Chapter One Hundred and Six
Voot followed the duchess’s footman down the corridor. The duchess, he’d been told, wished to complain about some aspect of the service in the establishment; it could be anything, Voot realised, as there was little left to break down which had not already broken. He hadn’t seen much of her, about the hotel, but figured she either preferred to avoid the hoi polloi, or else desired to cultivate an air of mystery, despite all the evidence that nobody cared.
The footman showed him into her room, then tactfully withdrew. And there she stood: in her early fifties, he guessed, though a lifetime of expensive lotions might have meant she was older. Tall—a foot taller than he—plump—from the grandest delicacies served without stint, but not fat, which she would have been had the blood which flowed through her veins been of a less aristocratic variety—and small-breasted, an attribute her dresses were tailored to put to the maximum advantage. Beneath the hair dye, and under the makeup, he intuited a beauty, a natural beauty, of which she herself seemed, he felt for some reason, unaware.
“Well? Why are you staring at me like that? Have you heard what I said?”
He bowed, although it was not required for a duchess, but his experience had taught him it was better to err on the side of obsequiousness.
“Forgive me, madame, but I was entranced by your beauty.”
“Don’t be an idiot. I asked you if you knew there were mice running about the place.”
“It would not surprise me to hear it, madame. To speak frankly, I am surprised they have not launched an insurrection, slaughtered us all and seized control of the hotel.”
She chuckled. “I like you, Herr Direktor.”
“I thank you, your highness.” He bowed again; it could only help. “I humbly beg you to inform me if there is any action I can take to increase your enjoyment during your stay.”
“Very good—join me for a drink here this evening.”
“Madame?”
“At eleven, on the dot. You heard me. Now go.”