine. I wouldn’t put her in danger.” Peter folded his hands over his chest. “To that end I’ve taken measurements for both general and her specific safety.”
“Oh?” Lord Walling’s dark countenance went sardonic. “Doubled your night watchmen?”
“No, I’ve spoken to Quex.”
Lord Walling’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t say.”
“Yes, we’re removing the Russians by the end of the week. You’ve demanded that Olga not be allowed to work on the seventh due to their presence, which sorely affects her ability to perform her duties. As we all know, Konstantin was drawn to the hotel at least partially because of the delegation. We also will remove the problem of the prostitutes.”
“You can never remove that difficulty,” the lord said.
“I don’t care if there is sex for hire under my nose,” Peter said, squeezing his fingers until they burned, “but I’ll be damned before I let any more girls be beaten here—or murdered.”
Lord Walling stood slowly, making sure to let Peter see how tall he was, how physically imposing. Peter wasn’t impressed. His father had been a soldier, and he was related to some of the most important people in England. He wouldn’t be intimidated by a viscount. He stood, too, but instead of taking some menacing pose, he leaned his torso back, tucked his hands into his trousers, and put on his most insouciant expression.
“I respect your position here, Eyre,” Lord Walling said. “But you won’t win this battle. I will overrule you no matter how much pull your uncle has, or your mother, or anyone in your entire bloody family.” He poked his index finger into Peter’s desk, rattling his brass ashtray. “You will not dictate my operation to me or create problems. You and I are in business together until I say it is over.”
“Quex is your superior.”
“I’m certain that you told him your version of the facts, not mine.”
Peter didn’t shift. “But Olga.”
“But nothing. She is my problem, not yours.”
“She is both my friend and my employee.”
Lord Walling’s gaze hardened absolutely. “She is a pawn on my chessboard, Eyre, not yours. Stop trying to play my game.”
Peter kept his gaze on Lord Walling’s for a moment, matching wits, not giving an inch, his brain moving furiously. He’d have to send Olga back to his sister in Leeds. The situation was unsupportable. Olga wasn’t a pawn but a young woman. His telephone rang, and his gaze instinctively moved to it, costing him his staring battle with Lord Walling. As he picked up the phone, the spymaster wrenched open the office door and was gone before Peter could even say his name into the speaker.
* * *
“You seem irritated tonight,” Olga said. Douglas had arrived after Emmeline had gone, brushed off by Judd Anderson, who obviously knew better than to mess with her.
Douglas had held out his hand to her, saying nothing. She’d closed her sketchbook and risen. He hadn’t touched her when they departed and had taken her straight to the lift.
The floor butler had been walking down the corridor on the seventh floor. Douglas had ordered dinner for them both without asking what she wanted and had taken her into his suite, vanishing into the bedroom for a time.
He’d come out when dinner was announced, trading their cart of food for envelopes, letters he must have written in the interim.
Now, he read a book while she stared at the Firebird. It was nine, too early for even a chambermaid to go to bed.
A click came from behind the painting. “I think your recording just stopped.”
He set his book down, a collection of Agatha Christie short stories. After he rose to go to the painting, she peered down at the cover of the book. She didn’t like mysteries; her life had too many problems as it was.
Pulling the latest issue of The Illustrated London News from a pile of newspapers on the table in front of the sofa, she went to take a bath.
When she came out an hour later, he had disappeared. The previous night’s sensual delights had been forgotten, she surmised. She decided to ready herself for bed, though it was still rather early. When she had her nightgown on, she went back into the sitting room to paw through the day’s papers again. He had a decent selection of yellow press papers, and she could never resist a gossip column, even if she’d long since given up hope of socializing at the utterly exclusive Riviera Club overlooking the Thames, or dancing the night away with the Prince of Wales at the Embassy.
She was curled up on the sofa, reading an account of a fancy-dress party gone awry in the Daily Sketch, when she heard shouting in the corridor outside of the suite. She sat up, dropping the paper, but at just that moment, Douglas reappeared. “Problems?” she asked.
