Lady Be Good

by Heather Hiestand

  “Douglas,” she whispered, “allow your fiancée to know you a little better than you know yourself. A calm man would have kept his fiancée safe by hiding her away on royal property or such, not clapping her in prison.” She moved her hand to his thigh. “You are a man of passion.”

  Chapter 18

  “Passion.” Glass chuckled, brushing her leg with his thigh. He could hardly believe she was back in his suite, on his sofa again, after everything that had transpired, and looking so lovely. “There is more than one kind of passion.”

  “I disagree,” Princess Olga said. “Passion is a man’s fighting spirit in any endeavor.”

  “Well, if that is true, you bring out the fighting spirit in me.”

  “I know,” she said, and her smile looked like the Mona Lisa’s as she turned her body toward him. “Show me that you love me, Douglas. I need to feel like this is real.”

  He cupped the back of her head with his palm. He could feel the pins tight against the base of her skull, her unfashionably long hair coiled as if to hide it from prison’s dirt. This woman belonged in a palace, not a prison. For the first time, he felt shame for what he had done. “I’m sorry.”

  She tilted her neck so that her breath brushed his lips. “I know, Douglas.”

  “How? Do you know me better than I know myself?”

  “You didn’t take the ring back.” She turned her hand so that the diamond was toward his cheek and brushed the cold stone down his stubble. “Feel that? It’s still mine.”

  His erection swelled painfully. Focus narrowed to her puffy lips, her pale skin. Oh, he’d make those cheeks bloom again. He captured her mouth, roughly, inelegantly. Her hands tunneled into his hair, tugging, the sensation almost painful.

  He welcomed the burn and pulled her into his lap. He heard a seam pop. Tugging at her dress, he managed to get it up to her waist and slid one hand through a leg of her knickers while he opened his trousers.

  Oh, God. She was wet, moaning when he touched her. Her hips shifted, pressing the apex of her sex against her fingers. In such a short time, he taught her well.

  “My darling.” He reached for one slim leg and pulled it over his lap, exposing her completely to him; then, he tore the center seam of her knickers, baring her sex.

  She was so wet that he slid right into her.

  “Douglas,” she said, then whispered his name again, clutching his hair even tighter, her mouth still against his.

  He reached for her bottom, not giving her any quarter as he thrust into her with the hard, desperate strokes from a man who could give her nothing but his all.

  They panted together, their lips fused open. His fingers moistened as sweat rose on her back and dripped. But it didn’t matter; he couldn’t hold back. He spent himself utterly, dropping his head to her shoulder, but thank God, he felt her body pulse. He’d taken her with him into the madness.

  When she stopped vibrating against him, her breathing slowed. He felt his legs could carry them, so he spread his feet on the thick carpet and rose to a standing position, her legs wrapped around his waist, her sex still stretched around his.

  He took her into the bathroom, reluctantly disengaged her, and turned on the taps to fill the bathtub.

  “Now what do we do?”

  He quickly stripped off his clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist before turning back to her. “You can’t stay at the hotel.”

  “I know that,” she retorted with alarming venom.

  Why was he surprised? She’d met his desire with the craving of an attacking jungle cat, and her orgasm hadn’t softened her spirit any.

  “After we bathe, could we please gather the rest of my things from my room? I was never able to pack,” she said.

  “Yes, of course. I just need a minute to think. I’d take you to my flat in Marylebone, but I’ve always been troubled by how close the art gallery bombing was to it.”

  “If Konstantin knew the British Secret Intelligence Service had a flat in a specific location, I’m sure he’d have sold the information to one of his paymasters,” she said, her ire still obvious from her tone. “It was pure luck.”

  “Still. I’ll take you to my home in Knightsbridge.”

  After they bathed, Olga dressed as best she could. Glass felt guilty about putting on clean clothes himself. “You can change upstairs before we leave.”

