If I Had You (3 page)

“Understudy?” Sybil's expression was blank.

“It's money,” Max coaxed.

“I've heard it's doing well in Chicago,” Richard said. “You should take it, Sybil. A singing part would be good for you.”

Sybil moaned. “I need to be on stage.”

“How about the moving pictures?” Max said. “I know someone at Gainsborough Pictures.”

Sybil shook her head sadly. “It must be the stage. Darling Max, you do try.”

“I'll see about this O'Neill project then,” Max said, standing. “Richard, Alecia.” He strode off, and was not more than a few feet away when he started to hum jauntily.

“At least something is brewing,” Richard said when Max was out of earshot. “He never sings when things are going badly.”

“I wonder if he wants us in film,” Sybil said, toying with her coffee spoon.

“If we are offered the right part, either of us, it is worth consideration,” Richard said. “The money can be good.”

“If we wanted money, we should have gone to America. Look at how well Leslie Howard has done for himself.”

“Do you want to start all this again?” Richard asked.

“No, I want to think about what I'm going to wear at Maystone's tonight,” Sybil said. “What fun we will have.”

“You should come,” Richard said to Alecia as he picked up his paper again.

“What? Me?” Alecia said, shocked.

“Yes. Borrow something of Sybil's. You make her look younger when you are together.”

Sybil and Alecia stared at each other.

“I-I don't understand,” Alecia stammered.

“Don't say you are her employee, but her friend,” Richard said, snapping his paper. “A young friend makes a woman look younger. Sybil turns forty next year, unfortunately.”

“Thirty,” Sybil shrieked. “I turn thirty.”

Richard held the paper up to his nose and rolled his eyes over the top of it. “With Alecia in tow, you might just get away with it.”

Sybil patted Alecia's hand. “We'll do our makeup the same way and call ourselves sisters.”

“I've never worn makeup,” Alecia admitted, intrigued.

Sybil clapped her hands. “How exciting. What fun we are going to have!”

* * *

“Very well,” Lionel Dew, the night manager, said to the assembled watchmen at six that evening. “It is all hands on deck tonight. New Year's Eve is always chaotic in the hospitality business. Until ten
P.M.
we'll be following our regular assignments. At that point, I want Salter and Johnson to move to the nightclub. Tonight we need to keep a particular eye on it.”

Ivan eyed Norman, who looked positively twinkly-eyed at the notion of standing guard inside the nightclub.

“Johnson, you'll patrol the outside of the club. Salter, I want you inside. Your face won't scare the guests.”

Norman's jaw clenched as he heard what he'd be doing. No watching the band and the flappers. He'd be wandering around outside in the cold.

“Sorry,” Ivan whispered.

“Lucky you.” Norman sighed. “I want to look at the scantily clad ladies.”

“Stay above the fray tonight, Salter. I've got my eye on you,” Lionel said.

“Yes, sir,” Ivan said, saluting. “I'll start my rounds now.”

“Take Swankle with you and show him the trouble spots,” Lionel said.

Ivan nodded at the gangly youth in his brand-new uniform. “First night?”

“Yes, sir,” Swankle said, displaying a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Been working at a factory before this.”

Ivan pointed his chin toward the door. “I've the easy floors, so I can show you around.”

“Where are you from?” Swankle asked as they left the room. “Not from around here, with that accent.”

“Moscow.”

“A Bolshie, are you?” Swankle's head swiveled on his scrawny neck as he took in the dank basement corridor. “Aiming to help the workers rise up?”

“I'm no Bolshevik. My great-grandfather was a Russian prince.” All his legacy as an oldest son, long lost now.

Swankle whistled. “How'd you get out, then?”

“Fled in '18.” It had cost them everything but their lives.

“Better than where you left, I suppose,” Swankle said.

“I'm afraid it is, these days.” Russia was for Cousin Georgy and his ilk now.

The service-lift operator let them come aboard. “Third floor tonight,” Ivan said.

The operator nodded and closed the door. “Not your usual patch.”

“Showing young Swankle the ropes. It's his first night.”

“New Year's Eve?” The operator whistled. “What a time to start.”

“It's when I was needed,” Swankle said composedly. “I'm just happy not to be starting 1925 hauling tires about all day. I'm twenty-four and already having pain in me back.”

“I thought you were younger,” Ivan admitted.

