Lady Be Good

by Heather Hiestand

  He might even find a birthday gift for his father, if she had any talent. Turning away from the coat check, where another half-dozen damp Londoners were unbuttoning coats, he went into the Russian gallery. There, he found quite a variety of offerings, from icons to paintings that seemed to mirror Picasso’s many changes of style to landscapes.

  He found Olga’s signature first on a nature scene. A picnic was set out on the banks above a sluggish river. No figures were in the scene or in any other of her paintings. Nonetheless, they each had a sentimental mood. He didn’t think his father would appreciate any of them since he wasn’t an emotional man. On the other hand, they did evoke emotion in him.

  He was considering the starkest of the half-dozen paintings, depicting a burned-out barn on the edge of a wood, when he heard high-heeled shoes behind him.

  “You’ve been staring at this painting for some time,” Olga said. As he turned toward the princess, a twig-thin woman in black took his place, muttering to herself. “What is it that appeals to you?”

  “It’s terribly sad, Your Serene Highness.” He smelled lemons, a scent that seemed commonplace until it mixed with her skin and hair and became something exotic. “I feel the sorrow coming off this in waves.”

  “A stable boy died in that barn. He became trapped when trying to free the horses.” She came alongside him, her profile regal and remote. “I can still remember the screams.”

  “How old were you?”

  “About nine. It is one of those images that lives on in nightmares. I thought by painting it I might let the memory go.”

  “Did it work?” He watched her as she stared at her own work. She was as still as a statue, but her head had jutted forward just a bit on her neck. Her neckline was free of jewelry. She must have once had heirloom pieces like Margery, but they probably hadn’t made it out of Russia.

  After a long moment she released a breath. Her shoulders relaxed. “I don’t know. I have so many nightmares running through my brain.”

  So did he. Best just to push the tangle of them into the recesses of his mind and focus on the present. “Why no people?”

  “I went with a theme. It’s not that I never paint people.” She gestured across the set of six small paintings. “I had a fantasy that someone might buy them as a set rather than having different types of work.”

  “You are very talented,” Glass said. He considered telling her he would buy her work but thought it best to wait and see if anyone else did. He was no art connoisseur who would get her work seen and purchased by others. If someone like that wanted her paintings, she would be better off with them buying her work.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “What do you do now? Mingle, try to sell your work?”

  “I couldn’t be so forward, but I’m happy to answer questions if anyone asks them.”

  The room had started to fill. A dozen or so had entered, doubling the crowd.

  “I’ve known Margery for years. She would have married my brother in 1914 if war hadn’t broken out,” he remarked.

  Olga’s eyes saddened. “She would have been the countess someday?”

  “She was engaged to my second brother, not the eldest.”

  “I see. She doesn’t seem ambitious that way.”

  “No, definitely more artistic.”

  “We were that way too, Maxim and I.” She rubbed her lips together, darkening their rose tone. “At least, I think we would have been. I’m beginning to realize how young I was then.”

  “I saw you came in with a companion. Throwing me over for another man?” He meant it as a joke, but as he said the words, they came out more harshly than he’d intended.

  The princess looked genuinely confused, but her expression turned to relief as the gallery owner came their way.

  “There you are, my love,” Margery said, bustling toward them. “Oh, don’t spend all your time with Walling. There’s a shy art critic over there in the corner whom you must impress.” She took the princess’s arm and steered her away.

  Glass shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. Nothing he could do but chat with the mystery man himself. He glanced around the room but could see no sign of the fellow who had arrived with the princess.

  Of all the bad luck. He did a circuit of the room for twenty minutes and saw no sign of his quarry. The man had left, and he still didn’t know if he might be Konstantin Novikov. He didn’t even know if the bomber was related to the princess.

  What might it mean if she was? What did Princess Olga know about the man’s activities? Was she a spy or Bolshie activist or completely ignorant of the man who shared her name?

  He’d have to get close enough to find out—whether he liked it or not, whether she liked it or not. He’d have to court her more persistently. But for now, he decided to cede the floor to the real critics and art-world folk. He went for his coat. Time to return to his listening post and check in on the Russians.

  * * *

  One of Olga’s least favorite tasks was cleaning Peter Eyre’s private quarters. She knew it was a trusted job because bits of hotel paperwork were scattered about. No one but her was allowed to have a key to Peter’s private domain. But on a Friday morning, after a Thursday night much too late and full of champagne, she didn’t want to be in a stuffy space full of the scent of old cigarette smoke.

  The first thing she did in the sitting room was turn on the electric fan to circulate the stale air and prop open the door between the sitting room and Peter’s official office, which at least had windows high in the walls. Because of Peter’s location in the hotel, his personal space had no windows, no way to easily get fresh air in and out.

  Once the air had started to move, she pulled her clean feather duster from her bucket and began to restack the magazines and newspapers on Peter’s tables and dust around them. She picked up the overflowing ashtray on the main table between the sofas and chairs, carried it to a bin in the corner, and wiped it clean.

  “What is that sick-making noise?” a woman with gravelly voice demanded behind her.

