Douglas stood up, sliding her to the bed. He went to one of his drawers and pulled out a leather case. Turning, he opened it, displaying knives in smaller sheaths.
“Three-inch blade enough for you?” he asked.
She went to him and chose a sheath. She unsnapped it and pulled out the blade. It didn’t need to be tested; she could see how sharp it was. “It will do.”
In agreement, they nodded at each other. “Keep it with you at all times,” he said.
She lifted her skirt just high enough to reach the top of her stocking, slid the sheath between the silk and the garter, and hooked it on. The leather felt dully cold, but it would warm slowly enough.
“You are a very sexy girl, Princess.”
“We were both forged in war, Douglas. It is time I stopped being so soft.”
He set the knife case on top of the dresser and came toward her. She stood her ground as he ran his fingers over her mouth.
“I don’t want you to be hard, but I do want you to stay strong. I can’t give you a quiet life, at least not if you want to be at my side.”
“Do you want a wife who stays in the country, raises your children?”
“No, I want a woman to warm my bed,” he said roughly.
His words licked heat down her chest, doing funny things with her nipples. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her torso against his. Thinking he’d kiss her, she tilted up her head, but instead, he gently removed her arms and stepped away.
“It’s more important than ever to monitor the Russians,” he said. “Ivan should have changed the disk earlier, but I need to check on things. You rest, and we’ll sort out where to stash you tomorrow.”
Limply, she sat on the bed as he walked away. How quickly he dismissed her and returned to his work. But how completely he magnetized her. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him.
How could a conversation about death have shown her for the first time that she was completely taken with her noble spymaster? She had promised to be strong, yet was more vulnerable than ever. She loved Douglas.
* * *
He heard knocking through his dreams. Glass woke, sliding the newspaper off his chest. He’d slept on the sofa after monitoring a vodka drinking session between the old Russians and new for half the night. A glance at the clock over the fireplace as he walked by told him it was nine in the morning. The princess had managed to leave without waking him.
Lucy Drover stood at the door, a small crate in her arms. “Telephone for you, sir.”
He stepped aside and let her in. “Telephone?”
“The wiring to this floor should be completed by Monday. Orders from above.” She set the crate down along the wall.
“Why? What’s happened?”
Lucy’s thin upper lip slid over the lower, covering it. Was she about to cry, his doughty secretary? “My lord.”
“What?”
“Another bombing, sir.”
“Sodding hell.” He went to the window, flung aside the curtain. The day had some clarity to it, despite clouds, and he could see across the park. No smoke in that direction out of the ordinary. “Where?”
“Piccadilly, sir. A theater there.”
“The Queen’s Theatre?”
She nodded.
“That bastard. Very well. Get word to DI Dent. Tell him to call all of Konstantin’s known associates into Special Branch. Have everyone who works in the area around the theater interviewed since this is the third time we know he has been in the area.”
“The princess?” Miss Drover asked.
“Not her.” Glass swallowed and tasted the bitter mouth of a morning started unprepared. “She’s been with me since three yesterday afternoon.”
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t know anything,” Miss Drover said in the assertive tone characteristic of her.
“I’ll question her myself. You may go.” He stared out of the window as his secretary moved way. “Wait.”
“Yes?”
“Send a note to my father with my regrets. We will be unable to attend the theater this evening.”
“We?”
“Yes. Say we.”
“Very good, sir.”
He stood erect until Miss Drover had let herself out of the suite. Only then did he let his head drop against the glass.
Had he lost his edge where the princess was concerned? He should have her called in like everyone else. No favorites. Why was he trying to protect her?
He saw a woman on Park Lane below. For a moment, he thought he recognized his princess. When the woman turned her head, he saw it was just another tall blonde, not Olga at all. Was he seeing her in every woman now? Maybe he had actually fallen in love with the woman his father wanted him to marry.