  She nodded as they went to the lift. The tenth floor was silent, more so than the lower levels of the hotel since everyone who lived here worked hard for their living, but Olga let out a wordless growl when she unlocked her room and entered.

  Glass surveyed the clothing scattered across the room. “What happened?”

  “He’s been here.” She pointed at her dressing gown, on the floor just opposite the door. “That’s where my money was, what the Plash boy paid me for the painting. How long did it take him to find it in such an obscure place?”

  “Konstantin,” Glass said in an answering growl. “He knows this hotel far too well. This floor has been empty for hours.”

  She gathered a handful of clothing from the floor, went to the trunk at the foot of her bed, and dumped it in. He watched her change out of her ruined knickers, enjoying the brief flashes of her body revealed. Then, she went through the room, dropping everything into the trunk. A smaller trunk was against the wall, and all of her art supplies went into that.

  Glass had already called downstairs from his suite’s new telephone for a bellboy to bring a cart. He didn’t like to risk tipping off Konstantin if he returned, but they needed a cart for the trunks. When a knock came at the door, he was surprised to see Peter Eyre, rather than a bellboy.

  “Removing her things?” Eyre demanded. “Where is she going to go?”

  “It’s no business of yours. She is my fiancée now.”

  “She is still my art consultant,” the hotel manager retorted, “if not my friend.”

  Glass gestured him in and closed the door as Olga exclaimed, “Peter!”

  “How could you have helped him after what he did?” Eyre glanced around the room.

  “I was trying to make him stop,” she protested. “I thought if I supported him he would stop making bombs, but it didn’t work. He’s greedy. He’s been in here again, stolen my money again.”

  Eyre’s mouth tightened. “How did you have any left?”

  “From Harold Plash. He paid me for a painting.”

  “The money isn’t important,” Glass broke in. “It’s the fact that Konstantin still has full access to the Grand Russe. How is he getting in? He must have keys.”

  “Did you give him keys?” Eyre demanded of Olga.

  “No.” She sounded uncertain.

  “What?” Glass asked.

  “I would assume he has Russian spies among his contacts. They would know how to make copies of my keys without me even noticing, don’t you think?”

  “Wax impressions and that sort of thing,” Glass said.

  “That’s probably it then.” Olga’s tone was glum. “It’s me again.”

  “I’ll have the locks changed tomorrow,” Eyre said, in a slightly calmer tone. “But you need to give me your keys, Olga. I can’t trust you while your cousin is on the loose.”

  She went to her handbag, pulled out the ring, and slapped them into his palm. A moment later, she apologized. Tears came to her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  Eyre shook his head. “So am I. You have been my friend for twenty years and, as such, so familiar to me that I forget you are Russian.”

  “Not for much longer,” Glass said. “Soon, she’ll be an English viscountess.”

  Olga’s lips were pressed thin, but at least the corners turned up.

  Eyre pulled out his wallet, ripped out a sheath of bank notes, and shoved them at her. “Why don’t you check into the Savoy? Konstantin won’t look for you there because he knows you don’t have the money. I’ll pay your fare until your wedding.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” Olga said, lacing her fingers
together.

  Glass shook his head. “I’m going to put her in a flat. Better security than a hotel, even a good one. Almost no one will see her, and if she stays away from the Grand Russe, he won’t be able to put a tail on her.”

  “I want to know how to reach her,” Eyre said.

  “Very well.” Glass gave him the telephone number for his flat, and the two of them loaded Olga’s trunks onto a cart.

  “I have a car waiting off the service entrance,” Eyre said. “I assume you will be able to lose any tails if you are spotted?”

  “Of course,” Glass said.

  Eyre stared hard at Olga for a moment and shook his head. “First Emmeline and now you. I don’t appear to be able to keep any women in my life.”

  “You should look for less dramatic companionship,” Olga said softly. “But I’ll be back when this is all over. I’m not about to say good-bye to all your beautiful art.”

  Eyre nodded and put his hands on the handle of the cart. Glass pushed open the door as Olga took one last look around.

