If I Had You (11 page)

“You are still on duty,” she reminded him.

“I'm off at eight
A.M.
I could come to your room.”

Dark spots flashed before her eyes. The mere thought utterly overwhelmed her. “My room is right next to Richard's. If he heard anything, I could lose my job. I'd have to return to Bagshot immediately. I've less than a month's pay.”

“Don't panic.” He took one of her hands and squeezed it between his. “You aren't ready. I understand. But there are plenty of nooks and crannies in this hotel. When you want to make love with me, I'll find somewhere completely safe.”

She found her mouth had fallen open and she snapped it shut.

He frowned. “It does trouble me though, that you don't feel your bedroom is private. Which one is it?”

“The valet's room for Richard. Sybil's maid has the other room.”

“You keep the interlocking door bolted, right?”

“At night.”

He nodded.

“But they knock if they need something. I can be up quite late mixing drinks if they have friends over.”

“I can always find you here.”

“You must not always be looking, because I'm upstairs at this hour a couple of times a week.”

“And at eight? Where are you then?”

“Dragging myself out of bed.”

“And Richard Marvin? Where is he at eight?”

“Asleep. He rises about nine. Sybil an hour or so after that.”

“Then we'd be safe at eight.” His lips curved.

She narrowed her eyes. “I won't risk either of our jobs. I'm not prepared, besides. I could have a baby. What about that?”

“There are ways. Haven't you heard of the book
Married Love
?”

She shook her head.

“Ask Sybil. She's never had a baby. I'm sure she knows all the ways.”

Outrageous
. “I'm not going to ask my employer how to, um, you know, not have a baby.”

“Don't you have that kind of relationship? I thought you had that sort of intimacy.”

“On her side perhaps, but not mine.”

“I wish you had a friend you could talk to about these things.”

“It won't be Sybil Marvin,” she said piously. “They hired me to be a secretary, not, well, a private citizen.”

He looked amused at that. “I know, you can ask Miss Plash. She'll definitely know how to get you what we need. I can take care of it too, to be honest, but you ought to know the options.”

Unease crept over her. “Why, so I can take a plethora of lovers?”

“I wouldn't want you to do that, Miss Loudon. But think about it.” His voice lowered to a purr. “You and me, doing a sort of delicious tango together, between the sheets. My hands on you, your mouth on mine, my body on yours. Our flesh together, all that lovely friction. You probably have no idea of what I speak.”

“Have you had many lovers?” Her voice squeaked.

“I'm no virgin,” he said. “Back in Russia, I admit there were more than kisses going on in the barns of the neighboring estates.”

She was jealous. “It sounds like a fun, careless time.”

“We were so young,” he agreed. “So incredibly young.”

She couldn't resist asking, “Do you remember how? I mean, to tango between the sheets?”

“I've never done it between sheets, exactly, but I want to try.”

She giggled. “Why me?”

He cupped her cheeks. His gloves were hot against her skin and she wished she could pull them off, but then she'd want to kiss his hands, suck his fingers.

“You have to stop looking at me like that. I'm going to explode,” he said in a curiously strangled tone.

“How?”

“Oh, you know how, don't you?”

They stared at each other. She wanted his kiss like she wanted air, but she really didn't know what he meant. She'd grown up in a vicarage.

A whistle sounded.

He didn't move for a moment, then cocked his head. “Those Gypsies,” he said slowly. “Oh, forgive me, those Gypsies. I have to go help.”

He let her cheeks go. She kissed the tips of his fingers as they brushed her lips.

He spoke quickly. “Can I come at eight?”

“Not until I know about, I mean, more of,
Married Love
.” Her thoughts were jumbled.

“Talk to Miss Plash,” he said. “I'm sorry, I have to go.”

She stepped back until she was against a wall. Her head knocked against the edge of one of the Russian paintings. Ivan moved fast. Then he was gone. She was left alone with thoughts that made no sense to her. So many hungry thoughts. Sheets and bodies and some kind of mysterious apparatus that stopped babies from coming.

How had the vicarage wrapped her so completely in cotton wool all these years? She was twenty-two and he was right. She was just a baby. But a jazz baby, that was something else. It implied makeup and short skirts and high heels. Kicking them up and dancing all night long. Some of that dancing might very well take place between the sheets. And Ivan, who had been a libertine, and wanted to be one again.

