by Beth Byers
Lola smoothed down her own dress. She never tried to compete with her mother’s extravagant elegance. Instead, Lola favored color and texture over embroidery. The shoulders of her pale green dress were slightly wider and dipped into a v-shaped neckline that was tasteful yet playful. The plain silk hugged her figure, which was slightly more curved than the going fashion, but widened to a flouncy drop waist dripping with wispy white and black feathers and strips of Georgette that fell mid-calf, but when she moved, the sheer, pale green Georgette showed off her toned calves and elegant knees. Lola had always admired her knees and thought them one of her better features.
She’d tamed her corkscrew red curls away from her face, leaving a few to dangle near her ears, and topped it with a jade clip holding a few of the wispy white feathers and another thin strip of pale green Georgette. Add her favorite rose-hued lipstick and rouge and the touch of black liner around her eyes, bringing out their blue hue, and she felt more than prepared to face the daunting challenge of the English aristocracy. If there were any present.
Her mother examined her with a critical eye. “I do admire that dress,” she said, her English accent even more pronounced. It seemed to be growing with every passing day they were away from the States. Lola felt her own thinner one expanding as well, though she’d never have her mother’s proper cadence and pronunciation. “I am glad we paid a call to that dress-maker in Paris.”
So was Lola. She’d had six new dresses made, three day dresses and three for evening. This wasn’t even her favorite. She was saving that for a special occasion. A new year was special, of course, as was spending it in a new hotel that had only just opened, but she still held back. It never hurt to put what looked like her best foot forward and then leap in later looking even better.
“Is Sir Caldwell attending?” Lola asked.
“I suppose. Though, of course, he isn’t staying at the hotel.”
Of course not. The famous barrister was rumored to have inherited an estate in Kensington, wherever that was.
“Anyone else we’ve met?” Lola asked. They’d met several others while touring the continent, especially in France while visiting Verdun in November. Her mother had wanted to see where her younger brother had died during the Great War, and Lola had convinced her to tour the Argonne Forest where her cousin had fought with the American Expeditionary Force. Lola had been surprised at the number of English visiting as well.
“It’s only been four years since the Armistice,” her mother had reminded her. Lola realized how easy it was for her to forget given that the war hadn’t really touched her back in Texas, except for her cousin fighting in it.
“Perhaps one or two,” her mother finally answered. “Though I’m not certain if you have met them.”
“Such as?” Lola kept trying to learn if her grandparents would be attending. She had yet to meet the Lord and Lady Addington, though she knew her mother was keen to see them again. Lola wasn’t so sure that they were as keen.
“Shall we?” Her mother ignored the question and picked up her tasseled, black handbag as she left for the front room of the suite. Lola followed, picking up her own pale green silk handbag. Her T-strapped shoes, new as they were, pinched through her white stockings, but she ignored it. They were too lovely not to wear.
They walked through the sitting room of the suite, and Lola once more congratulated herself on her good fortune. The suite truly was a beauty, with clean, crisp lines with jewel-tone colors, modern furniture in the same rich colors, and a carpet so plush her feet sank into it. Lola had taken to removing her shoes as soon as she entered so she could clench her toes as she walked. Her mother always gave her the eye for doing so, but Lola simply couldn't help herself. It was too delicious.
The wide hall was even more as opulent, with gold leaf on the walls and gold streaked marble floors. The overhead lighting was narrow, glass and gold lamps hanging from gold chains from a ceiling at least ten feet tall. High-armed settees and low-backed chairs rested at intervals with tall, potted plants arranged next to them. Lola wondered if English women found it difficult to walk the entire length of the hall and so needed a place to rest every six feet.
Lola rushed ahead of her mother to press the button to summon the lift. She could never get enough of the lifts. She watched avidly as the arrow slid in a sweeping arc above the doors, marking the floors.
“Five, six, seven—”
“Lola, you are doing it again.” Her mother sighed with tested patience.
Lola lowered her voice. “Ten, eleven—”
Ding.
The lovely metal doors opened to reveal the protective cage that looked like something from a rich man’s aviary, the so-called gilded cage for the pretty little birds who would sweep in and out on their way to the next flocking of their kind.
“Good evening, Carmen,” Lola greeted the lift attendant. “I’m surprised to see you still at your post.”
The Spaniard gave her a winning smile. Lola had discovered their similar ages on the ride up to the floor of the suite, along with his name (Carmen Vasquez), how long he’d been in the country (four years), if he enjoyed his work (he loved his position at the Regal Rose), and if operating a lift wasn’t the most amazing job in the hotel (he thought so, though he was hoping to move on to valet). Her mother had withstood Lola’s incessant questioning, long accustom to her daughter’s need to know everything about everyone.
“I am relieved at seven,” he told her in his deep, lilting voice. “But you will find Henry devoted to his service, Miss Rose.”
Lola grinned. “I’m sure I will.”
The lift stopped and Carmen opened the gilded cage and the metal doors. “I hope you enjoy the gala, Miss Rose.”
“I’m sure I will,” she repeated.
Chapter Two
8:00 p.m.