  “You didn’t stay here very long,” he said.

  She pulled on her hat and wrapped a muffler around her throat. “No. I thought I might be here the rest of my life. But life has a way of surprising one.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “At least you’ll be comfortable in the flat.”

  She nodded, though he could see she was too drained to pull out any real enthusiasm. He had a moment’s worry that she’d find it unsuitable. While he thought of her as the chambermaid from the boardinghouse at times, this was a woman who’d lived in palaces for much of her life. At least his flat was full of modern comfort.

  * * *

  As much as Glass wanted to spend the night with Olga at his flat, duty called. He needed to return to his surveillance at the hotel. After he showed Olga the locations of such food as he had, made sure the sheets and towels were fresh, and settled her in, he kissed her cheek and departed. She hadn’t complained or said anything much. He knew he was on unsteady ground with her after everything that had happened. While she undeniably had a strong pull toward him, his behavior had done a great deal of damage to their relationship.

  So, the next evening, he retrieved her from her exile in Knightsbridge and brought her back to the Grand Russe. He’d missed her all day, and she’d be safe enough in his suite. After ordering food to his rooms, they passed a quiet evening, not talking much but starting to relax around another again.

  Just after nine, a bellboy knocked on his door to tell him he was wanted in the Coffee Room.

  “Thank you.” Glass shut the door and went back into the sitting room, where Olga stood in the center attempting to dance the Charleston to a record Glass had on a portable gramophone.

  She stopped, breathless. “Who was that?”

  He drank in the sight of her. “Eyre wants me downstairs.”

  “The Russians aren’t in their suite.”

  “Never are at the dinner hour. Sometimes they reappear about now.”

  “I’m glad I’m here,” Olga said. “I like feeling like a regular girl sometimes.”

  “I have to change my shirt, but keep talking,” Glass called, as he went into the bedroom to put on evening dress.

  “I painted all day,” she called. “I think Harold’s painting is done. I have to wait for it to dry. Do you think he’ll be in the Coffee Room?”

  “Probably. I’ll have to bring it to him. Where does he live?”

  “I have no idea. He’s mentioned his father, so he must still be alive. Must have been quite a bit younger than Emmeline’s father.”

  “I’ll make arrangements tonight if I see him. But I should probably put you in a car before I go into the Coffee Room. You won’t want to be there if Lashevich is lurking about.”

  “No.” The music abruptly turned off. “Peter wouldn’t call you downstairs for anything else?”

  “No. I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Then I can go down with you and go straight to the front door. The Russians won’t see me.”

  He came back into the room, adjusting his bow tie, and picked up the telephone. He told the operator to find Ivan Salter and send him to the Coffee Room so he could escort Olga into Knightsbridge. She would enter through an attached row house, unlock the door between the buildings, and go upstairs to his flat. A nice extra bit of security. He had never forgotten that Ivan Salter’s sister had been an associate of Konstantin’s, though she had fled the country and had been seen in Paris. They had the police there keeping an eye on her.

  When Glass and Olga reached the Grand Hall, Olga in her fur coat and Glass dressed for the Coffee Room, Salter hadn’t arrived yet. Glass peered between the doors and saw that the Russians were in the Coffee Room, though people were starting to depart the dance floor, ready to head to Maystone’s for the remainder of the evening. They stayed in the corridor.

  A minute later, Salter appeared.

  “Can you escort the princess to my flat?” Glass asked.

  “You want me to leave the hotel?” Salter’s w’s still sounded like v’s, despite more than three years in London and his much-prided Britishness.

  “She can’t go out alone with mischief on the loose. Would you rather I call Special Branch?”

  “It’s not far,” the princess said. “You’ll return in well under half an hour.”

  Salter inclined his head. “Very well.”

