Hotel du Barry (14 page)

Jules Bartholomew, formerly known as Marcus O'Shannessy, proceeded in a stately manner along the corridor. In his breast pocket he carried a scented pink envelope addressed to Miss Caterina du Barry. Jules was too proud to ask for directions. Edwina's directive had been, ‘Take this to Caterina and wait for her answer.'

Unbelievable. What sort of mother dealt with her daughter in such a cold, formal way? Fuck, who gave a damn anyway? As long as Jules remained in the employ of the du Barry widow, it was none of his business. He congratulated himself on his good luck. Thank God her previous butler had shoved off, although no doubt Sebastian would already be regretting his move. Lord Harwood was known around London as being a real twat.

Mrs du Barry hadn't bothered checking his bogus references and Jules was now considered an experienced, trustworthy butler. Ha. The hotel was a damned good hideout. Jules was a lad who appreciated the finer things in life and the hotel was more than ample for his present needs. He just needed to lie low for a few months and then he could get the fuck out of Britain. It would be plain stupid to try to ship out the merchandise while the constabulary
had every bloody dock in the country under surveillance.
Patience, boyo, just hold your nerve until the time is right.
There were worse places to hole up in than the Hotel du Barry. Also, there was no way those double-crossing bastards would ever think of looking for him here.
I should never have trusted those shifty fuckers in the first place
.

It was his first day on the job. Jules tried to ignore the luxury items surrounding him but his professional instincts were aroused. Those lamp fittings alone would fetch a pretty penny down on the docks – solid copper and crystal embellished with gold leaf. Choice indeed. He also could not help but notice that all the hotel rooms had pickable locks.
Unbelievable. Nine floors of loot just sitting there waiting to be fenced.

He smirked at the potential ease of making such a haul as he strolled along the corridor. Just as well he'd given up petty theft. From now on it was only going to be the big-time art stuff. Jules had finally worked out why so many lads in juvenile detention were dead keen on art history classes. For how else would those future art thieves know what was worth stealing? Or more importantly, how to identify the Old Masters that could only be safely sold to private collectors. You couldn't flog the famous stuff that every man and his dog had seen at the Tate, Prado or Louvre. But you could offload it onto those rich, cunning society geezers who hid their stolen booty away from prying eyes. Mind you, there was something sick about those fuckers keeping great art all to themselves. You wouldn't even be able to show it to your chums in case they blabbed.
Bloody hell, where is the girl's studio?

Jules heard someone cough behind him and nearly jumped out of his skin. But he managed to turn around slowly, consciously signalling a relaxed demeanour. Instinctively his right hand curved for the security of his pistol, then he remembered it was hidden under the floorboards in his attic bedroom. So Jules kept his hands firmly in his pockets; paranoia had a smell and the last thing Jules wanted was to appear as a cove with a shady past.

He found himself eyeball to eyeball with a big, brown bear.

Jim flashed his gleaming incisors and enquired, ‘Can I help you, Sir?'

‘I'm looking for Caterina du Barry's studio.'

Jim's eyes narrowed. He took in Jules's dapper attire and the highly polished shoes. So this must be Edwina's new butler, the one she'd selected without consulting the managers responsible for the hiring and firing of staff. Jim's gut feeling was that this lad had to be a career criminal of the first water. Look at the way the fucker was bouncing on his toes, no doubt looking for the nearest exit. His efforts to appear relaxed made him look half asleep.

Jules stared back. This giant had to be the hotel dick; his extreme courtesy and feigned humility stuck out like a mongrel's balls. They didn't usually make them this smart. One false move and Jules could well find himself nailed to the carpet with a boot in his face. They assessed each other briefly then both backed down. Jim sensed that the new employee was dodgy but he didn't have the demeanour of a hardened killer. However, in a place like the Hotel du Barry, it was crucial to learn the dance steps of a potential adversary. It paid to keep things polite. So Jim extended his hand and said, ‘Jim Blade, hotel detective. You must be Madam's new butler.'

Jules reached forward and clasped the detective's hand in a firm grip. Firm enough to be assertive but not hard enough to seem aggressively polite. ‘Yes. I'm Julian Bartholomew, but I'm usually called Jules. Pleased to meet you.'