* * *
Just before luncheon in the staff dining hall, Olga went to see Peter. She’d been run off her feet all morning because there had been a party across three of the seller’s suites on the fourth floor, and the mess had been more than the regularly assigned chambermaids could manage to clean by themselves.
Alecia Salter waved at her as she weaved between the switchboard station and the secretarial desks. Behind her friend, workmen were setting up another switchboard, either a replacement or most likely, an expansion. Some hotels did have telephones in certain rooms, and with the full-service flats being fitted upstairs, the Grand Russe needed the same technology. Douglas would appreciate a telephone. It would save so many disruptions.
“You don’t look supervised,” Peter said, glancing up from a tall pile of paperwork. “Who has been with you today?”
“Every chambermaid I could muster to work on the fourth. After a tidy like that, I can understand American Prohibition. The things those commercial travelers did to the rooms!”
“We’ll charge them cleaning fees.”
“One of the rooms needs a new carpet.” She pulled her report out of her apron and handed it to him. “Do you want me to give it to John Neville?”
“I’ll do it,” Peter said. “Who is staying with you this afternoon? Walling around?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t stay on the seventh anymore.”
“I didn’t hear any more about Russian parties,” he said. “Isn’t Walling enough to protect you?”
“You must have heard about the new man with the Russians,” she said, her voice starting to crack.
“Yesterday’s arrival?”
She nodded.
Peter frowned and reached a hand across her desk. She took his fingers in her own and clutched them. “What is it?”
“He’s the man who killed Maxim. Douglas says he is a famed assassin.”
Peter’s fine features went slack. “Bloody hell.”
She willed the warmth of his fingers into her cold ones. “I can’t go back upstairs. What if he sees me? Famous assassins are unlikely to ever forget a face, and I can identify him.”
Peter pulled his hand away and stood. “You can’t stay with me. It’s not proper.” He snapped his fingers. “We’ll put you in with Emmeline. It’s perfect. You can both do with a bit of company.”
“You wouldn’t, Peter.” Her voice broke completely, and she let her head drop into her hands, shoulders shaking.
“No more work today,” she heard him say through her tears.
The door behind her opened, and she heard Hugh Moth speak, something about a bombing. Peter swore again. “Have her things moved into Miss Plash’s room, Hugh, would you?”
Then he was gone. They were both gone. She walked around Peter’s desk and found a fresh handkerchief in his upper-right drawer. After blowing her nose, she saw his drinks tray and decided to indulge in an inch of something. Her nerves needed steadying if she was going to have to spend time with Emmeline.
Twenty minutes later, she’d had an additional finger of very smooth orange-flavored liquor, and no one had come to fetch her. She felt belligerent. If she had to stay with Emmeline, fine, but she wouldn’t survive without her things. She had Harold’s
painting to finish, just the fine details, really, and didn’t want it damaged. She’d carry the painting herself.
After she opened Peter’s office door, she went to the left and out the door into the side corridor. She’d expected to find a bellboy to go upstairs with her, but no one was around. When she sidled into the service lift, she could see a fair amount of activity going on in the Grand Hall. She ought to find out what had been bombed, but first she wanted to secure her painting. It was worth a lot of money to her.
As she stepped onto the lift, she saw policemen walking by. Obviously, the Grand Russe was secure. She didn’t need a bodyguard.
She operated the lift herself, ascending to the tenth with no trouble. It took more time than usual to unlock her door. She wondered if the liquor had hit her too hard. Hadn’t she slept well? She remembered she hadn’t eaten yet and had had a hard morning. Luckily she had a half-full shortbread tin under her bed, and that would sustain her since she’d missed luncheon by now. She weaved a little as she crossed the room and half sat, half fell on her bed. Had she really only drunk two inches’ worth of Peter’s orange whatever it was? She let her head drop to her pillow. What did it matter?
* * *
When Olga checked her list at ten the next morning in the staff lounge she discovered that no one had brought Emmeline tea since the lead chambermaid on the fourth floor had not shown up for her shift that day.