But what did she want? She'd come to London hoping to be a flapper, and had found herself the same old dull girl. Ivan held out a hand to her, a promise of a different kind of life, but what kind of a future did that hold?

Unlike Sadie, she was a thinker. All she had to do was remember how good it felt to be held by Ivan. Wasn't that enough? Why couldn't she worry about that and nothing else?

* * *

Ivan didn't come to her room at eight that morning. The chambermaid who came to clean the rooms said there had been a lot of drama with the Gypsies. Police had been called; a chase ensued. Ivan had probably been run off his feet.

If he'd come later, Alecia wouldn't know. A bellboy had arrived at nine to announce that Max Parker wanted a word with the Marvins. She'd woken both of them and a flurry of preparations had begun. Twenty minutes later, Max had swanned in with a bottle of champagne.

“Darlings!” he said, with a flourish of his free hand. “I bring exciting news!”

“What is it, Max?” Richard said, a yawn exposing the gold molar in his lower jaw.

“
Anna Christie
,” Max said portentously.

“Pulitzer Prize–winning
Anna Christie
?” Sybil warbled, staring hard at the champagne.

“Yes, my love. No more fighting for
No, No, Nanette
for you.”

“What is the part?”

“Why, the lead, of course.”

“Isn't she a prostitute?” Richard said, with an arch of his brow.

“What theater?” Sybil demanded.

“Alecia, my love, some glasses?” Max said.

Alecia went to the drinks cart and found some suitable flutes, and delivered them as Max popped the bottle. Sybil squealed as Alecia neatly caught the spray of liquid and bubbles in a glass. She handed out the glasses, then Max held his up in a toast.

“To the West End you go, my darling! Our star is back!”

Everyone drank, then Sybil began to fire questions. Richard had thoughts as well, but became more and more silent as the conversation progressed.

The play was due to open in March, in some smallish theater in a good location. Sybil would be very busy from now on. Alecia wondered if Sybil's affair had really begun, and how it would fare with her so busy. On the other hand, she had the excuse to be gone all hours now. Still, her own secretarial employment should be secure.

“But this isn't all my news,” Max said.

“No?” Sybil said, her eyes glittering with excitement.

“Richard,” Max said, trying to regain his other client's attention.

Richard had finished off at least half of the bottle on an empty stomach and already looked bleary eyed. “What?”

“Gainsborough Pictures is terribly eager to have you do a screen test for them. You only have to go to Shepherd's Bush, which is where they do the quality stuff. They are considering some Shakespeare and your name is at the top of their list, of course.”

“A film?” Richard frowned.

“Precisely. They'll light you and put you on camera for this screen test. Just half a day or so of your time. You aren't in competition for a part. You won't have to sit around and watch others.”

Richard rubbed his eyes. “If they treat me with the dignity a star deserves, I don't mind it. I would like to see how I fare on camera.”

“Oh, Richard, we're purists,” Sybil said.

“The Bard, my love,” Richard responded.

Sybil sighed theatrically and rearranged her peacock-blue dress. “Oh, very well.”

Alecia was merely happy good news had come for both of her employers at the same time. The busier they both were, the less she'd have to manage their emotions and personal dramas and the more she'd be a real secretary. “Congratulations!” she said quite sincerely.

Max upended the bottle into his glass and found it empty. “I should have brought two. Shall we order up some more?”

“My dearest, I have a hair appointment,” Sybil said, rising. “I forgot all about it. Alecia, please call Ethel to help me dress so I can leave quickly.”

“Yes, Sybil,” Alecia said, glad she'd risen earlier and broken her fast. The morning had become a whirlwind and she wouldn't want to get through it with a clumsy head.

In her room, Sybil sat down at her dressing table and began opening jars. “Can you lay out a suit? Something simple. I really am having my hair done.” Ethel entered with fresh underclothes.

“Of course.” Alecia went to the wardrobe and hunted for something suitable.

“I saw you last night when I was coming in,” Sybil said.

“Where?”

“Downstairs, darling. You were in a heavy petting session with that beautiful night watchman.”

Alecia dropped the pair of shoes she'd just picked up. They hit the thick carpet and rolled apart.

Sybil chuckled. “It's fine with me that you have a boyfriend. It's not often I would need you at midnight. As long as you are awake the next morning, do what you like.”

Ethel found a pair of silk stockings and handed them to Sybil, who already had suspenders on under her robe.

“Are you hoping to marry him?”

“Why?” Alecia picked up the shoes and checked the polish.