  Olga’s midsection caved in as she skipped a breath. Emmeline Plash. The woman who had managed to poison Peter’s life to the extent that no other woman ever had a chance with him, for more than a night, at least.

  “Just the fan, Emmeline,” Olga said, half turning. “If your head is aching, moving the air will help.”

  Emmeline’s parents had been friends with Peter’s parents, and her little brother, dead in the war, had been Peter’s best friend. Emmeline had been engaged to Peter’s older brother at one time. Somehow, after the war, she’d become Peter’s mistress, a financially motivated arrangement as he had paid some of her bills, and her mother’s, for years. Mrs. Plash and Emmeline had lived at the Grand Russe for a few weeks when it opened, but Peter had moved them to Bert Dadey’s boardinghouse when Mrs. Plash wandered one too many times and Emmeline lost her mind and attacked Peter physically.

  “Turn it off,” Emmeline snapped, flinging herself into a chair. “And bring the ashtray back to the table. I want it.”

  What was the witch doing here? Why hadn’t Peter learned his lesson with this woman? Truly, she did have a sweet side, and definitely a glamorous one, but she also had violent tendencies, not to mention an unending need for money and attention.

  Olga finished wiping out the ashtray and set it in front of Emmeline. The woman sniffed and opened Peter’s cigarette box. “Raining, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” Olga said. If she had asked Peter’s family for money instead of a job a couple of years ago, would she have a place in Peter’s bed instead of on his payroll now? Olga wondered, but still a virgin, she couldn’t imagine what that would be like. She’d been raised by a pious and conservative family. Becoming a mistress, even to survive in the style her position demanded, would have made her a sinner.

  She’d never even considered it then. Lord Walling had been the first man to awaken her senses since Maxim died. He was the first man to appear in her dreams,
to make her restless at night.

  And yet, he hadn’t even bought one of her paintings at the gallery show. Deciding to return later, she turned away from Emmeline. She didn’t want to change out the towels and bedding when the mistress was in the suite.

  She picked up her bucket. How far had she sunk in life to be offended by Lord Walling’s disinterest in purchasing her paintings? Of course he didn’t want to purchase art that made him sad.

  But she had no one to rely on, so the blow was sharp, even if she didn’t want it to be. Her closest relative just wanted her money. No one she knew could afford luxuries like paintings, especially those priced by a top gallery.

  “Aren’t you going to finish your work?” Emmeline called out behind her.

  “I’ll let you have your peace.” Olga walked out of the sitting room, head held high, before Emmeline could ask her to do something demeaning.

  She didn’t even tidy the office; she just tucked her bucket inside the utility closet there and stepped out, closing the door behind her.

  Instead of cleaning, she decided to do a hotel floor check. She had quite new chambermaids on the lower floors. By then, it would be time to busy herself on the late-rising seventh floor.

  Frank Russell at the reception desk spoke to her as she went by. “Olga?”

  “Yes?”

  The concierge’s farm-boy grin widened to alarming proportions as he pointed to a crystal vase, filled with the most gorgeous red and white hothouse roses. “These came for you.”

  “Bushwa,” she said, shocked. “For me? Are you certain?”

  “As certain as I am that I’d like to take you to the pictures tonight. What do you say?”

  Olga ignored his impertinent request as she lifted the vase and pulled out the envelope underneath it. She slid her finger under the envelope flap, noting the excellent quality of it, and removed the card. “Congratulations on a fine showing. I’m still thinking about that painting. You have tremendous talent. Your servant, Lord Walling.”

  All her bitter thoughts about the viscount vanished. Maybe he hadn’t bought her painting, but it had moved him. And he’d bought her a Lalique mermaid vase. She hadn’t had a vase of her own since she’d left St. Petersburg.

  Smiling, she tucked the card in her pinny and picked up the vase. She’d put it in Peter’s office for now. If she took the vase down to the staff lounge, it might vanish before the end of her shift. Even if the vase survived the day, the girls would probably pluck out the flowers, one by one, and take them home.

  * * *

  Glass opened his door and found Olga, an expectant look in her eyes instead of the usual chambermaid indifference. “No bucket?” he asked. “Decided to trust the chambermaid this time?”

  “I haven’t done my room checks yet. I came to thank you.”

  “Come in.” He pulled the door the rest of the way open.

  Olga stepped into the small foyer but stood in such a way that he couldn’t quite close the door. He suspected it to be a practiced move, something to dissuade hotel guests from attempting to take advantage of vulnerable female staff.

  He wasn’t an average guest, though, and she ought to know that. She’d trusted him to take her to dinner, after all. “How about having a cup of tea with me? It’s just after eleven. I could use one.”

  She shook her head. “It’s against hotel policy to fraternize with guests like that.”

  “You went to dinner with me.”

  “Peter doesn’t expect to control my activities outside of the hotel.”

  “I am to understand you would take tea with me outside of the hotel then?”

  She nodded. “I’m curious to understand why you sent me those lovely flowers.”

