“I didn’t agree to dinner.”
“You can’t possibly say no to dinner at the Criterion.”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure I have the right clothing for such an exclusive spot.”
He took a step closer, using his superior height to add weight to his words. She stared up at him, her eyes seeming larger than they had before. “You’ll make do. I have faith.”
Before she could respond, he strode out of the room, not trusting himself to speak with her any longer. She had him at sixes and sevens, not a good feeling for a master spy.
* * *
Olga waited in the parlor of her boardinghouse that evening. She’d come downstairs to find Bert Dadey fiddling with his gramophone and sat next to the pleasant old man on his faded velvet sofa while he changed records. Her landlord was a music aficionado. Despite his advanced age, he loved jazz. She considered music more background noise than anything important and never knew the names of the songs he played. Art was her world, not music.
“You’ll like this one, Miss Novikov,” Mr. Dadey said. “‘Revival Day’ by Al Jolson. Nice to hear a religious tune when you’ve had a death in the house.”
She listened quietly as he snapped his fingers and sang the hallelujahs, but it didn’t sound very religious to her. Having seen all of his records, though, she knew he didn’t have hymns or anything like that.
Above her, she could hear the movement of the women in the bed and sitting rooms upstairs creaking the floorboards. Alecia Loudon was to be married tomorrow, and Emmeline Plash was helping her with the final arrangements for her wedding suit. When Olga had gone downstairs, Alecia had been trying on shoes. Emmeline was trying to talk her out of wearing her favorite pink leather shoes in favor of something more restrained.
Emmeline had rallied after the death of her mother. It had to be said that they were all sleeping better, as the old lady had wandered in the wee hours. Whatever demons had been chasing her in her old age, they came out to torture her about two in the morning, disrupting the floor. Alecia had tended her in those last weeks of life, doing what she could to keep Mrs. Plash quiet, but only death could cure the old lady’s nightmares.
Now, Alecia would marry the Grand Russe’s head of security, Ivan Salter, born Ivan Saltykov, another Russian Peter had taken under his wing. Unlike Olga, though, he was not an old family friend. He was from a distinguished family, but nothing like hers. It had taken him three years to travel from Finland to England, working his way through Europe with his sister.
That was very different from Olga, who’d been packed out of Russia just after her fiancé’s murder in 1918. She’d had luggage and a little money. Fyodora, just under a year older than her, had left too, a few months later, headed toward the east instead of the west. What had happened to her after that? Fyodora’s fate was a mystery, but that was better than knowing she was dead. Everyone else was, those faces of her childhood, her fiancé’s family, her own. The people she knew had fared no better than the French aristocrats of 130 or so years ago, though death had come by illness, firing squad, or murder, not the guillotine.
Something clattered to the floor above their heads. Mr. Dadey shook his head, the loose skin under his chin wobbling. “Sorry to see Miss Loudon go. Now there’s a pretty girl. Not regal like you, but a nice English lass.”
Olga couldn’t take his words as an insult. She’d been a known beauty in Russia with at least five proposals of marriage by the time she was seventeen. Maybe it was her position, rather than her face or her form, that had given her beauty, though, because she hadn’t received any marriage proposals since. If only Emmeline hadn’t been forever underfoot. Maybe Peter would have offered for her, but the pair of them had some kind of sick relationship she didn’t understand.
So she had stayed with Grand Duchess Xenia, her benefactress, and aged. As the Russian imperial’s household continued to be reduced because of lack of funds, and no one proposed marriage, she realized she would need to make her own way. Peter’s family were good employers, and they had always stayed in touch, so she’d asked his sister Eloise to give her work. This had come as a desperate move after a failed attempt to be a companion to a nearly deaf countess who mostly stayed at her family estate in Southwold. London had seemed a faraway dream in those months before she’d gone to Leeds and been trained as a chambermaid.
Mr. Dadey changed the record. She recognized Al Jolson’s voice again.