Swankle shook his head. “It's me baby face. Same as me granddad, they say. Went to his grave still looking like a schoolboy.”

“Maybe it will be of use. Help people to trust you,” Ivan said as they exited the lift. “This is a standard floor. Single rooms, doubles, valet den to the east, supplies to the west. If you see anything in need of cleaning, make a note. You've five floors a shift, or two if you have the main floor, since there is so much more to watch.”

“What's the worst thing you've seen?”

“Drugs, sex, fights.” Ivan shrugged. “We've only been open a month.”

“Did you work here before? Back when them murders happened?”

“I'm new as well. I started on the first night the hotel reopened.”

“Made any friends among the staff?”

“I pay attention to my work. That's why I normally have the first two floors.” Ahead of them, he saw one of the chambermaids, bucket at her feet, talking to someone. Some of the girls loved a gossip, but this was the lead chambermaid and was more likely to need rescuing from a guest than to be a problem herself.

“Let's liberate Her Serene Highness from our guest,” he said to Swankle, and strode down the hall.

“What? Who?” Swankle's shorter legs sped up.

“That chambermaid is a Russian princess fallen on hard times,” Ivan said. “This is what my countrymen have come to since the war.”

“Crikey,” muttered Swankle. “What do I say to her?”

“As little as possible,” advised Ivan.

“I have not been to the theater since I lived in Saint Petersburg. They are calling the city Petrograd now,” the princess chambermaid said as they walked up to her.

Ivan had to peer around her to see who she spoke to, and was surprised to discover Miss Loudon. “About time for your dinner break, isn't it, Olga?” he said in Russian. She'd forbidden him to use her title at the hotel.

The maid froze. “Yes, of course.” She strode away, ignoring Swankle's friendly grin.

Ivan shook his head. “Return her bucket to the maid's closet, will you, Swankle? Down the hall there, you'll see the Staff Only sign.”

“Yes, Mr. Salter.” Swankle picked up the bucket.

“A bit early for you to be prowling, isn't it?” Ivan asked Miss Loudon. At least she wasn't dressed in baggy gray this time. Her dress was navy and the fabric draped better. For the first time he could see the shape of her body, not quite as boyish as current fashion preferred. The lady had curves, more generous in the bosom than the hips. Delicate bones. His body responded in predictable fashion. She really was a beauty, with Cinderella potential.

“I had questions for the Russian employees,” she said.

“Trying to find me? Looking for more kisses?” he teased.

Her eyes widened and her nose went pink. “M-my employers will be doing a command performance when a Russian diplomat comes to London, and I wanted to find out what plays a Russian might like.”

“How disappointing,” Ivan drawled. “Will you not ask me the same question to prove you are telling the truth?”

“I don't need to prove anything. It's true. I work for the Marvins. They are quite famous.”

He waited.

“I've only worked for them for two weeks,” she admitted. “I'm allowed to speak to the hotel staff, aren't I?”

“The maids need to stay on their schedule.”

Miss Loudon bit her lip. “Is anyone in management Russian?”

“No. You can ask me your question.” He leaned in.

She soothed her lip with her tongue. His body tightened further. He wished he could touch her lips with his tongue, see what she tasted like. “What plays do you like?” she asked.

“I like to see tragedies, where Fate plays out,” he said.

“Very dark stuff. Are you political?”

He tore his gaze from her lush, bitten lips with difficulty. “I can assure you that whatever side Georgy Ovolensky is on, you will find me on the opposite side,” he said.

Her eyes sparkled. “You know about his coming, then. Do you know him?”

“He is my cousin.”

Miss Loudon tilted her head. “You must be joking.”

“No,” he growled.

She blinked. “I dare say you are not looking forward to the family reunion.”

He spoke very precisely. “He's a very bad man. Stay away from him.”

She straightened her shoulders, which made her chest press out from her dress. “I won't have any reason to interact with him. Of course I won't. But I do need to help select a play. Do you think he'll like Shakespeare?”

“Why not? I don't,” Ivan said, tearing his gaze away from her breasts.

Her expression softened. “My goodness, you really do hate him. Why?”

He kept his eyes on her face, her pretty blue eyes. “You shouldn't ask such questions. You know nothing of what we've suffered. The revolution, the war.”

Her chin went up. “I lost my parents almost a decade ago, when the
Lusitania
went down. I'm an orphan. My two uncles died in the war. Russians aren't the only ones who've suffered.”