Ivan Salter had checked on her at the start of his shift because Douglas had telephoned the hotel to make sure she was safe, though he would be out all evening. He hadn’t spoken to her directly. She had agreed to sleep on the Salters’ sofa since she refused to stay with Emmeline and had woken with a crick in her neck but had otherwise slept well enough.
A strange night, like so many others recently. Her dreams had been dreadful, angry, swirling colors, indistinct figures. She’d think she saw her sister, and when she reached out, Fyodora was miles away.
Olga put up her hands and pressed them away from her, trying to ban the spirits that had mocked her through the night. She muttered a Russian prayer.
“Have you turned witch on us?” someone with a friendly voice asked.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Neville,” she told the day manager. “Do you ever have that feeling that your dreams are chasing you?”
“Bad night?”
She rubbed her neck. “I slept on a sofa. It didn’t agree with me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m sorrier to see you alone. That isn’t supposed to happen.”
“I’m short-staffed today. I came down to check my list, and now I need to gather a tea service from the kitchen and take it to the fourth.”
“That isn’t your job.”
She grimaced. “It is when it is Emmeline Plash.”
“Ah, I see. Let’s gather it up then.”
Olga nodded and left the lounge, followed by Mr. Neville. The kitchen was busy with trays for the seventh and luncheon preparations for the Restaurant. She stopped at the order station and asked for Miss Plash’s usual tray. A chef’s assistant poured boiling water into a prepared teapot and placed a toast rack next to the butter and jams.
Mr. Neville shook his head as the man covered the tray with a cloche and placed it on a wheeled cart. “I could never manage my day with a breakfast like that. I need the full English.”
“I’m partial to mushrooms and tomatoes myself, but I can do without the meat,” Olga said, following the man pushing the cart.
He took it as far as the service lift. She opened the door at the gate and helped him lift the cart over the divide; then, Mr. Neville popped in beside her and operated the controls.
“Is she pleasant in the morning?” he asked, as they arrived on the fourth floor.
“I don’t know. This isn’t my usual duty,” Olga said.
He wheeled Emmeline’s cart to her door. When they arrived, she knocked briskly. When no answer came, she knocked again.
By then, they had waited at least two minutes. The tea would be brewed by now and needed to be served. Emmeline was a perfectionist about her tea. She put her ear to the door and hearing nothing, she frowned.
“I’m going to unlock it,” she told Mr. Neville. “It’s not like her to be up and out at this time of morning.” She pulled out her master key and unlocked the door.
The sitting room was dark and smelled of cigars. She crossed to the window and opened the curtains. On the table, an open bottle of champagne rested in a silver bucket full of water. Two empty glasses huddled next to it. Emmeline’s lipstick decorated the edge of one.
“I’ll check her room.” Olga found the door into the bedroom cracked open slightly. She pushed it aside and went immediately to the window to let in light. Then she turned to the bed.
And screamed.
Chapter 14
Following Olga’s scream of horror, John Neville ran into the room. He stopped inside and swore when he saw Emmeline Plash. Olga had only just reached her side to assess the situation. Emmeline stirred weakly in bed, her eyes swollen and surrounded with bruises. Olga pulled back the blankets and found the sheet balled up next to her, dotted with dried bloodstains. Brown stains covered the pillowcase as well.
“I’ll have the lift operator get help,” Neville said, staring at a red-brown stain on the white carpet.
Olga picked up the other pillow, but the case had been smeared with some kind of hair oil and reeked of that and male sweat. The oil smelled vaguely familiar. “Go.”
She went into the bathroom, filled a glass with water, and grabbed a clean towel. After she set them on Emmeline’s table she went into the sitting room and was able to pull two round bolsters from the sofa. She used those to help Emmeline up.
“Who?” She dampened the towel and used it to wipe around Emmeline’s eyes.