The Steward Room, 1st Floor
The Regal Rose Hotel
The Steward Room opened across from the wide, sweeping stairs leading up from the ground floor. Lola hadn’t had the chance to climb the stairs yet. She pictured herself with her arms held out at an angle beside her, her chin raised and head slightly cocked, taking slow, demure steps as others moved out of her way. It was likely she’d seen too many movies.
The Steward Room wasn’t one she’d have chosen to enter. The Regal Rose Hotel amenities book had described it as a welcoming place to gather for a flute of fine wine or tumbler of liquor. Lola preferred her booze mixed, preferably with fruit. She glanced in the direction where The Punch Bowl was supposed to be. A cocktail lounge sounded much more her style. But she dutifully followed her mother into The Steward Room and the hum of conversation already in progress.
Her mother stopped inside, giving Lola enough room to pass through the door. Lola waited. She knew this routine. Her mother would examine the room, taking note of those in attendance. She’d study who was speaking with whom, who turned to see what guest had entered, and who was standing off alone. And then she would finally move into the room.
Only her mother didn’t do any of that. She stopped only long enough to find someone in the crowd of tuxedos and gowns before making a beeline across the room.
Lola stared after her, shocked.
“Good evening, mademoiselle.” The quiet voice somehow managed to breech the conversation coming from all around her. Lola looked to the man who spoke. He was dressed in a tuxedo that had the look of a man in service rather than a guest. He was thin but stood as though he were three times his size, with confidence and certainty. He had a sharp chin, a sharp nose, and intense eyes.
“Good evening,” Lola returned.
“I am Gaspard Brodeur, the chief concierge.” His accent was deliciously French, made even more so by his hushed voice. “Might I interest you in a drink?”
Lola considered for only a moment, her lips quirking back and forth as she did. Then she smiled a slightly devious smile. Gaspard didn’t break his calm demeanor.
“I don’t suppose you could scare me up a Mary
Pickford, could you?”
Gaspard studied her for only a moment before inclining his head. “Of course, mademoiselle.” He made a smart turn and retreated.
Lola followed where her mother had gone, feeling particularly smug. Wine. Ha! No thank you.
She caught snippets of conversation as she worked her way through the room, which struck her as part library, part parlor in a way that somehow worked.
“—already booked for the first three months—”
“—the expense was unimaginable—”
“I’m certain you could imagine it, my dear.”
Lola chuckled and moved on.
“—the entire upper floor?”
“Indeed. Why she would establish herself in a hotel is quite beyond me.”
Lola paused and glanced over at the two women speaking. Even she, newly-come to the land of aristocracy, could tell these two women were as blue-blooded as the King.
“Are you quite certain of it?” the first blue-blood asked.
“Oh, yes. I had it from the Earl himself.”
“I should think he would know.”
“Naturally.”
Lola moved on once more, chewing her bottom lip in thought. An earl, a strange hotel resident, and a mystery. What could be more delicious?
Gaspard appeared at her side. “Your drink, mademoiselle.”
Ah, that would be it.
“Merci, monsieur.” She grinned. “Did I say it right?”
His smile was small, but true. She had the feeling it was rare, too.
“Oui, mademoiselle.” Gaspard excused himself and returned to his duties. Lola made a note to seek him out later before she and her mother left England to learn a little more French and a lot more about him. He was an intriguing fellow.
“Lola,” her mother called as Lola reached her. She eyed Lola’s choice of drink, arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. Lola smiled winningly and took a sip. The rum was smooth, the pineapple had bite, and the Maraschino liqueur was as sweet as she liked it. There was even a cherry floating at the bottom of the glass.
Perfection.
“Miss Rose.” Sir Caldwell made a slight bow to her. Lola inclined her head and tried to hold back the urge to curtsy. Sir Caldwell Blythe had that effect on her.
She and her mother had met Sir Caldwell at Verdun and he’d joined their tour of the Argonne Forest, escorting them with a confidence that spoke of familiarity. Lola found him cordial if overly formal. He was an interesting looking gray fellow. Gray hair, gray muttonchops, gray eyes, even his suits were gray. It was as if Sir Caldwell was trying to disappear from view.
“I hope you’ve found your lodgings adequate,” Sir Caldwell asked her mother.
“Entirely. It is a spectacular hotel.”
“Yes, it is.” The way he said it suggested he found it a little too spectacular. Lola could see him much more at home in a stuffy library with a scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. No, not a cigar. A book.
“I overheard that someone is living here,” Lola said. Her mother’s eyes widened, the only sign of her surprise.
“That is the rumor,” Sir Caldwell answered dismissively. Rumors were beneath him.
It wasn’t that he was a proud man, Lola had learned, only that he liked facts and precision. Rumors would definitely not intrigue him.
They intrigued her, because somewhere on the other side of the rumor was fact, and Lola loved to dig into the rumor to reach the other side.
“Ah,” Sir Caldwell smiled. He did have a welcoming smile. “Allow me to introduce you to my cousin’s son, Arthur Blythe. Arthur, Mrs. Rose and her daughter, Lola.”
Arthur the cousin’s son made Lola’s breath catch. He was a strikingly handsome, confident-posed, pale-haired man a handful of years her senior.