“I wouldn't want you to become pregnant by accident with your first lover.”

“What?”

“You are such a baby, Alecia. Freshness pours off of you in waves.”

“He suggested I read
Married Love
,” she admitted.

“Oh, the next book by that author is much more useful,” Sybil said. “Just tell the boy to get sheaths. It's the easiest for now. And if he's trying to put all the trouble or expense on you, well, that tells you he's the worst kind of flatwheeler.”

“I think he wants me to understand,” Alecia said doubtfully.

“You should understand your body. I have a diaphragm, myself, but I purchased it in the Netherlands.”

“I don't even know what that is,” Alecia said, as Ethel smirked and walked away with Sybil's discarded robe.

“It goes inside,” Sybil said. “Would you brush my hair, please?”

Alecia took up her brush and began to stroke through Sybil's short, dark curls. She could see a couple of gray strands, but since Sybil was on her way to a hair appointment, Alecia decided not to mention them. They'd be taken care of.

She decided to match Sybil's frankness with her own. Talking to Emmaline Plash seemed so outrageous. “He wants to come to my room,” she admitted.

“Richard wouldn't like that,” Sybil said. “Doesn't he have a place of his own?”

“He lives with his sister in Poplar.”

Sybil frowned, then quickly blanked her expression and picked up a powder puff. “That's unfortunate. Such a handsome boy, too. He probably has a great deal of experience in the bedroom. But don't have him here when Richard is in his bedroom. If we both become busy with roles, you'll be able to sneak him in. Just be patient.”

Alecia nodded and set down the brush. Patience was a virtue. She had it in spades, but did Ivan? Or would he move on to the next girl while they waited for Richard to be occupied?

A
lecia went downstairs with Sybil when she left for her hair appointment and picked up the mail at the reception desk. She wondered how the relationship with her employer would change now that Sybil knew a secret about Alecia's nights. And that she wanted to lose her virginity to Ivan.

She regretted telling her employer so much about her life. If only she had a decent confidante. She missed her sister. This was the first time she'd tried living without someone to talk to about absolutely everything. The problem was, Sybil had too much power over her already. She wouldn't feel secure until she had built up at least a couple of months' savings. Her salary was low, given her inexperience and that the position included room and board. When she'd taken a job that offered no real privacy or days off, she hadn't thought twice. She'd simply wanted a fresh start and to leave Bagshot. Now, she could see the job would only be tolerable long-term if the Marvins were gainfully employed and therefore busy. She sent up a prayer that Richard would pass his screen test and begin work in film as soon as the Scottish play had been performed.

Mr. Russell, the concierge, offered her a big smile when she asked for their mail. She smiled back tentatively, not sure why he had noticed her.

“Letter for you, Miss Loudon,” said Hugh Moth, the reception desk clerk. “And an assortment for the Marvins.” He located their cubby and pulled out the mail.

“Thank you.” She saw her letter was from Sadie, the first she'd received in the New Year.

She turned away from the desk.

“Just a moment, miss, if you don't mind,” Mr. Russell said, flipping up a hinged part of the front desk and stepping through.

“Yes, Mr. Russell?” She sorted the letters into a neat pile.

“Frank,” he said. “I had a question for you, miss.”

Bemused, she asked, “What is it?”

“Olga is the chambermaid on your floor, isn't she?”

“Yes. Very nice girl.”

He grinned. His smile creased his face all over, yet also displayed how young the concierge was, with his neat, even teeth and freckled cheeks. She had yet to see a hotel employee over thirty. “I wonder if you might know when she takes her break? Have you seen when she goes into the den on your floor?”

“Sweet on her?” she asked softly.

His face reddened as he nodded. “Yes, miss.”

“Well, Frank, I have no idea, but I shall figure it out and report back to you.”

“Thanks! I'll owe you one.”

She smiled and walked away. Having the concierge in her pocket could be a good thing. Rather than returning to her room, she ventured into the Coffee Room and helped herself to a cup of coffee from the urns and a healthy dollop of cream, then sat down with the thick envelope from her sister.

Her eyes widened as she read. Sadie had thrown over her curate suitor. That minx. Their relationship had been on tenterhooks for a while over the past summer, because Sadie had actively thwarted the curate's attempts to court Alecia over the previous year's holidays, then had made a move on him herself. And now she'd given up on him. How irritating.

Not only that, she'd left the vicarage due to the resulting tension with their grandfather. Alecia dropped the letter to the table and put her forehead into her hand.

