“Mr. Tschirky sent us for to draw bath on Miss Randolph,” the blonde—?an older girl with light blue eyes and sturdy, Nordic bone structure—?said. “It is through door there. All inside plumbing at Waldorf, miss. Water comes hot as summer day straight from pipes. We scrub back and wash hair.”
Phoebe groaned, though I saw her features lighten just a bit. “Thank you. But Miss Randolph won’t need you at the moment. Take a break. But please show the dressmaker up the moment she arrives, aye?”
The smaller, mousy one bobbed again and skirted out. The blonde nodded, though she cut an uneasy glance my way. “You are to be bathing the mistress yourself, then?”
“Aye. I’ll manage.” After practically closing the door in the girl’s face, my friend plopped down next to me.
“Aw, Phee,” I said. “That’s so sweet of you. I mean, a bath sounds awesome right about now.” I flashed a wicked smile. “Remember, I’m allergic to lavender. And hey, can I see a loofah menu before you bathe me?”
“You,” she shot back, fighting a grin, “can go bathe my fat butt.”
Doug gave a low whistle as he turned from the fire. “Now that is something I’d like to see.”
“Douglas Eugene Carlyle,” Mac snapped.
“Jesus, man,” Collum groaned. “That’s my sister.”
Doug and Phoebe locked eyes. Phoebe stood and marched over to him. For a moment, no one breathed.
Finally, she shook her head. “You just keep dreamin’, big boy,” she said, jumping up to wrap her arms around his neck, practically strangling him. “You just keep right on dreamin’.”
Behind the round wire-framed glasses Doug’s brown eyes closed as his arms came around her and held her close. His voice very quiet in the silence of the room, he said, “I never stop dreaming of you, mo chridhe.”
Collum’s tawny eyebrows shot up at the pair’s first real exchange in nearly a week. The back of my throat ached as I recalled Mac calling out the same Gaelic endearment to Moira in the cavern.
Mo chridhe. My heart.
Chapter 20
WE BENT THE RULES, OF COURSE. SHORTLY AFTER OSCAR’S DEPARTURE, men in red jackets had shown up to whisk away ten of the rosewood dining table’s twelve chairs, and to set two places with more crystal, china, and silver than I’d ever seen in my entire life. Collectively.
A stream of tuxedo-clad waiters wheeled in carts laden with trays. Wisps of steam escaped from the sides of their embellished silver domes, filing the air with a delicious mélange of scents. Bread and meat, fish and cream and berry-laden sauces. As the smells coalesced, my stomach gurgled. I thought the head waiter would blow a gasket when Mac bustled the whole lot of them out the door, insisting, “Thank you, but the lady and I prefer to serve ourselves.”
“I never,” we heard one of them mutter as Mac shut the door behind him. “Most irregular,” argued another.
We pulled up random chairs, split out the dishes and silver, and attacked. I bit into a roll, watching Collum slurp down a thin, brownish soup from a silver tureen.
“You, uh, know that’s turtle, right?”
He looked up, heavy spoon halfway to his mouth. “Pardon?”
My mouth curved up. “I just had no idea you were so into turtle soup. It’s one of this era’s most popular delicacies.”
Steam wreathed Collum’s broad face as he glanced down into the murky liquid. Bits of greenish meat floated to the surface. Phoebe snorted and Doug wiped his grin away with a napkin as Collum pushed the bowl aside.
I dug into a creamy, earthy mushroom soup, followed by tiny soft-shell crabs sautéed in drawn butter. We all oohed and aahed over beef tenderloins in a red wine sauce that disintegrated in our mouths. Phoebe was entranced by a cold, gel-like meat dish that quivered when she poked it with a fork. By the time delicate slices of almond cake went around, I could barely pick at it.
As Mac rang for the servants to clear, we disguised the evidence of our diverse dining group. In moments the scraps were scuttled away, and we had a new visitor.
Oscar was, at the least, a man of his word. And obviously influential. Soon I found myself standing on a low table in the elaborate, over-decorated Francis I bedroom that was the mistress’s chamber, being fitted for a new wardrobe. I longed to skip the whole dress thing, but thanks to the cattle, my only options were the tattered, filthy traveling gown I was currently wearing, or nothing.
Madame Belisle—?forties, waspish, and supremely arrogant—?glanced up from a kneeling position, a pained expression souring her narrow face.
“Non,” she spluttered, after forcing me to strip down to corset and bloomers. Wasting no time on pleasantries, she rounded on one of her cowed assistants. “You see? Thick through ze waist. And ze bosom is nonexistent. Tighten that corset at once!”
Thick through the . . . Oh, you can just bite me.
Phoebe snorted behind her hand. Of course, she’d had it easy. When I’d insisted that my lady’s maid would be accompanying me to every event, Madame Belisle had muttered in French and absolutely refused to have anything to do with the “peasantry.” The poor overburdened assistant had done a quick—?and poke-free—?job of taking Phoebe’s measurements, leaving me to glare at everyone and dream up ways to murder Madame Snarly.
Still no word from Bran, though I’d yanked on the bell pull marked CONCIERGE three times in the past hour. The last time, there was no mistaking the irritation in the bellhop’s breathless “And once again, miss. There are no messages.”
I was starting to worry. Bran had promised to meet up with us as soon as he could. At the very least, he would have arranged to leave a message at the front desk.
Where the hell are you?
I twitched as an image of Gabriella de Roca popped up in my head like an oil-slicked bubble from grimy bath water. I was promptly rewarded with a pin jab to the left thigh.
An hour later, the fashion nazi and her browbeaten team were being bundled out with an order for two more gowns to be delivered on the morrow. More than anything I wanted to give the hateful snob a swift kick in the rear on her way out. But the truth was, you couldn’t argue with results. Aside from the promised ball gown, underthings, and a variety of travel wear, I’d been left with a quick-fitted, velvet day gown in shades of teal, with muted silver piping that Phoebe couldn’t quit cooing over.
The last of the lunch crowd having filtered in and out downstairs, Collum rejoined us in the suite for one of his tiresome Just-because-Mac-is-here-doesn’t-mean-I’m-not-still-in-charge-of-you-two speeches. Scrubbing his face with a thick white towel, he laid down the orders.
“No sign of Carlyle or Tesla yet. Mac sent Doug to stake out the front of the hotel, since none of the people Celia would’ve sent know his face. He’ll watch from across the street, and keep an eye out for anyone suspicious looking. I’m joining Mac at the lab and from there, we’ll hit up a few more places the absent professor’s known to frequent. Phoebe, you should already be down in the servants’ area. If you two are done playing dress-up—”