Jim released Julian's hand and cracked his big knuckles. ‘Try the top floor, Cat's studio is the last door on the right. I'll be seeing you around. By the way, Jules, you might like to pop down to the boiler room at midnight. Poker party. Strictly cash only.'

‘That would be grand. See you then, Jim.'

Jules took the stairs two at a time, then crept along the corridor and stood outside the studio. From habit he put his ear to the door
and listened to the voices within. He heard girly chitty-chat and the distinctive sound of quality porcelain being rearranged. They were probably having afternoon tea. He estimated there were about four or five females within. Jules heard one of them squeal, ‘Oh, Mrs Brown, you is having us on!'

‘I'm afraid not, Belinda. Gentlemen have a marked preference for girls who speak nicely. And you'd do well to cut out the blasphemy and swearing. At least in public.'

‘Gimme a break. Most blokes couldn't give a toss if their squeeze can even string sentences together. Where I come from, men only ever think about food, darts, football, lager and cunt.'

There was an outraged chorus of, ‘Ohhhhh, Belinda!'

Jules shuddered. He'd always wondered what women talked about when they were on their own. Now he just wanted to block his ears. There was nothing to be gained from further eavesdropping, so he knocked loudly. Silence, then the door was partially opened by a buxom young woman wearing a maid's uniform. She had somehow managed to turn a conservative black and white hotel uniform into a costume from a French farce. Even her tiny frilly apron stated quite clearly that she was up for it.

Belinda surveyed him with blatant interest. She took in his expensive Italian shoes and worked her way up the sharp creases of his grey pinstripe trousers. Her eyes caressed his broad chest and briefly admired his glossy, closely cropped black hair. His dark eyes appeared to be sleepy but she knew the cogs of his mind were working overtime. In short, he was extremely mattressable.

She languidly adjusted her starched white cap. ‘Can I help you, Sir?'

‘I have a message for Caterina du Barry, from her mother.'

‘Her mother? Oh, you mean Mrs du Barry.'

‘Yes, I'm the new butler.'

‘I see. Well, come on in.'

Belinda didn't move out of the way, so he was forced to squeeze past just to get in the door, inadvertently copping a feel of her buxom bosom. She winked and Jules went red.
Bloody hell. Should I apologise? No point. She set me up and now she's laughing at me. The du Barry maids are a special breed. I'm really going to have to watch myself.

As Jules stepped into the studio he found another three pairs of eyes checking him out. He respectfully focused his attention on the most mature woman present. A formidable piece with well-upholstered breasts, flawless skin and midnight blue-black hair. On any other woman her age, the dyed hair would have signalled mutton dressed as lamb but she managed to pull it off. She had style, poise and elegance and was the type of classy dame he'd always admired in Paris.

‘Ma'am, I have a message for Caterina du Barry and have been told to wait for an answer.'

Bertha gave him the once-over. ‘And your name, young man?'

‘Julian Bartholomew.'

‘I'm Mrs Brown, head housekeeper. And this is Belinda, Susie and Mavis.'

The girls giggled. Mrs Brown gave them a stern look and they instantly sobered.

Jules swallowed hard and checked the knot of his tie. ‘Pleased to meet you all.'

Bertha smiled knowingly. Jules sensed he'd been weighed and assessed and that Mrs Brown had already rumbled to the fact that he was using a false name. She'd probably picked up on the faint remnants of his Irish accent. One perfectly plucked, raised eyebrow indicated that Madam was amused and she'd chosen to reserve her judgement for the time being. Jules tensed up.
Fuck me, these ladies really know how to cut a cocky lad down to size.

Bertha kept her eyes on him and said over her shoulder, ‘Cat, it's for you. It's Mr Julian Bartholomew, the new butler.'

A girl, probably about sixteen or seventeen years old, stepped out from behind a large easel. She walked towards him with long lean strides, holding a paintbrush. He tried not to gape. Her blonde hair was piled randomly on the top of her head, accentuating the most extraordinary violet eyes. Her gaze rested on him with polite interest. She was wearing men's trousers cinched tight with a wide belt and her chin was smeared with oil paint. Caterina's face was sad and there were dark rings under her eyes.
She's probably still grieving for her dad.
Cat smiled diffidently as she wiped her hands down the front of the trousers.
And she doesn't even know how goddamn beautiful she is.