“I'm sorry for that, but Georgy Ovolensky is responsible for the deaths of much of my family, Miss Loudon. Stay away from him.”

Instead of fleeing as he expected, she stood taller. “You already warned me. An unnecessary warning, as I pointed out. Perhaps you should be the one to flee.”

“I'm considering it,” he told her.

That took the fire from her. “Oh. I see. How dreadful. Are you considered a criminal in Russia?”

He frowned. “No. I was too young. But my oldest sister, she was a revolutionary and Georgy took advantage of that to annihilate my family. Only Vera and I survived.”

“Who is that?” Her voice faltered. “Your wife?”

“Another sister.”

“I see. Such a sad conversation, when it started with kisses,” she said. She should have smiled with such flirtatious words on her lips, but she did not. “I'm sorry about your family.”

Ivan saw Swankle appear at the top of the corridor. He'd been talking too long. “Kisses are never a waste,” he said. “Maybe next time.”

As her mouth rounded with surprise, he stepped forward, too close, and blew her a kiss. She gasped. He saw Swankle staring at them both. His cheerful gaze narrowed.

Ivan swore. Would Swankle report him for his familiarity?

P
eter Eyre checked the clock in his office behind the hotel's registration desk. Ten
P.M.
New Year's Eve. He'd better make an appearance at the nightclub.

“Everything in order?” he said to Lionel Dew as he passed through Registration.

His night manager glanced up with a smile. “Every room is full tonight.”

Peter surveyed the throng in front of the desk. A janitor was on duty to keep the blue, black, and white marble floor spotless. Every spot on the plush, circular seating arrangements was taken by flappers and their beaus, flirting and trading quips. He could hear the music of upper class drawls, money in the bank. “Try to keep non-guests out of the Grand Hall. It is crowded enough in here. All of these people cannot be waiting for a table at the Restaurant.”

“There is a private party in the Ballroom.”

“It's for an older crowd. Discreetly deal with those persons not in the best attire.”

He passed by the white and blue walls of the Coffee Room with regret, brushing a minute speck of lint off the lapel of his tailcoat. When he reached the service corridor, he straightened his bow tie and pulled a ring of keys from his pocket so that he could unlock the rear door between his hotel and his club. After he went through the dark space, he carefully relocked everything again. It wouldn't do to let just any guest through. Recently, he'd had enough reports of bad behavior in the service corridor to consider locking the entire area off from guests, but then, he didn't want to destroy every opportunity for sin at the Grand Russe.

The modern age required a modern hotelier, and people deliberately came to places like this hotel to let off some steam. He didn't expect Victorian behavior in the Jazz Age, far from it. Murder, on the other hand, he could do without. Another situation like the Starlet Murders and he and his silent partners would be out of business for good.

He had debated allowing theatrical folk into the hotel as guests for just that reason. Drugs, illegitimate liaisons, and other drama seemed to follow such people like clockwork. But they brought fame, élan, and the Grand Russe needed that too. Not just well-heeled politicians and middle-aged aristocrats.

He spotted Cuddy Friend, the nightclub manager, hovering behind the bar. “Who is here tonight?”

“Tallulah Bankhead, Duff Cooper's crowd, and a very junior royal with a lady not his wife,” Cuddy reported.

“Excellent. Celebrity, aristocrats, and royalty. Is Lady Diana here with her husband? No Bright Young Things?”

“Yes, she is. A few members of Elizabeth Ponsonby's crowd are here.”

He smiled. “Lady Diana is far more exciting than her MP husband. I think we've covered all the bases.”

“We have. I'm not sure Tallulah has. She's not wearing much more than a few strings of pearls.”

“She's an eccentric, but London loves her. As long as her body is beautiful, I'm all for it. Are we making any money?”

“When the waitresses can get around to the tables,” Cuddy said. “It's overcrowded. We've already had to start turning people away at the door.”

“The band sounds good.” Peter listened to the piano player play his version of “King Porter Stomp,” one of this year's big new songs. “Do they know
Rhapsody in Blue
? I'd like to hear it.”

“Oh sure, Judd knows his stuff. Gets all the latest sheet music from America.”