Too bad he was eying Lola’s dress as though she’d killed the birds herself for the feathers. Which she hadn’t. They hadn’t even been killed. She’d made certain of that. She only went so far in the name of fashion.
Lola lifted her chin and affected boredom. “Charmed.” She held her hand out, fingers limp, palm down, to Arthur the cousin’s son.
He took her hand and shook it like he would a man’s. His grip was strong but not bruising, and his hand all but covered her smaller one.
“Miss Rose. Delighted.”
Oh, his accent was perfection.
“Mr. Blythe,” her mother said as he made her the same bow, this time without the handshake. “Sir Caldwell has spoken so highly of you.”
“That is kind of him.” Arthur gave his father’s cousin a nod.
“Only the truth,” Sir Caldwell said, which Lola had no doubts about. She wondered what had been said, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know, at least not yet.
“Perhaps you know who lives on the top floor?” she asked Arthur. Thinking of him as the cousin’s son, while amusing, was taking up too much time.
“I believe she’s the wife of the architect,” he answer with a slight glance to Sir Caldwell, who nodded. It was an odd exchange, as though they were conspiring in the information they would share. Which was silly. What else could be said about the wife of the architect?
“I think it’s a marvelous idea,” Lola said cheerily before sipping at her drink. She closed her eyes to savor it before continuing. “With everything the hotel has to offer, she won’t want for anything.”
“Lola has made a study of the amenities book,” her mother explained without judgment. She’d depended on Lola’s need to learn everything about where they were staying during their travels.
“It’s simply too delicious not to.”
“Your accent,” Arthur said, looking curious. “You aren’t from London, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
He studied her. “Your mother is clearly British.”
Lola nodded.
“Your father . . . American?”
Lola smirked. “Very good. But can you say from where?”
“The middle, perhaps.” He didn’t sound as certain.
“Middle?” Lola laughed. “You’ll have to narrow it down. I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you until midnight to think it through.”
“And if I get it correct?”
Lola paused, realizing she’d backed herself into a corner. Her mother was watching her with that slight frown of annoyance.
In for a penny . . .
“Then you’ll have the honor of bestowing the traditional New Year’s kiss.”
Arthur’s calm expression didn’t change. “And if I have a prior obligation?”
Lola blinked. Well, he had her there.
He smiled. It was magical. He had dimples. They changed his entire demeanor to a playful one.
“Fortunately for me,” he said, “I do not.” He pulled a watch from the pocket of his tasteful gray suit. It struck Lola that if Sir Caldwell stood closer to his cousin’s son, he’d fade away. “Eight fifty-three. That gives me three hours and seven minutes.”
“Then you accept?”
“I could hardly refuse.”
A hush washed over the guests, centering from the front of the room.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” a deep voice proclaimed. “If you will adjourn to The Empire at this time. Thank you.”
The crowd began migrating in that direction.
“May I?” Arthur held out his arm to her.
Lola was tempted, but only a little. “How sweet. But I think you’ll find us American-Brits can walk on our own two feet.” With that, she turned smartly, letting her feathers and Georgette swirl to show off her knees, and sauntered away.
Her mother would be annoyed. But it was worth it.
All in all, it was promising to be an interesting evening.
Chapter Three
9:00 p.m.
The Empire Restaurant, Ground Floor
The Regal Rose Hotel
The food, however, was frightening.
Lola sat next to a young woman at the rectangular table in front of prist
ine gold-gilt china, gilt silverware, tasteful floral arrangements with lit candles, and the strangest display of shrimp she’d seen. Not that she’d seen many. Shrimp weren’t a natural resource in West Texas. She did have some experience with them on her travels, but nothing like this. The peeled shrimp sat on top of a thick sauce on top of a slice of cucumber.
She looked around the table. Back home, she’d pick the thing up with her fingers and stuff it in her mouth in two bites.
Her mother, seated down from her on the other side, lifted her fork and knife slightly, knowing all too well the direction Lola’s thoughts had taken.
Lola smirked playfully at her and followed her lead.
“They are strange for nibbles, aren’t they?” The young woman sitting next to Lola looked at the bite speared on her fork. “I can’t decide if I’m supposed to chew it or swallow it or use it for garnish.”
Lola giggled. “I think I’ll go with chewing.”
“You are probably right.” The young woman bit the piece and chewed thoughtfully, casting her hazel gaze upward at the dim lighting. “Hmm.”
“How is it?” Lola asked.
“It tastes like . . . Shrimp. And cream sauce. And cucumber.” She winked at Lola, who laughed. “Willa Maitlyn,” the woman said with a grin. She had a delightful gap between her front teeth that she probably hated, and was wearing a sky blue, silk headband to keep her short, dark brown hair away from her face, which was sweetly rounded.
“Lola Rose.” Lola paused expectantly.
Willa’s grin didn’t slip. “Are you waiting for me to ask if you own the hotel?”
“I suppose I am.”
Willa sat straighter and put on a serious look. “Do you own this hotel, Miss Rose?”
“Not a bit.”
They both laughed.
“Who did you come with?” Willa asked.