“Bad news?”

She glanced up to see Peter Eyre standing next to her. He indicated the chair beside her and she nodded. He sat down, sending the scent of cigarettes, hair pomade, and lavender past her nose.

“It's a letter from my sister. She's broken her engagement and left our grandfather's home.”

“You seem tense. Is she in danger?” He set down his cup of coffee.

Alecia considered this. “She's taken a position at an inn just outside London, between here and Bagshot.”

“Doing what?”

“Chambermaid.”

“You must have her work for us,” he said, taking out a fancy cigarette case. “If she's as pretty as you, she'll be an asset here.”

“Much prettier,” Alecia said.

“Don't look so glum. I don't believe it for a moment,” Eyre declared, holding out his case to her. She shook her head. “How old is she?”

“Nineteen, almost twenty.”

“Older than you?” He put a cigarette to his lips.

“Don't tease. Younger, by more than two years.”

“Not teasing. Your fresh face gives nothing away,” he said. “How are you managing with the Marvins?”

“Very well. They both have new opportunities. We were just celebrating.”

“I can smell the champagne on you. I did wonder.” He winked.

“I don't usually drink so early.”

“I didn't think you did, especially since you are a night owl.” They traded glances.

“Does nothing escape your eyes, Mr. Eyre?”

“Not much.” He took a sip from his own cup. “Do you like our coffee? You've barely touched it.”

“It doesn't mingle well with the champagne,” she admitted.

“I'll find you some toast,” he said.

“You don't have to do that.”

“It's not a problem. I'm peckish myself. Just sit and finish your letter.” He walked away, lighting his cigarette.

Alecia wanted to feel pleased that Mr. Eyre was flirting with her, but she had to admit she was hung up on old feelings of sibling jealousy. Did she want her sister to work at the hotel? One thing was for certain. She'd have to make sure her relationship with Ivan was secure before letting her sister anywhere near the Grand Russe. Her sister could have Peter Eyre, if she could manage him. Alecia knew herself to be hopeless around such a sophisticate, but Ivan, despite his background, seemed to want to give her a chance. And she felt the same way.

Eyre returned with the toast and an ashtray, and asked a number of questions about Sybil's new stage role. Alecia couldn't tell if he was asking out of interest, or if he was attempting to learn about his new lover's availability. She had no idea if he and Sybil had ever been together, but she suspected Sybil had at least spent a day with someone.

She hadn't seemed upset at having a new role, though, so she must not be too carried away with her new lover. Alecia, on the other hand, found it difficult to put Ivan out of her mind for more than a few minutes at a time, even though they weren't lovers.

“Woolgathering?” Eyre asked.

She smiled. “I am. It must be the champagne.”

“Let that be a lesson to you.” He smiled. His expression was sophisticated, urbane, nothing like Frank Russell's farmer-boy grin.

She nodded. He put his hands on the table and stood. “I look forward to meeting your sister. Tell her to come into town on her first day off and fill out an application. I'll hire her on your word alone.”

“For which floor?”

“One of the lower ones,” he said. “We have a clear hierarchal system of floors. The higher up you stay, the more important the customer.”

“Six residential floors,” she said. She knew the building was taller than that, but it seemed some of the floors weren't used for guests. “And we're on the fifth floor, or the fourth residential floor. I suppose that means Olga is quite a trusted employee.”

He looked at her with amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Yes, it does. I keep meaning to give her a proper management title. Chambermaid supervisor or such. I'll start your sister on two through four, wherever there is an opening.”

“Thank you. I'll write her.”

Eyre smiled at her and walked away, leaving his ashtray holding the remains of his cigarette. A thin trail of smoke curled up from it. She returned to her letter. The last few lines made her sit up straight. Her grandfather was coming to London? On Friday? Here? Thoughts warred between pleasure at the idea of seeing him and irritation that her resolve to pursue Ivan would have to be put aside for now.

The last thing her grandfather needed to see was his responsible oldest granddaughter behaving like a
flapper
. She hiccupped, tasted champagne. Maybe she'd become more of a modern girl than she realized. She reached for her toast.

* * *

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Ivan heard his sister, speaking English in her thick accent, distantly. He moved his hand and discovered he'd placed a pillow over his head at some point. He'd attempted to block out the sound of her doing dishes at midday.

