When the Walls Fell (7 page)

The sound of his own voice woke him from the dream.

Simon opened his eyes and in an instant the warmth in his chest cooled. Long before he summoned the courage to turn his head, he knew she wouldn’t be there. Even knowing the truth, he couldn’t stop himself from looking.

Closing his eyes he fought the discontinuity, trying to find some foothold on a dream lost in the morning sun. Nightmares had haunted him for years, but in the end, dreams were proving to be far crueler.

Ignoring the unease he felt at the unfamiliar room, Simon tossed the sheet aside. Dreams and nightmares might taunt him at night, but in the day, reality was his to shape.

Simon headed for the bathroom and prayed there was a shower. He would settle for a bath if need be, but they always reminded him of being a child. Very few of his childhood memories were pleasant.

He opened the heavy paneled door from his bedroom suite and turned up the flame on the gas lamp. The concierge had assured him that the Palace had every amenity and he hadn’t exaggerated. The bath was as well-appointed as the rest of his suite, although, he could do without the bidet. Leave it to the French.

Dark mahogany-paneled wainscoting covered the walls from trellised light wood ceiling to the mosaic tile floor. A brass framework of pipes that looked more like some medieval torture device than a shower wrapped itself around the inside of the standing shower enclosure. His grandfather’s estate in Sussex had a similar contraption and as a boy he used to pretend it was the exposed ribcage of a vanquished giant. Of course, that was when monsters had no life outside of books and stories, when turning the page had kept him safe.

How time changes things, Simon thought as he carefully turned on the taps. Cool water sprang out in thin arching streams from a series of holes in each of the pipes. After some adjustment, the temperature was tolerable and he stepped inside.

After his shower, Simon wrapped a large bath towel about his waist. At least now, he felt marginally prepared to meet the day. He wiped the steam off the mirror and ran a hand over his stubbled chin. Hardly an appropriate look for entering society, but he hadn’t brought his shaving kit, or a change of underwear for that matter. His mood soured distinctly.

Rubbing a towel over his damp hair, Simon walked back into his bedroom. Glaring down at his day olds, he heard a muffled knock coming from the front door. Hoping it was the tea he’d arranged for the night before, he headed for the main parlor.

The bedroom suite gave way to a long hall connecting to the parlor. Knuckles rapped smartly on the front door again. Simon draped the towel around his neck, quickly put on the hotel’s complimentary dressing gown and yanked open the door.

A young steward swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple nearly jumped out of his throat.

Simon waited, but nothing but a squeak emerged from the young man. “My tea?”

“I’m sorry sir. I’ll see about the tea, but the tailor you requested is here.”

The young man nervously stepped aside and an obsequious little man popped into view. Adjusting the tape measurer draped around his neck and pushing his black spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose, he smiled too broadly. “Anton Brandise, at your service Sir Simon,” he said with a bow, as his eyes took in Simon in an appreciative sweep.

Simon gripped the edges of the towel around his neck and glared at the little man. When their eyes met, a blush stole over Mr. Brandise’s face and he quickly averted his eyes.

Mr. Brandise cleared his throat then clapped his hands. “My trunk, boy.”

The steward wheeled a large trunk to the door, but Simon blocked his path. “Sir?”

For a moment, Simon considered turning them away, but the unpleasant prospect of having his inseam measured by Mr. Brandise was ultimately outweighed by necessity. Simon stepped out of the way and the steward wheeled the heavy trunk into the room, setting it down with a thud.

“Be careful with that, boy!” Mr. Brandise barked then turned to Simon, his eyes drifting over Simon’s chest again. “So hard to find good help these days, isn’t it?”

Simon stared down at the tailor in disapproval and a not so subtle reminder of who was working for whom. “Isn’t it?”

The steward beat a hasty retreat and closed the door behind him.

Mr. Brandise opened his trunk to reveal a full compliment of clothing and accessories. “I’m sure you’ll find Brandise and Merchant has the best gentlemen’s wares in the city. Perhaps something in the way of hounds-tooth?”

“I’ll need four pairs of trousers to start,” Simon said, not wanting this to take any more time than was absolutely necessary. “Striped worsted or cashmere. Black, dark brown or steel grey. Matching cutaway coats suitable for morning, business and day. Pinstripes no larger than an eighth of an inch. One suit, preferably black, for informal evening wear. And a complete formal arrangement including top hat. With all necessary accessories—waistcoats, cravats, collars, cuffs. And no hounds-tooth. Do you think you can manage that, Mr. Brandise?”

The tailor took out his kerchief and wiped his brow. “Yes, of course. It will take some time though.”

“Time is something I don’t have Mr. Brandise. If you can accommodate me by this time tomorrow you’ll be well recompensed. If not, our business is finished.”

Stuffing his kerchief back into his pocket he bowed his head. “I’m sure we can accommodate your needs.”

“Very good. Now unless you plan on measuring me from there I suggest you produce suitable undergarments for me to wear as soon as possible.”

***

The big blob of strawberry jam landed smack dab on Enrico Caruso. No wonder Simon had always insisted on spreading the jam for her when they had breakfast in bed. She was a stain waiting to happen. Thankfully, this morning’s disaster had been narrowly averted thanks to Mr. Caruso and the newspaper. His scheduled appearance at the Grand Opera House was the most anticipated event of the season. It would bring the house down all right. His debut performance was the night before the earthquake. Elizabeth tried to put that thought out of her head and quickly wiped the smear off Enrico. Luckily, Mrs. Eldridge didn’t notice.