Cat moved closer to him. She wasn't much shorter than his height of six foot two and she smelt fantastic. Jules inhaled her scent and his head spun. She was all peaches and vanilla with just a hint of oriental musk. A wave of pure lust swept over him; he was drowning in his own desire. For once his silver tongue failed him. Fortunately Cat was concentrating on savagely ripping open the pink envelope and reading the note. A frown creased her lovely face. The other women chatted away quietly but he knew they were still checking him out.

Jules assumed an urbane, detached manner. Humble and self-effacing was not the way he'd been playing it. When he'd practised facial expressions in the mirror, he'd settled on a faintly superior gaze with undercurrents of good humour. After all, the only definitive information he could find on butlers had been in P.G. Wodehouse's short stories. Initially, he'd adopted the personality of Wodehouse's butler, the formidable Jeeves, but found it far too constricting and stuffy. Jules had finally settled on an air of fearless British efficiency, overlaid with a don't-fuck-with-me attitude. This had come in handy that morning, when he'd ironed the pages of
The Times
and then fronted the chemist to buy Mrs du Barry's feminine hygiene products.

Cat screwed up the note and tossed it away. ‘Please tell Mrs du Barry I'll be there at four. As requested.'

Jules nodded sagely and somehow managed to extricate himself from the room. In the corridor he walked a few paces, fell back against the wall, loosened his tie and lit a cigarette. He could still smell Cat and when he closed his eyes all he could see behind his lids was the colour violet.

The Hotel du Barry's Toucan Court was always busy at four in the afternoon. Moneyed matrons reclined among the potted palms and nibbled on dainty cucumber sandwiches before devouring teacakes and scones with jam and clotted cream. They also decimated dozens of pastries, Victoria sponges and fruit cakes. After an exhausting day of hunting and gathering, they were desperate to slip their shoes off and rest their weary feet on the cool marble. Maurie du Barry certainly knew what he was doing when he'd insisted that all the Toucan Court tables should be covered with long white tablecloths reaching to the floor.

The women felt soothed as they wriggled their bare toes and listened to the piano player tinkling out Cole Porter tunes. They inhaled the delicate aroma of Earl Grey tea from the finest of china and shovelled up cake with elegant silver cake forks. Those who'd resisted the lure of the cake trolley chain-smoked to suppress their appetites. Linen napkins daintily dabbed away lipstick before sliding off laps. Waiters were constantly retrieving lost napkins since no lady would ever think of stooping to such a menial task.

Henri Dupont stood watching the clientele and said to the maître d', ‘If a fire broke out here, these bloody women would refuse to surrender their cake forks. They'd sit there whining about the service. Expecting the firemen to bring them more hot water for their Lapsang Souchong tea.'

Edwina perused Toucan Court and checked her watch. Caterina was already two minutes late. If the girl didn't turn up, she'd cancel the Lapsang Souchong tea and order a martini. To hell with afternoon tea. As rightful custodian of the du Barry empire she could now do what she damn well pleased.

She glanced up and was startled to see that Cat had arrived and was pulling out a chair. It was disconcerting that the girl could move so quietly. Cat had dumped her paint-splattered trousers in favour of white trousers and a striped top. She'd tied a red gypsy-style scarf around her head and wore a lot of clanking costume jewellery.

Edwina sighed. ‘Ah, so I see you've decided to arrive at last. You're three minutes late. Why on earth you couldn't have worn a feminine frock is beyond me. With a wardrobe like yours, you choose to dress like a peasant.'

‘And a good afternoon to you too, Edwina.'

They eyed each other across the floral display and an uncomfortable silence lasted until the waiter placed a teapot and a plate of sandwiches on the table. Cat knew him as a fellow student at Slade. He said cheerily, ‘Cat, I love what you're doing for the Turner commission. Professor Smith gave me a sneak peek. I'm in awe of your technical mastery.'

She mimicked the voice of an upper-crust society hostess. ‘You're too kind, Tim darling.'

The two of them sniggered.