  He heard a click emanating from the region of the Firebird. The recording disk was full. The Russians had been meeting, and he needed to keep recording. “Why don’t you join me for a proper tea this afternoon? What time?”

  “Just after three?” she suggested.

  “Where shall we go?”

  “The A.B.C. is the closest café.”

  “I can do better than that.”

  Her manner stiffened. “It is good enough.”

  He didn’t want to insult her pride by pointing out that he would pay. Of course he would. He looked her over and realized that she must not want to go anywhere nicer because she was in uniform, not a smart dress of her choosing. “Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’ll meet you by Marble Arch just after three, next to the coffee wagon.”

  She inclined her head and stepped back into the corridor. Without further ceremony, he closed the door and bustled to the painting so he could change out the disk. His Russian wasn’t good enough to understand Ovolensky’s visitor, so he needed to record the meeting and have the conversation translated.

  He spent hours standing with headphones on, attempting to untangle the Russian, so he was thrilled to leave the suite for a spell and ventured onto the chilly, damp streets. The sharp bite of raindrops felt good on his face, and he didn’t mind the smell of exhaust hanging in the air after too many hours of the overheated air in the hotel. When a larger raindrop hit his chin and drizzled down his neck, he tied his muffler more securely and peered across the street, looking for Olga.

  Someone tapped his shoulder. “Lord Walling?”

  He turned around. Olga had come up behind him. “Where did you come from?”

  “Staff entrance.” She pointed to the stone steps the employees used, hidden from view by a half wall.

  “Ah. Shall we?”

  He held out his arm. Instead of taking it, she opened her umbrella and handed it to him to hold. He found himself walking back down the street past the hotel, the umbrella held over them both, carefully synchronizing his steps with her to keep them protected.

  “I have to say I’m suspicious of shops like the Aerated Bread Company. They have something like four hundred outlets in London alone, don’t they? And then there’s Lyon’s. There is something to be said for the more bespoke tea experiences,” he said.

  “Like Redcake’s, you mean?” Olga asked.

  “Don’t you think the quality is better?”

  “Their prices are ruinous. They have been royal family favorites since Queen Victoria’s day for good reason. I went to the Kensington Redcake’s once with Grand Duchess Xenia.” She pressed her lips together and pointed at the name of the Park Street tea shop, painted on the stone above the doorway.

  “Are you and the grand duchess close?” He tilted the umbrella so she could push open the tea-shop door. When she was halfway through, he quickly closed the umbrella, shook it out, and entered the shop.

  Olga stepped into line at the counter, behind two men. Glass listened to their conversation for a few seconds out of habit and dismissed them to focus on the princess.

  “Not at all. We do maintain a correspondence, but she travels a fair amount and has a large family. I don’t like to trouble her.”

  “A tsar’s sister,” Glass said. “Yes, I’d be intimidated by her.”

  “She’s lovely,” the princess assured him. “No airs, at least not around family. I owe her and the dowager empress my life.”

  He smiled gallantly. “Then I am a supporter of them both.”

  When they reached the counter she ordered an egg on toast. He asked for a ham sandwich and suggested cake for them both, along with their tea.

  “You need more than just toast and an egg,” he said. “You work hard.”

  “Very well.” Her downcast eyes showed she was embarrassed.

  He doubled their order of cream cakes to prove his point; then they walked into the crowded dining room, full of pairs of men having business meetings. A few women dotted the room as well, though mostly with male companions. The men in front of them at the counter had been discussing bank business, and most of the room looked to be patronized by a similar type of businessman.

  “So much for the ladies’ dining room,” he said, finding them a small table agai
nst the wall. Women bustled around the room in black dresses with white aprons delivering orders.

  “Not many women have money to spend like men do,” the princess said. “It is hard to earn a living. Prices are reasonable here, but why expose yourself when you can eat at home?”

  He held out a chair for her, and she sat gracefully. “Does Mr. Dadey allow you to use his parlor to entertain guests?”

  “I spent time with Alecia Loudon and Emmeline Plash in the Plashes’ parlor,” Olga said. “I don’t see many other people.” Emmeline was a different person in her own space and when she wasn’t over-imbibing.

  “Miss Loudon is now Mrs. Saltykov, correct?”

  She frowned. “Salter. How do you even know Ivan’s original surname?”

  “I must have heard it somewhere,” he said, cursing her attentiveness. Why did he let his guard down around this woman? He couldn’t trust her.

  Chapter 5

  “Ivan probably told you his original name.” Princess Olga shifted on her hard tearoom chair. “He pays particular attention to the seventh floor. His cousin, Georgy Ovolensky, is staying next door to you.”

  Glass nodded. Of course she thought he needed all this explained to him. On Monday, as far as she knew, just five days before, he had been a newcomer to the hotel. Now he could blame any unusual knowledge he had on Ivan. They spoke every night about eight to keep each other appraised of security issues and the Russians’ movements.

  “I do see him daily,” Glass said. “Do you work six days a week as he does?”

  “Yes, Monday to Saturday. It will be simpler after tomorrow.”

  “Why is that?” He placed his napkin on his lap.