  The two went toward the main entrance, and Glass stepped into the Coffee Room just as Teddy Fortress and his wife, Honor Page, were stepping out. Fortress was whistling jauntily, not a care in the world, but his wife’s lips were moving. Glass read them quickly. For some reason the famed film star Miss Page was mouthing “I hate you” over and over again.

  “There you are,” Eyre said as Glass sat down at the small table where the hotel manager held court. As usual lately, an empty champagne bottle was in the bucket in a silver stand next to the table, and he was alone. “Any contact with our p-princess today?”

  “We had dinner here,” Glass admitted. “But I’ve just sent her away.”

  “I’ve thought about it, and I agree she should have been arrested,” Peter said, overpronouncing his s’s. “Untrustworthy women might as well be locked up. For their own good you know. Look at Emmeline. Got a man killed and herself beaten. Deserved it of course, both of them.”

  Glass patted his shoulder. “I don’t know about that, but I’m in charity with you. Emmeline has put you through more than most men would take. You’re a loyal soul.”

  “Wish my brother was here,” Eyre said, staring at the table. “Oh well. She damned us both.”

  Glass ignored the melancholy statement. “The Russians are leaving.”

  “We’d better follow them,” Eyre said with along sigh. “Off to Maystone’s.”

  “Why don’t you stick to water,” Glass suggested as Eyre moved to stand, then swayed, and sat again before successfully rising, “for the rest of tonight?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To help me observe. You’re no good to me half cut.”

  “Ah, I see. Going to make a spy of me yet.” Eyre grasped the edge of the table.

  Glass kept his expression neutral, though he was quietly furious. Just what he needed. A drunk outing him. “On second thought, why don’t you stay here in case the Russians double back?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Eyre straightened fully and looked him in the eye. “We’ll go through the back so we don’t appear to be following them.”

  Glass inclined his head and held out his hand, following behind as Eyre swept from the room, his head held high. He walked well for someone feeling the effects of his champagne. Perhaps he wasn’t as drunk as he had seemed.

  They went through the service corridor. When Eyre paused at the rear door into the club, Glass asked, “Were you able to change the locks?”

  “The service doors, yes, like the basement entrance and this door. Getting to every hotel room door will be a different issue, a
nd to be realistic, if we change the doors on the seventh floor, the Russians may just give Konstantin a new key.”

  “A fair point. But the Russians have no special access, correct?”

  “Correct. They never asked to search the hotel.” Eyre pulled out his ring of keys. Glass saw some of them looked shiny and fresh compared to the dull, well-used ones. “They’ve never tried to get master keys to the hotel to the best of my knowledge.”

  “We have never really been sure if the trade delegation was connected to Konstantin.” He followed Eyre through the door into the nightclub’s storeroom. Boxes of liquor, glasses, and cutlery were stacked on shelves. Silver trays were piled neck-high in one corner.

  “No?”

  “We believe one of the delegates attempted to make contact, but he was expelled from the country some time ago.”

  “Are there other Russian bomb masters about?”

  “A couple of Irish ones,” Glass admitted. “No Russians that we know of. But won’t it be exciting to tell your grandchildren that a famous Russian assassin once stayed at the hotel?”

  “Let us hope I have the sort of grandchildren more interested in tales of film stars than assassins. I did hope we’d have some old-fashioned royal assignations here, but so far the Prince of Wales and his brothers haven’t shown an interest.”

  “Unfortunate,” Glass said.

  “We did have the Duke of York’s mistress in for dinner one night, but she came with friends.”

  Glass patted Eyre’s shoulder. “You’ll get there. This generation should start having children soon enough. In twenty years there will be a new bunch to be scandalous here.”

  “It might be at the hotel or in Maystone’s,” Eyre said, his gaze taking in the storeroom. “It’s sexy enough, for all that some of the most favored clubs are little more than basements. But I can’t stand some of these dances that are popular. The Twinkle? The Shimmy?”

  “Effeminate,” Glass said. He followed the man through a service area where the last touches were put on the food they were forced to serve at the club to keep the liquor flowing, and then behind the bar.