The piano tune ended, and the full band came together for a song Peter didn't recognize. A couple of the flappers on the dance floor screamed and began to shimmy as it began, though, kicking out splayed legs as their partners whirled them around. Crystal dress beads caught the overhead chandeliers' illumination and the floor picked up the dazzling lights, creating a display as dizzying as the music. Some of the dancers attempted to hold cocktail glasses. The floor would be sticky by the end of the long celebration.

“The crowd seems to like the piano player.” The band leader was standing now, blowing insistent notes over the crowd on his cornet.

“Has his share of followers. I had to kick a couple of girls out of his dressing room this afternoon before he even arrived.”

“That's a good sign.” Peter pulled out his new gold cigarette case from Asprey of Bond Street, a Christmas gift from his mistress, and selected a Pall Mall, then lit it with his Dunhill lighter.

“Are you going to wade in? Or are you going to hold court in the Coffee Room?”

“Wade in,” Peter said. “I have to make an appearance at May-stone's on New Year's Eve.”

“Building that cult of personality?” Cuddy winked at him.

“We need all the advantages we can, to save this hotel.”

“In that case, find yourself a more intriguing mistress than Miss Plash. She's nobody special. Or be more obviously unencumbered.”

Peter winced. “She's rich and convenient, an old family friend.”

“She's a decade older than you, shrill, and not exciting. You can do better.”

Peter picked a speck of tobacco off his tongue while he considered what to say. “You may be right, though she isn't as old as you think. I'm tiring of her anyway. Any suggestions?”

“I'll think about it.”

Peter spotted a girl he'd never seen before, acting like a wallflower even though she was dressed like a real biscuit. He recognized her sparkling green and cream dress as a Vionnet. Calf-length at the front, it showed her shapely lower legs. Since it draped low in the back, he could see her creamy skin. Slender, but had just enough meat on her to hide her bones. The ropes of sequins and beads that hung down her back, right down to the floor, would sway as she danced, drawing the eye. “There's my berry patch.” He pointed his chin at the blonde. “Who is she?”

“She came in with the Marvins. Staying on the fifth floor. Theatrical couple of some renown.”

He blew a smoke ring. “So she's an actress. Ought to be fun for the night.”

“Emmeline will kill you.” Cuddy smiled.

“That's one way to end a liaison.” Peter ground out his cigarette in an ashtray at the end of the bar and made his move toward the curtain-draped wall where the young beauty stood. His interest increased as he saw her sexy shoes, green velvet with silver details. They weren't hers though. Her feet were tiny and narrow and the shoes were meant for a larger woman.

As he walked toward her, he sensed someone staring daggers at him, and glanced around. He recognized one of the night watchmen, the Russian one, with his gaze now trained directly on the young blonde. He hoped his employee didn't plan to flirt while he was keeping an eye out for trouble.

Grabbing two glasses of champagne off a tray held by a passing waiter, he handed one to the young blonde with a flourish. “Peter Eyre, hotel manager. Are you staying with us?”

She gave him a steady blue-eyed gaze, but her quiet voice belied the confidence of her expression. “I'm Miss Loudon, from the fifth floor.”

“Ah, yes.” He took a sip of the champagne. Not their best brand. He wondered whom he'd stolen it off of. “How are you connected to the Marvins?”

“I'm their new secretary.”

He regarded her. Not promising. The only thing she had to offer him was youth and beauty. She wouldn't have any money. The shoes were obviously borrowed. The dress was a signpost down the wrong path. But she was certainly lovely. If she was fast, he'd take her for a spin, but she wasn't worth throwing Emmeline over for, not when he considered his new top-of-the-line cigarette case, and their shared history.

One of Miss Loudon's feet tapped as the band began a new number. He didn't think she noticed. “Jazz fan?” he asked.

Her smile lit up her face, accentuating her perfect cheekbones. “Oh yes. I have to admit I sneak downstairs late at night just to hear the band through the service door.”

This was exactly why he hated to lock down the service corridor. He liked offering opportunities for pretty young things to misbehave. “Why don't you come into the nightclub?”

“Oh, I just want to hear the music, not dress up and all this,” she said, blushing. “This isn't my dress. Mrs. Marvin lent it to me.”

She was precious. Like a ripe fruit ready to be plucked.

“You must dance,” he said, setting his empty glass on a waiting table. He took hers from her unresisting hand. “Oh, here's an oldie. ‘Maple Leaf Rag.' Do you fox-trot?”

