If I Had You (6 page)

Could she have offered him a glimpse at his mysterious past? She spoke eagerly. “Richard said it was a gift from a Russian aristocrat. From when they toured Moscow in '13.”

Ivan's brow furrowed. “So much of her jewelry was lost. It is probably just a similar piece.”

She stroked a finger over the countertop, wishing she could smooth his brow. “Or she gave it to the Marvins. Was she a theater lover?”

Ivan scrubbed his face with his hands. “I don't know if she loved it any more than the next person.”

Alecia could feel his unease, palpable in the crowded shop. She changed the subject. “You are friends with the pawnshop owner? Does he live above this shop?”

“Yes, we've been friends for years. He has a nice flat elsewhere. Four rooms instead of two. He would be a good catch, if you want a Jewish widower old enough to be your father.”

Alecia opened her mouth but couldn't come up with anything clever to say. “I wasn't looking for a husband.”

He lifted one of those forbidding dark brows. “Girls like you tend to marry the first boy they kiss.”

“That would be you,” she pointed out. “But you don't want to marry me.”

He chuckled, his mood shifting. “A wife would only keep me from my sleep.”

A
lecia couldn't figure Ivan out. Were all Russians so changeable? Unable to think of a response to his teasing, she just stood there in front of the pawnshop's counter like a statue, fuming. He wandered away from her, perusing the full shelves. The clerk had vanished. Her head swam a bit, both from hunger and from the exchange with Ivan.

Not interesting. Doesn't know how to talk to men.
She could hear her younger sister's voice in her head. How would she ever find a husband? But that wasn't why she'd come to London, was it? She wanted adventure, a taste of the flapper life, not a dreary life in East End poverty with the first boy she kissed, no matter how handsome. No matter how good a kisser.

Marriage could be an adventure, but there was no point in having a bad adventure, just for the sake of having one.

“Who are you arguing with?” Ivan asked, having circled back around to her.

“What do you mean?”

“You have a very intense expression on your face.”

“Oh. My sister. She's much more modern than I am. And prettier.”

“Older?” He took out a packet of Wrigley's chewing gum and offered her a piece.

She shook her head and watched him put a piece in his mouth, as elegant as if he were lighting a cigarette. “Younger.”

“Huh.”

“Where did you get the gum?”

“American who is staying on the fifth floor. Likes to tip with gum. I suppose he works for a candy company or something.” He grinned. “I'm developing a taste for the stuff.”

“I guess people can treat you however they like.” She paused. “At work, I mean.”

“Yes, but the uniform commands respect from most people.” He shrugged. “Anyway, you are quite pretty when you make an effort. I doubt your sister is more attractive, but if she is . . .” He made a fanning motion with his hand.

She dismissed his words. He didn't find her pretty, whatever he said. She'd seen how men treated girls they fancied, with care and consideration. Not dismissiveness. “Don't worry, she's safe in Bagshot.”

“One of you has to be sacrificed to the greater good?”

“I don't see it that way. Our grandmother is gone, and our mother. Grandfather is all we have.”

“What happened to your parents?”

“My father was an antiquarian bookseller. He took my mother out to Boston to see Charles Lauriat Jr., who was a famous bookstore owner. He had an old-book room at the store and lots of the stock came from English estates.”

Ivan leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Your father procured for him?”

“Yes, though Mr. Lauriat spent months each year in England himself. He kept doing business throughout the early days of the war, and nothing went wrong. The passenger steamers were supposed to be immune from attack.”

“But they weren't.”

“No. My mother had been ill and my father wanted her to rest. They chose a sea voyage. So they went to Boston, hand delivering some lovely sixteenth-century books, and then came back on the
Lusitania
with Mr. Lauriat.”

“They died in the submarine attack.”

He said it so flatly. She wondered what he'd seen when he fled Russia, to find spectacular deaths in a famous shipwreck so uninteresting. And she wondered why he had fled his homeland in the first place. “Yes. My grandmother's death was of the mundane variety. Pneumonia after a long bout of influenza.”

The curtain parted and Mr. Grinberg came out with an envelope for her. “The ticket is inside as well. Make sure you get her directly back to her employers, Ivan. It wouldn't do to lose her now.”

“I'll take good care of her,” Ivan said, straightening. He snapped his gum.

