Steven had snatched it all up for less than a thousand pounds five years ago, and had since turned it into the most exclusive hotel in London. Hell, the address alone, close to Westminster, was worth every penny. The evidence of this was increasingly clear now with the reconstruction of the nearby palace almost fully completed. Already, the House of Lords had inaugurated their new chambers. Within the next year or two, Steven expected the House of Commons to move back into the building as well.
And every politician required a practical place to stay while Parliament was in session. Especially these days, when being burdened by a pricey London mansion was more of a curse than a blessing. Such buildings were getting harder and harder to keep, the staff more expensive to pay. By contrast, a few months’ stay at the Imperial could be had for a pittance. And those who chose this avenue had the benefit of securing an added income by renting out the pile of bricks they’d inherited or, if it weren’t entailed, selling it to someone more willing and able to cover the increasing taxes.
Pleased with the result of his vision and the impressive income the hotel provided, Steven admired the craftsmanship of the pillars he’d ordered. There were four in total, all Greek in style and painted white with thin lines of gold leaf here and there for an understated hint of luxury. Oil lamps placed on each table offered perfect lighting. Taller stand-alone lanterns stood throughout the room, spreading a warm glow so diners could read their menus and see what they had been served without squinting.
Set within niches lining the walls were a collection of statues and figurines Steven had purchased from an antique shop south of the Thames. The owner had told him they came from various landed estates, that they were crafted by this and that artist and, most importantly, that they were genuine. Steven hadn’t cared. He’d just liked the way they would complement the Grecian theme he’d elected for the hotel.
Music played by a trio of excellent violinists drifted through the room with languid ease. Satisfaction and pride filled Steven’s veins. When he’d told his brothers of his plan Edward, the eldest, now the Earl of Lakewood since their father’s passing, had been excited and offered encouragement. Their middle brother Nigel, on the other hand, was more competitive in nature and consequently less ready to cheer Steven on. Which was why Steven had invited him to visit. Hopefully, by seeing the hotel’s success, Nigel would be inspired to pursue his own dreams, whatever they might be.
A lady’s voice, dripping with clear displeasure, drew Steven’s attention. Frowning, he searched the room and spotted her quickly enough on account of the knife she was waving about. She gestured toward her plate and spoke as if in disgust. Not good.
Intent on figuring out what the problem might be and offering her a solution with which she’d be pleased, he started forward, reaching her a second after Mr. Greene, who’d apparently also realized there was an issue.
“Madam,” Mr. Greene was saying, while bowing toward her. “May I be of assistance?”
The lady glared at him. “There’s a hair in the gravy.”
Steven leaned in for a better look, peering down at the woman’s plate over Mr. Greene’s shoulder. His jaw tightened at the sight he beheld, of a long golden strand resting on top of the sauce.
Straightening, he snapped his fingers to draw a waiter’s attention. “Please remove this plate and have a fresh one brought in its stead. Mr. Greene, if you would be so kind as to bring me a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, I’d appreciate it.” To the lady and gentleman seated at the table he said, “Please accept my sincerest apologies. Your dinner is naturally on the house.”
They responded with disgruntled expressions but gave their thanks in the end. The waiter Steven had beckoned swept in to whisk the offensive plate away while Mr. Greene brought the bottle Steven requested. Glasses were filled and the champagne served. The lady and gentleman took their first sips and smiled with pleasure while Steven breathed a sigh of relief.
“I believe I know who caused this,” Mr. Greene told him moments later when they’d moved away to one side.
Steven stared back while doing his best to tamp down the anger he harbored toward the careless servant who’d just put his business at risk. “Bring the culprit to my office immediately. I’d like to look them straight in the eye when I sack them.”
3
Calista followed Mr. Greene on shaky legs. He’d said enough for her to know a serious set down was imminent, though he’d not revealed the reason for it. Not that it mattered. During her time here she’d grown accustomed to being the scapegoat for everyone else’s mistakes and malicious attempts to undermine her. Whenever something went wrong, fingers immediately pointed in her direction. And if one day went by without incident, a problem would quickly be orchestrated.
From what she gathered, watching her struggle against opposition was a sport of sorts. If she were to guess, some of the servants even placed bets on how long she’d last and what it would take to make her quit.
She refused to give them the satisfaction, though it did surprise her that Mr. Greene kept her on. After all, her record, albeit a tampered one, proved her to be incompetent, lazy, and daft. The only explanation she could see for her continued state of employment was that her presence was somehow to Mr. Greene’s advantage. Or perhaps dismissing a servant wasn’t up to him?
They finished climbing the servants’ stairs and exited into a beautiful hallway. The floor was made from polished white marble. Gilded chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and exquisite art adorned the walls. She recognized what looked to be a Rembrandt since it bore the same style as some of the paintings she’d once seen in an exhibit at the New York Historical Society Museum. Passing the portrait, which depicted a regal-looking lady and maid, Calista felt again her steep decline in position.
Two months ago she’d been dressed in fine linens and silks. She’d slept in a comfortable bed in a bedchamber three times the size of the Imperial’s pantry. Now, she wore the serviceable dress Mr. Greene had ordered her to put on when he’d employed her, and practically slept on the floor for all the difference the hard pallet made. If she’d travelled to London with her family, the experience would have been so very different. Instead of a scullery maid, she’d have been a guest.
Regret filled her on that thought, despite the fact that she’d done what she’d believed necessary at the time. And even though she’d left New York without her parents’ knowledge, she’d written a note to reassure them of her wellbeing. She hadn’t wanted them to worry when they found her gone. Inhaling deeply, she tried not to think of how they’d react if they ever learned what had happened to her. They’d be scandalized and appalled, not to mention embarrassed beyond belief.
“Need I remind you not to speak unless Mr. Donahue poses a direct question?” Mr. Greene asked when they arrived at the end of the hallway. He peered down his nose at her with blatant disdain.
“No.” Calista saw no point in attempting to win sympathy from anyone here. In all likelihood, the Imperial’s owner would be as cruel, haughty, and despicable as his staff. To try and gain compassion from him would be a futile endeavor for which she lacked the energy.
“Straighten yourself then and show some respect,” Mr. Greene chastised as he gave the door a succession of raps.