“He’s Russian,” Mr. Dadey said.
“How interesting,” Olga responded. She jumped up when she heard the sound of the front-door knocker. “Oh, Mr. Dadey, can you get the door, please?”
The old man chuckled. “Hooked a good one?”
“I never thought an earl’s heir would be taking me to dinner at this point in my life,” she said. It didn’t matter what she said to Mr. Dadey. He was a dear and never gossiped.
“When you have bait like that face of yours, you ought to be able to land a duke.” He sucked on his fake upper teeth, making them click, and lumbered out of the room.
Olga took her old House of Worth silk-and-fur cape from where it had been waiting on the arm of the sofa and moved into the front hall. A narrow space, only about four steps across, it was overshadowed by the staircase heading up to the first floor, where her room was, next to the more expansive private space of the Plashes.
Lord Walling dwarfed the tiny hallway. Mr. Dadey shut the door behind him, shaking his head about the rain. She saw droplets on her guest’s hat and shoulders.
“That’s a very nice cape, Your Serene Highness,” her date said. “Are you sure you want to risk damaging the silk in this beastly weather?”
A touch of pride straightened her shoulders when he called her by her title. They were out of the hotel, and she could be a princess again, instead of a servant. That he remembered made her think the world of him. “I will only have to walk a few steps between the taxicab and the buildings.” She didn’t want her cape damaged, but she had no other evening garment to wear. Also, she wanted the warmth.
“It’s a lovely piece.”
“Thank you.” Her old black Vionnet had too much class to ever go out of style. However, nothing but strings of beads held up the bodice, leaving very little fabric to keep her upper half warm. She waited to hear him make some comment about her work versus her stylish clothing, but he said nothing.
“A beauty, ain’t she?” her landlord said proudly to Lord Walling.
Olga took care to introduce the men, pleased to see the respect Lord Walling gave the old dear, and then took his arm. He escorted her to the door; then they went down the steps to his taxicab. She shivered a bit as they drove to Piccadilly, despite the fur that composed the rest of her cape. March could not come more swiftly. She’d never had trouble with cold, but the London damp was difficult to tolerate. Lord Walling made small talk about the guests on the seventh floor, and she told him more about the paintings in his suite.
They pulled up in front of the rain-soaked pavement outside of the restaurant and passed between streetlights and under a fringed canopy into the restaurant. Only a few droplets caught her around the shoulders and were absorbed by the fur. She hated worrying about her clothes like she did, but she couldn’t afford to replace them.
Inside, the restaurant radiated warmth and discreet wealth. Diners spoke in lowered voices, waiters hovering attentively nearby. After Lord Walling spoke to the maître d’ they were seated at a table in a long, rectangular space framed by arches and thick columns.
“Have you been here before?” he asked.
“No.” She straightened her shoulders and smiled at him.
He lifted his chin. “It might not be too exciting to someone of your background, but look up.”
She glanced up and exhaled in wonder as she took in the gold mosaic ceiling. “How lovely. Thank you for pointing that out to me. It really is a beautiful space.”
“I think you will enjoy the food as well.”
“I cannot think
it better than the Grand Russe’s restaurant.” She bit her lip after she said it. It wasn’t as if she could dine there. Peter wouldn’t mind, not really, but she would. She didn’t want to spend any more time than she did in the place where she was a servant.
“It wouldn’t be seemly to take you there,” he said in a calm tone as he placed his palms on the table. “Besides, I cannot spend all my time at the hotel.”
“How long do you think you’ll be residing there?” she asked, careful not to say “with us” like she would if she were at work.
“I’m not really sure.” His lips curved boyishly, like he was thinking of a joke he wasn’t sharing.
“Are you doing renovations at your London home?”
He lifted his index fingers from the table. “A spot of painting. You know the sort of thing. Maintenance.”
“So a short stay then.”