“Filthy habit.” Mr. Grinberg sighed to Alecia. “I quite despair of this boychick.”

“He thinks the brooch might have belonged to his mother,” she said.

Mr. Grinberg put both hands over his waistcoat. “He'll have to bring his sister in for a look. But you need to take that money to your employer, first.” He made a shooing motion. “Find a cab, Ivan.”

With a half smile, Ivan shook his head and went outside.

“I despair,” Mr. Grinberg repeated. “He should be fawning all over a pretty treat like you.”

“Such applesauce.” She smiled politely but without much warmth, as she would with a parishioner of her grandfather's that she didn't enjoy very much.

“If I had a living daughter, I would treat her like a princess, not set her loose on London in clothing like that,” Mr. Grinberg said softly. “Why are you so alone?”

“I'm making my way,” she replied. “But I've only just come here.”

“I hope to see you transformed when you retrieve the brooch,” he said.

“I hope to be transformed.” They nodded at each other.

In a crack between objects in the crowded window display, she saw a taxicab pull up next to Ivan. “That's me. Thank you, Mr. Grinberg.”

“You are welcome. I will see you back soon.”

“Hopefully in about three weeks,” she said. “After the command performance.”

“For Ovolensky?”

“Yes.”

He clucked his teeth. “A very bad man, that Ovolensky. A cousin of young Ivan's, did you know? But he is light. Ovolensky is dark.”

Alecia nodded as if she understood, but she knew nothing of the Russian diplomat. She went out the front door. Seagulls were circling overhead, cawing, a reminder of the river nearby.

Ivan held the door of the cab for her, like an experienced doorman, then climbed in himself. The Grand Russe had a black-skinned man from America as the doorman. He was much nicer than Ivan, always smiling and friendly. But he'd never tried to kiss her. Her shoulder touched Ivan's arm. She felt feminine and petite next to his large, masculine form, and longed for him to put his arm around her, though she knew he wouldn't. In a moment, the cab started down the road.

“Are you always going to be a secretary?” he asked abruptly, as if they'd already been having a conversation.

She couldn't decipher the reason for his question, so could only answer with the truth. “I don't know. I've only been one for two weeks, but it is better than nursing.”

“You don't want to live with your grandfather?”

He shifted, his arm rubbing against hers. She could smell tea on him, as if he'd rubbed leaves between his fingers. Also dust, as if the suit he wore did not leave his wardrobe often. She wondered if he would spark electricity with her again. Would the flirtatious Ivan return, or was he too intent on the secret of the brooch to pay attention to her? “Part of living with him involved secretarial work. I suppose I was his secretary. It's how I learned to use a typewriter. I typed up his sermons, handled his correspondence.”

Ivan continued to stare straight ahead. “Is he well-known?”

Alecia glanced out the window, trying to soak in London, though this poorer part didn't offer much of a view. Just soot-stained buildings and rain-soaked pavement and tired people in dark coats. Still, she wanted to see as many ladies as possible, so she would know what to buy when she had money for clothes. She suspected Sybil's taste was far too theatrical for the average person. “Well respected. Very conservative views.”

“That explains your dresses,” Ivan said.

“I haven't had time to do any London shopping,” she admitted. “I've worked every day.”

“You should have days off.” He finally looked at her, a bit sullen-looking due to that full lower lip. But strength was evident too, in the strong jaw.

She looked away from him. “I want to go to C&A, the department store. But Sybil is very demanding, and I don't like to put on airs, being so new, demanding a full afternoon off or such.”

“So you work seven days a week?”

“Because of my grandfather, they assume I want Sunday morning off to attend services. I have Saturday morning too. They are always hungover.”

“You don't like these hours.”

“My grandfather expects me to write home every week with commentary on the sermon I heard on Sunday. So I haven't a choice. But it doesn't feel like a proper half day, I'll tell you that.”

“No, it doesn't. And you should have a full day, at least one.”

She stared down at her gloves. “I'm happy as long as I can creep downstairs and listen to the music at night.”

His tongue touched his upper lip for a fraction of a second. “You go on a little holiday every evening?”

She smiled. “I suppose. I do love the music. I think my situation will change when the Marvins are working again, properly, in a theater. Right now they have too much time on their hands and we're really just trying to get to know each other.”