“Peter.” The woman’s cracked lips curved. One cut at the side of her dry mouth opened, and blood smeared.
“It wasn’t him,” Olga said, not a speck of doubt in her mind. “A Russian did this.”
“How do you know?” Emmeline tried to smile. Blood zigzagged a thin trail to her chin.
“The pillow. How dare you try to blame Peter, who has taken more of your abuse than any man should?”
“The greater insult is his,” Emmeline mumbled.
“Why?” she demanded.
“He didn’t marry me.” Emmeline moved her tongue around her mouth, wincing. She must have had loose teeth.
“You have more from him than you deserve. I will never understand why he let you return here. Your time here is finally at an end.” Dispassionately, she wiped away crust until Emmeline could open her eyes.
She heard men at the door. John Neville came in first, followed by Peter and the day porter.
“Who?” Peter demanded, striding to the bed.
“A Russian,” Olga said. She let the other two men enter but put her hand on Peter’s chest and pushed him out of the room.
“What?” he demanded, his eyes hot and unfocused.
“Listen to me,” Olga hissed, closing the door behind her.
“We can talk later. I need to see if she needs a doctor.”
“Of course she needs a doctor. More than one kind.”
“I’ll call for one.” He turned and started for the door.
“Peter Eyre Redcake, you listen to me,” Olga said.
He stopped and turned, his expression harsh on his fine-featured face.
She poked a finger into his chest. “Emmeline tried to blame the attack on you.”
Peter’s hand went to his pocket, where he kept his cigarette case. His fingers made a clutching motion; then, his hand dropped to his side. “I need a drink,” he muttered.
She wanted to scream. Why couldn’t he protect himself from Emmeline? “No, you don’t. You need to get this disturbed woman out of your life before she destroys you. I don’t care about your past. We have a past as well, and I am not trying to kill you or ruin you.”
Peter’s chin set. “You w
eren’t here during the war.”
“No, I was in Russia, which was infinitely worse,” she said. “You have no idea. Ask Lord Walling what the war was really like. Ask me how it felt to see Maxim shot. And now the war comes here, with the Hand of Death upstairs and your mistress entertaining Russians in her bed.”
His eyes went blank. “You are certain a Russian did this?”
“Yes, but I don’t know who. You sort it out.” She walked to the door. “Never ask me to help with your mistress again.”
Peter put his hand on her arm. She smelled clean, pressed wool and his sandalwood cologne, nothing like that Russian stench on the pillow. “I tried to get the Russians out of the hotel. Your bloody Lord Walling overruled me.”
“He has to consider the greater good, Peter. There are larger priorities than yours.” She pulled open the suite door and went out into the hallway. Suddenly, the wall had to prop her up. She put her hands to her face. Should she contact Peter’s sister, try to go back to Leeds? Find some other employment entirely? She couldn’t stay at the Grand Russe any longer.
* * *
“Where did Olga go after she left you?” Glass asked. He sat on the other side of the hotel manager’s desk, opposite Eyre. Most of the congenial air of previous encounters was gone. The other man seemed to be reigning in his temper with a mere thread, and the air of dissolute glamor had vanished.
Eyre’s gaze went to the drinks table in his office, but he didn’t get up to pour anything. The cigarette smell was stale, as if he hadn’t been smoking that day either.
“I can tell you she is on the sixth floor now,” Eyre said after a pause.
Glass drummed his fingers on his knee. “Have you had anything from Miss Plash?”
Eyre’s nostril’s flared. “I know it was Ovolensky, same as you.”
“It could have been him,” Glass said, “but what about Lashevich? He might have the same tendencies.”
“Does it matter?”
“I’d much rather deal with Ovolensky than Lashevich.” Glass’s tone was dry. “I’m more likely to survive the encounter.”
“She wouldn’t say. For all I know it was Judd Anderson, the piano player. But Olga swore it was a Russian. She smelled Russian hair oil.”
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