“You have a wonderful piano player,” she said, her eyes sparkling as he held out his hand.

“Yes, that's our own Judd Anderson. Let's take advantage.”

She took his hand delicately, like a fawn taking a first trembling step into adulthood, and he pulled her onto the floor. The horn section joined in on the tune as they began to dance.

This precious girl had a wonderful sense of rhythm. They finished the first dance, her beads swaying behind them as they did the fast steps, then the band struck up a tango number. Peter had no intention of letting her return to propping up the wall. He pulled her toward him, her supple body flowing against his torso.

A tap came on his shoulder just as they started dancing side to side.

“May I?” asked a man of fifty or so years, with a luxurious graying mustache.

Peter recognized Richard Marvin. He'd seen him in
Antony and Cleopatra
a decade before. His wife must be the woman in his arms. Mrs. Marvin wore a black, Chinese-style Patou, almost floor-length, covered in a silver fantasy scene picked out in thread. The dress was entirely sleeveless, showing off the woman's slender arms. A jangle of silver and paste bracelets decorated her slim wrists. The middle-aged spread almost hidden under the long column of her dress told the real story of her age, however.

“Of course,” he said, resigned. Marvin stole his partner and began to lift her.

Mrs. Marvin giggled. “I hope you don't plan to do that to me.”

“No, we'll execute a more basic step,” Peter promised her.

“Mr. Marvin has always enjoyed showing off,” his wife said, as Peter turned her on the floor.

In more ways than one. He'd plucked his pretty secretary right out of Peter's arms. Peter wondered what else he planned to do with the girl. He knew with absolute certainty that she was a virgin. An experienced woman didn't tremble in a man's arms like she did.

Across the floor, he could see the Russian night watchman following the tango with a heated gaze. Peter imagined he wanted to break into the athletic dance exhibition and exit stage right with his prize.

It wouldn't do to have his employees distracted by lust. He sensed it was time to send staff another memo about interacting with guests. When the dance ended, another fox-trot–worthy tune began. He handed Mrs. Marvin back to her husband and inclined his head to Miss Loudon.

He walked off the dance floor, wondering where Emmeline had gone.

“There you are,” said Edith Plash, Emmeline's mother, coming alongside him.

Mrs. Plash had given birth to her lovely daughter at an advanced age. She had to be in her late seventies, at least, with a cataract making one eye filmy. However, she clutched at his sleeve with strong fingers.

“You haven't been up to see me in a couple of days,” she said, pursing her carmine-coated lips into a pout.

He pulled out his cigarette case, gently extracting his sleeve from her fingers. “I've been busy, Mrs. Plash. Where is Emmeline?”

“Oh, her, never you mind,” Mrs. Plash said with a surprisingly girlish giggle. “I'm sure she'll be out all night. It's New Year's Eve, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Why don't we swipe a bottle of bubbly and go upstairs?” She winked. “Have ourselves a different kind of celebration?”

He kept his expression impassive only with great effort. “Madam, I'm afraid you have the wrong idea.”

An expression of confusion crossed her face. “I often do, dear. Do you come here often?”

“To the nightclub? When I must.”

“I know I've seen you before. With my daughter?”

The abrupt change of conversation had him as confused as he was concerned. Thankfully, he saw Emmeline coming toward him, dressed in low-cut red silk without enough identifying markers to show what designer it came from. She wasn't showy like Mrs. Marvin, but much more beautiful, regardless.

His mistress took her mother's arm.

“I think it is time Mrs. Plash went to bed,” he told her.

“Oh, Peter, no,” she protested.

“She stopped recognizing me,” he said gently.

Mrs. Plash smiled at her daughter. “Is he one of my beaus?”

“Oh, good Lord,” Emmeline said, her lips pinching. “Come along, Mother. And happy New Year to you,” she said over her shoulder, dragging the older woman away.

Mrs. Plash's head went down and she walked with a shuffle, cowed like a young child. Peter winced as he lit up his cigarette. It looked like a lonely New Year's Eve was in store for him, unless he wanted to make an effort.

“Butt me?”

He turned to see Tallulah Bankhead, half naked, as advertised, her long dark waves caressing her creamy shoulders. She held out an empty cigarette holder to him.

“Of course, Miss Bankhead. Happy to,” he said with a roguish smile at the notoriously promiscuous American actress.