“At least, for your sake, theatrical people are late risers,” he mused.

“Yes, and I don't sleep well. It works in my favor.”

“Unless I'm specifically told not to allow anyone near the nightclub door, I won't trouble you,” he promised. “Now that I know what it means to you.”

“That's very kind,” she said. “Decent of you.”

“Until the rules change again,” he said. “I must do as I'm told. I can't be seen being flirtatious.”

“I would never ask you to risk your job for the sake of me listening to hot jazz,” she said. “Or flirting with me.”

His slight smile pronounced his cheekbones. “It's Friday. The club should be on fire tonight.”

She felt like they were flirting now. Bittersweet that he'd be cold to her again when they arrived. “Do you often work inside it?”

“No, New Year's was the only time. Did you enjoy dancing with Mr. Eyre?” His tongue darted out again.

“Not as much as Mrs. Marvin did,” Alecia said without thinking.

Ivan grinned. This close to him, it was hard not to stare, not to wish he would kiss her again.

The cab stopped with a jerk. She glanced out the window and was keenly disappointed with the sight she'd adored just two weeks ago. “Back to the hotel so soon? I hadn't realized.”

Ivan was already stepping out. He helped her down, then paid the driver.

“You shouldn't, you should take the taxicab back to your flat. You don't need to be here today.”

He hesitated. She could see he really didn't want to be at his workplace. He probably wanted to take his sister to see the brooch. “Take the taxicab, Ivan. Mr. Marvin gave me enough money for the fare.”

“Very well.” He nodded brusquely, lifted a hand to the doorman who had been hovering nearby, then climbed back in.

Through the window, she could see Ivan sitting very straight, as if he were uncomfortable. Mindful of the money she carried, she went through the hotel speedily, though she would have loved to dawdle at the dress shop, or even sit on the banquette seating arrangement across from the salon to watch the ladies as they exited with new hairstyles. Her own hair was a heavy, neatly tucked coil against her neck.

She asked the lift operator to take her to the fifth floor and was so focused on putting money into Richard's hands that she almost missed the elderly hand waving to her from behind the fern across from the lift door.

She recognized Mrs. Plash. When the old woman stepped out from behind the large plant, Alecia saw she held an old apron in a bundle.

“What do you have there?” she asked.

Mrs. Plash looked down, confused.

“Here, let me assist you,” Alecia said, moving to take the bundle. It rattled, its unwieldy burden shifting. She took it to the chair next to the lift door and unwrapped it. Crystal ashtrays, all with the distinctive GR logo in the middle.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Plash murmured.

“You have quite a collection here,” Alecia said. “Do you know where you found them?”

“Did you know a woman recently officiated at a wedding for the first time in London?” Mrs. Plash said, averting her gaze from the ashtrays. “A Miss Dorothy Haldane, in Bloomsbury. I'm not surprised, really. Bloomsbury, you understand.”

“Where did you hear that?” Alecia said, attempting to follow the conversation.

Mrs. Plash's gaze was vague, focused on her mind's eye. “
The Vote
, my dear. My daughter is a member of the Women's Freedom League.”

“Oh?”

“She believes in equality of morality,” Mrs. Plash said.

“I see,” Alecia said, assuming that was why the woman was unmarried and having an affair. “I do find that tidbit fascinating, but I did wonder about the ashtrays?”

“What ashtrays?” Mrs. Plash patted her arm. “You shouldn't smoke, dear. Makes wrinkles around the mouth. So unattractive.” She tottered down the hall to her room, Alecia and the apron of ashtrays quite forgotten.

Alecia hefted the apron, hoping Mrs. Plash wouldn't miss it later, and took the ashtrays to her room. Then she went into the sitting room. Mr. Eyre had gone but Richard sat at the table, drinking a cup of tea and reviewing
Macbeth
.

“I think you'll be pleased,” she said, handing him the pawnshop envelope.

He opened it with a grunt, and flipped through the banknotes. “You did well. Used to fleecing your flock, I suppose?”

“That was never my job, except at the annual bazaar,” she said.

“Hmm.” He regarded her with a speculative gleam.

She found it discomforting. “If you don't mind, I need to return something to the front desk. I found it in the hallway, but I wanted to get the money to you as soon as possible.”