“Not necessarily.” He smiled at her, giving the distinct idea that he was offering up the notion that she might have something to do with how long he stayed.
What was it? A foxlike gleam in his eye? Had she become a viscount’s prey? She stiffened. While she might be poor, she was far from desperate. Olga Novikova was still a respectable woman, despite everything.
“It’s a very nice suite. I can understand why you would never want to leave once having settled in.”
“Indeed.” He left it at that.
The waiter arrived with the bill of fare. Lord Walling ordered wine and a roast beef dinner for them. She found nothing to object to in any of his selections, much finer than her usual cheese-and-toast dinner.
She decided to bring up her most pressing concern before their food arrived. “Have you had any further thoughts about releasing the painting to my exhibit?”
He smiled but didn’t answer. The waiter conveniently came up to them just then, displayed the wine selection, and went through the ostentatious process of offering it to her date for tasting. Olga glanced around, not recognizing any of her relatives, though she did see three men with English titles, one dining with a lady who wasn’t his wife. Most Russians lived in very reduced circumstances these days. Many of those who had escaped with wealth, or had bank accounts or property in Europe, had been fleeced because of their lack of knowledge about handling money.
Wine splashed into her glass. The waiter faded into the background, quickly followed by another with their first course.
“Were you very sheltered when you were in Russia, or were you out in society?” he asked.
“My childhood was delightful, but, of course, the war came. I would say I was sheltered; my sister and I both were. When my sister was seventeen, we were introduced to prospective suitors, men we’d known all our lives.” She took a sip of wine. It tasted rather banal. “We both became engaged. Her fiancé died in the war. Mine was murdered in the revolution.”
“Then you fled?”
“Yes. I went to Crimea first, helped by my fiancé’s family who knew the grand duchess Xenia, sister of the tsar. I’d seen his murder, you see; I was there. They thought it best I go where I could receive protection for fear something would happen to me.”
“Who was he?”
“A prince, an artist. Really, it was the artists who moved me to Ai-Todor. Maxim’s family supplied the money and his friends had the network that helped me escape Petrograd. Compared to some others, such as Ivan Salter, who also works at the Grand Russe, I had it easy. The dowager empress included me in her entourage when she was rescued by a British warship in 1919.”
“Do you have many relatives in London?”
“Distant ones. I lived in the household of the grand duchess Xenia for a time, but, charitable as she is, she couldn’t afford to keep everyone. Her jewelry was stolen, and she didn’t have much else. She’s moving into grace-and-favor housing now, courtesy of the king. I’m lucky I had Peter’s friendship. He has given me a fresh start here in London after his sister Eloise trained me at her hotel in Leeds. The hotel has only been open about three months, and he promoted me last month.”
“You must be very proud.”
“Oh, yes. I am very grateful. I may not have to do chambermaid duties at all by spring. The hotel is doing so well that we’re slowly bringing on more staff and I can focus on management.”
“What about Novikovs? Do you have relatives here who aren’t members of the imperial family?”
She took a delicate bite of her shrimp cocktail. The cocktail sauce was divine. “We aren’t so numerous. Why? Do you know people with my surname?”
“No. But I’ve heard the name somewhere.”
Her fork hovered over the cocktail sauce. She did have a second cousin here in England. His family had been forced into exile from Russia after a sex scandal involving his father, so her cousin had been here for a decade, though his parents were deceased now. He was trouble, though. “There was a branch of Novikovs who came here just before the war, my uncle’s family, but most are deceased now.”
“Did they help you?”
She shook her head and quickly changed the subject. “How do you occupy your time? I know you were a soldier, and of course, you will inherit a great deal of responsibility someday.”
“The estate is still intact,” he said, “even if our family is not. But my father and I are not close. I have a government job.”
Grateful that he’d let her move on, she enthused. “Oh, how industrious of you. Anything interesting?”
He smiled as he took a shrimp. “A paper pusher I’m afraid. It helps the years to pass.”