Vera put a cup of tea on the crate that served as her bedside table. He sat up on her bed, not the easiest thing to do on the old, sagging mattress, instantly suspicious. She'd been with her friends when he'd come home again, so he'd hidden in the bedroom and fallen asleep, too tired to care about the noise.

Gesturing to the tea, he asked, “What is this for?”

“You look at it as if it was poison.” She tossed her hair back. Her black locks were longer than the average flapper hairdo and hid her thin neck.

“Do you blame me?”

“We need your help. The best way to finish off Georgy for once and for all is a bomb. Pavel knows someone who can make it. All you have to do is put it under Georgy's chair before the performance.”

His throat went dry. He picked up the tea and drained the cup. The leaves had been used before, and he missed the smoky taste of the tea back home. Why now, when samovars and Russian tea had been lost to him so many years before?

“You would risk my life, carrying a bomb, to kill our cousin?” he asked.

“The bomb maker is a professional. There's no risk to you.”

“There is always a risk.” Surely she understood that.

Her eyes glittered. “We must have revenge.”

“I won't be scheduled to work during the time the performance is being set up,” he said, moving to practicalities, something more real than bombs.

“You could change your shift.”

He put his hands to his eyes. “My day off, perhaps, but not my hours from night to day.”

“You can go in to visit a friend,” she suggested. “I know you have friends in the staff.”

“I have people I converse with, but they work at night as well.”

She stomped her foot. “We need to put the bomb under his chair.”

He didn't like the out-of-control emotion she displayed. “How many people will that kill?” he asked. “How many innocent people, like our parents, do you want to die?”

“And our sister,” she shot back.

“Catherine wasn't innocent. She was involved with Fanny Kaplan and her group.”

“Lenin needed to die.”

“So Trotsky could take his place? Or Stalin? Once the tsar was gone, Russia was always going to go to hell. Swapping leaders does no good.”

“We must avenge our parents!” she shouted.

“Not at the cost of innocent lives,” he said. “A bomb is not the answer. You used to know right from wrong, Vera. Remember our parents. They would not want this.”

She stiffened. “Our family honor is at stake.”

“No innocent lives,” he repeated.

She put her head on his cheek. Her skin felt cold. “Don't you want Russia to be free again?”

He thought of Alecia. “I'm British now. I don't care about Russian oppression.”

She poked him with her fingernails. “That is a lie. You love our country.”

“I'm never going back. We fought too hard to have a life here.”

“At least come to our meeting this afternoon. Help us think of a way to kill him without risking innocent lives.” She chewed on her lip. “I hadn't thought about you working nights and not days. Maybe we need another Russian employee in our circle. There are Russians on the day shift at the Grand Russe. Can you make a list?”

“Yes, I can do that.” If they could get someone to join, he ought to know. Bad seeds could be weeded out from the employees. He'd turn himself into an informer to survive, like many of his people had.

“Thank you.”

He wondered who their insider was, this person who knew facts about the command performance yet had no ability to bring a bomb into the room, wherever the performance ended up being held. Maybe that person wasn't at the Grand Russe at all, but in the prime minister's office. Or among the Russian diplomats. But he remembered the brooch.

“Vera, do you remember a brooch of Mother's? Mother of pearl, in a bird shape? Rather cunning, really. There's a baby bird in a nest with eggs and the mother is feeding it?”

Vera nodded. “Yes, she had a set of three, with different gemstones. I liked them when I was a child, but I didn't have any of them with me when we went to the wedding.”

“Did the kitchen maid who brought us things after Mother's death bring us any of the brooches?”

Vera shook her head. “No.”

“Would Mother have given one to an actress after a performance?”

“Goodness, what a question. No, I shouldn't think so. Father might have, though, if he didn't think Mother would miss the piece. He did like actresses.”

Ivan's eyebrows lifted. “He did?”

Vera nodded absently. “I must go. I have to meet Sergei.” She walked out of the room without looking back.

Ivan dropped his head into his hands as he realized how little he knew about his own parents. He'd never had the chance to know them as an adult, but he found it hard not to judge a man who might have given his wife's jewelry to an actress. Unless Vera was lying.

* * *

Alecia stared glumly into her wardrobe. The day before had been such a busy, flustering one, with Sybil dragging Alecia in her wake all afternoon as she searched for the perfect dress to wear to her first meeting for the play
Anna Christie.
Sybil had returned from her hair appointment positively buzzing with ideas for a tawdry, modern dress, something that made sense for a prostitute to wear.