Breakfast was an elegant affair: Silver service trays, delicate china and plenty of wonderful food. Elizabeth had tried to eat, but her corset had other ideas. She’d barely managed to force some toast and tea down when she started to feel uncomfortably full. Maybe she could market the corset diet on QVC when she got back home. First though, she had to save the world, or at least her part of it.

“Don’t like my eggs?”

Elizabeth jumped at the voice. Gerald, Mrs. Eldridge’s butler, was standing behind her. His natural expression was just this side of surly.

He was definitely not what Elizabeth had been expecting. She’d always envisioned butlers and valets as Jeevesy, expressionless automatons. Gerald was anything but that.

She guessed he was in his mid-fifties. It was hard to tell. His face was craggy with more than age. Despite his age and a slight limp, he was a powerful, raw sort of presence. His brick red hair grew off his head in angry waves. Bits of gray around the temples softened the overall effect, but with broad shoulders and at just over six feet tall, he cut an imposing figure.

His relationship with Mrs. Eldridge was another surprise. She was the boss, there was no doubt about that; she was everyone’s boss. But their relationship was more than that. There was an ease with each other and a mutual admiration that she was sure wasn’t typical for mistress and servant.

Gerald nodded his head toward her plate.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I was just—” Elizabeth said and quickly shoveled a forkful of cold scrambled eggs into her mouth. Gerald watched her without expression. Elizabeth smiled gamely as she forced down the rubbery bits. “Good.”

Gerald’s hard face cracked into a smile and he laughed. It was a deep, scratchy rumble and Elizabeth liked him immediately for it.

“Gerald,” Mrs. Eldridge chided.

“Just testing, Lillian,” he said. “Nice to a fault, this one.”

“Is cook ill again?” Mrs. Eldridge asked.

Gerald picked up Elizabeth’s plate and gave her a quick wink. “Probably ate some of her own cooking.”

“Or yours,” Mrs. Eldridge said going back to the paperwork she’d been doing.

“Cook should be back this afternoon.”

Mrs. Eldridge peered up from her papers, looking over her glasses. She smiled slyly. “Thank you, Gerald.”

Gerald gave her a small bow and left.

“He’s a wonderful butler and a dear friend, but a horrible cook,” she confided after he’d left. She took off her glasses and studied Elizabeth intently. “Now, as to your search for Mr. Graham. I think I might be able to help you on that count.”

“It could be dangerous. I don’t want you involved any more than you already are.”

“Aren’t you a dear? A few introductions,” Mrs. Eldridge said taking a sip of her tea. “What could be the harm in that?”

That sounded ominous, but before Elizabeth could ask what she meant, she heard loud voices out in the hall. The voices grew louder and the door opened with a flourish. Maxwell Alexander Harrington III swept in like Lawrence of Arabia, pulled off his driving goggles and dirty, cream colored topcoat and tossed them carelessly on a chair. “I’ll buy you new petunias, Aunt Lillian.”

Mrs. Eldridge, who didn’t seem the least surprised by his abrupt entrance, calmly walked to the window and peered out. “They’re begonias. And you certainly will.”

Maxwell raised his hands in submission when he noticed Elizabeth. “Well, hello again. So you weren’t a dream.”

Mrs. Eldridge sighed heavily, but Max ignored her. “Aren’t you going to introduce us? Really, Aunt Lillian. Where are your manners?”

“Elizabeth West, it’s my dubious pleasure to introduce my nephew, Maxwell. I believe he nearly ran you over yesterday.”

“An accident. A most fortuitous accident,” he said as he took Elizabeth’s hand.

He smelled like lavender and gasoline.

Mrs. Eldridge turned from the window. “And a developing theme.”

Max, still holding Elizabeth’s hand, took the seat next to her, one knee almost on the ground, the very picture of the earnest suitor. Maybe it was the lighting, but she could have sworn one of the honey colored flecks in his light brown eyes actually twinkled. It was all Elizabeth could do not to giggle.

“And what brings you to our fair city, Miss West? It is Miss, isn’t it?” he asked, flashing blindingly white teeth set off by his deep tan.

None of which she should be noticing. Even if her heart was in tiny little pieces, they belonged to Simon. She pulled her hand out of his grasp and smiled her best “genteel, but watch your boundaries” smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, running his fingers through his floppy blond hair. “I’m a bit of a fool when it comes to a beautiful woman.”

That remark won him a delicate snort from Mrs. Eldridge.

“Somehow I find that hard to believe,” Elizabeth said.

Mrs. Eldridge returned to her seat at the table. “Maxwell is quite the man about town.”

There was little doubt of that. He was ridiculously charming and painfully handsome, the sort who could jump over a tennis court net and somehow not look like a complete jackass.

“I wouldn’t go that far, Aunt Lillian. More tea?” he asked Elizabeth, holding up the pot.

The thought of another cup made her stomach gurgle in a most un-genteel way. Her eyeballs were already floating. “No, thank you. Five’s my limit.”

He laughed and set down the pot. “Oh, I do like her, Aunt Lillian.”

“Then make yourself useful,” Mrs. Eldridge said. “Get that…thing out of my flower bed and clean yourself up.”

“Yes, Aunt Lillian,” he said with a sigh.

“You’re taking Elizabeth out.”

“Yes, Aunt Lillian,” he said with much more enthusiasm.

Before Elizabeth could protest, Mrs. Eldridge continued. “Control yourself. She needs an introduction to Victor Graham. I believe you’re acquaintances. Do you think you can manage that without crashing into something?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said with a broad smile.

Elizabeth wasn’t sure this was the best idea. How was she ever going to get anything done with the Great Leslie glued to her side? Not that she really had much of a choice.