He was an odd bird. At thirty-one, according to Debrett’s, going on seven years since the war ended, she’d expect him to be married, a father, especially with his families’ crippling generational loss. As best she could tell, the title would go to a third cousin if it passed out of the direct line. Could he be considering her a candidate for his wife, or did he have some darker motive for asking her to dinner?
It was hard to be considered respectable when you had been a chambermaid. If only someone had been willing to marry her years ago when she’d first come to England, but she hadn’t been a catch. All she had to offer was herself and a useless title that was more an impairment than an aid.
She took a deep breath and began to share stories about her extended family, leaving out the malcontents and difficult personalities and speaking of the great names. She left out the affairs, her grandmother’s illegitimate child with her personal secretary, the midlife madness that had afflicted some of the men.
“And your fiancé?”
“Yes, my dear Maxim. He was an artist, as I said. I hope his work survives in Russia. I have very little of it myself, only a book of sketches he did for me.”
“What kind of art did he produce?”
“He was a religious man and a Symbolist. He did a beautiful series based on the Ten Commandments.”
“Did you love him?”
Red splashed across her vision. Her hands went to her lap as her heart fluttered. She tapped her fingertips unknowingly. When she felt the telltale pressure on her leg, she forced her hands to still. “I could not control the nightmares after he was killed. His death was such an abomination I could scarcely remember him alive.” Her voice had sunk into a whisper.
“I have those kinds of nightmares,” Lord Walling admitted. “I am sorry a gently reared lady has suffered in the same manner.”
“It is the affliction of our times. I am grateful we have peace now.”
“For now,” he echoed.
Their main courses came. They spoke little during the rest of the meal. Tension made her shoulders and temples hurt, not because of Lord Walling’s behavior exactly but because speaking of Maxim still upset her, even after all these years. She had no head for violence; that was the truth.
When he suggested they dance at Maystone’s for a little while, she agreed. She knew she would not sleep well, so there was no point in retiring at a sensible hour, despite a full day of work ahead of her.
As he helped her from her seat, he asked, “You look bemused. Not your usual Monday night?”
“No. I am a reader of novels,” she admitted. “We are also quite social in the boardinghouse. Mr. Dadey is a great music lover. We play bridge a couple of nights a week.” Of course, that would all change now with Alecia marrying.
As he helped her into a taxicab, he asked, “Are you too tired to dance? You’ve had a long day.”
“I’ve never been to Maystone’s.” She pulled her cape more tightly around her as the taxicab pulled away from the curb. He kept a polite distance from her, denying her the warmth of his body. “It will be fun.”
When they arrived in the alley where Maystone’s front door was located, just around the corner from the Grand Russe, Olga could hear music despite the closed doors. Maystone’s had a wonderful house band, with a cornet-playing bandleader and a piano player who was considered so talented that even she had heard his name—Judd Anderson.
Lord Walling escorted her to a small table at the far edge of the dance floor after they entered. He ordered a bottle of champagne. Their table was against a mirrored wall and had a long white tablecloth to hide what was going on at waist level and a vase with a rose in it. Where the mirrors ended, a raised area where the band was tucked away began, alongside the polished wooden dance floor.
She spotted Peter dancing. His mistress’s mother had passed away the week before, so she wasn’t evident, but Peter never had a problem finding temporary female company. The woman foxtrotting with him wore white and still had the round face of youth, though the amount of paint decorating it made it likely she was an actress.
The crowd here was younger than at the Restaurant, the Bright Young Things set. Peter had been delighted to see the nightclub’s name popping up in the gossip columns recently.
She leaned toward her date and spoke into his ear. “I just realized I’ve never seen your name in the gossip pages.”
“You read them?”
“For mentions of the hotel,” she admitted.
His lips quirked. “Of course. I’m a quiet man. I don’t go in for the high jinks. I’m too old for that crowd anyway.”
Lady Be Good Page 3