“A fight next door,” he said. “I went to break it up. I’m sure you couldn’t hear the thumping in the bath since it doesn’t share a wall next door.”
“Prostitutes again?”
“No, between two of the men this time. Ovolensky has taken off to who knows where.”
“That’s who was shouting at the hall?”
“Yes, he was threatening to change suites because I’m such an old woman.” Douglas grinned roguishly.
“Isn’t that a problem for you?”
He sat next to her as she picked up the newspaper and folded it. “There aren’t so many suites that can be opened to three bedrooms like that one. The next step would be moving them up to the eighth floor, which is going to be outfitted as furnished apartments. Since none of them are ready, I’d have time to set up a listening post before they could move.”
“But they’ll go to another hotel.”
“A few well-placed calls will keep other hotels from taking such a disagreeable bunch,” he said.
“Understood.”
“You are becoming braver,” he observed.
“What do you mean?”
“Sitting out here in a nightdress and wrapper”—he surveyed her gown—“though I can’t say you went for sex appeal.”
She fingered the ruffled high neck collar of her cotton gown. “True. And you weren’t here.”
“Even so.” He winked. “A princess in her night dress. My life is certainly looking up.”
“Yours may be, but I don’t know about mine.” She stared at her fingers. One of them had an ink stain from the newspaper, and none were without nicks and calluses from her daily work regime.
“We’ll catch Konstantin,” he said with confidence. “He can’t hide forever, and he’s a murderer now, a fugitive. I wanted to ask if you’d do a sketch of him.”
“He’s a master of disguise. It’s amazing how a beard transforms him, and he’ll use hair dyes.” She thought guiltily of the mangled sketch she’d produced before.
“He can’t hide the way his head sits on that thick neck of his,” Douglas told her.
“A muffler?” she suggested.
“Maybe,” he said. “But not likely. Also, as spring comes on, no one will be wearing them.”
“It doesn’t feel very springlike now.”
“No, but you have to stay positive. I know it’s hard.” He picked up her hand and rubbed away the ink stain with his handkerchief. “I am sure good things are coming.”
She wished she had the same sense. “Would you like it if I wore sexier gowns?”
His gaze moved up and down her again. Instinctively, she pressed out her chest instead of attempting
to hide it. “You’re beautiful in anything.” His voice had gone a little hoarse.
“You think I’m beautiful?”
“In this light, your skin has the quality of pearl.”
“All of it?” Daringly, she unbuttoned the top of her collar, and when he sucked in a breath, she undid the next one. As he stared at her chest, she kept going until the slopes of her naked breasts had been revealed. Her body remembered the way he had touched her before, how she’d come apart in his arms, and yet, he hadn’t taken advantage. All of a sudden she could think of nothing else, wanted nothing else.
He slowly lifted his hand, his gaze on her eyes. She said nothing, allowing him to slip his hand into her nightdress and cup her breast. When his palm brushed her nipple, she gasped.
“A good feeling?” he asked softly.
“The best,” she said. How she wanted another little death.
His other hand went to her dressing gown and undid the tie. He helped her slip it off her shoulders, the thin wool pooling around her waist. Her nightdress gaped, but she still had a couple of buttons left. She undid them now. Nothing was revealed exactly, but he showed her what the placket was there for when he bent his head to her breast and kissed her, one hand on her left breast and his lips on her right. He learned the shape of her with his mouth and licked her nipple.
She gasped the second he made contact, her head going back against the sofa. By the time he went to his knees on the carpet and leaned between her legs, she was lost to the sensation of him plucking and stroking her nipples. She’d had no idea of their sensitivity. When his hand moved away, she cried out against the loss of it, but then she felt his fingers moving up her thigh, and she knew what he was going to do. She was too aroused to do anything but spread her legs apart, eager for his magic touch on that most private place on her body. His mouth roved her breasts, setting her on fire as his fingers played under her skirt. She pressed against him, rotating her hips, bolder than the last time, with no thought of anything but the moment’s pleasure.
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