Page 82 of Bad Luck Bride

He didn’t seem to notice she’d gone stupidly mute. Instead, he turned away as if to resume walking, but when she took a step forward, he stopped her, stretching out his arm to block her path.

She inhaled sharply, the feel of his forearm against her tummy doing strange things to her insides as he leaned forward and peeked out of the alley.

“I think the coast is clear,” he said looking up and down the street. “I don’t see Dawlish anywhere. Or anyone else that looks like a reporter.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” she managed as his arm fell away.

“Where shall we go first?” he asked as they emerged from the alleyway.

She pulled the list out of her pocket. “I thought the Grenville first, since it is the closest.”

He gestured with a flourish. “Lead on.”

The Grenville Hotel was only a short walk along, a tidy little hotel in a quiet little side street, with whitewashed steps and a brightly polished brass plate proclaiming its name.

“It looks quite nice,” Kay commented, opening her handbag to rummage for the key. “Shall we go in?”

But instead of answering in the affirmative, Devlin was already shaking his head. He pulled the list from her hand, read the particulars the house agent had given her, and shook his head. “Not worth the bother,” he said and handed the sheet back to her.

“It seems a nice little hotel,” Kay remarked, looking it over. “Why are you against it?”

“It’s very close to the Mayfair. We don’t want them competing with each other.”

“But why did you agree to see it, then?”

“Well, if it turned out to be a bargain, it might be worth buying anyway. But given the small number of rooms and the very high asking price, it’s not a bargain. Where to now?”

She looked at her list and pointed in the direction of the Marble Arch. “The Marchmont Hotel. It’s in Marylebone, just aboveCavendish Square. So we’ll need a cab. A closed carriage is best, I think?”

He agreed. “Walking is one thing. After all, we might happen to be going in the same direction, but a carriage is different. The last thing we need is for someone we know to see us and report to the Dawlish woman that we were gallivanting around London together, unchaperoned.”

Fortunately, they were near Park Lane, where cabs were thick on the ground. He went off to fetch a growler, and twenty minutes later, they were standing in the courtyard of the Marchmont Hotel, an ancient five-story structure of crumbling red brick with uneven flagstones and weeds popping up between them. It didn’t look particularly enticing to Kay’s eyes, but as they paused on the sidewalk to study it, Devlin said, “This has possibilities.”

“It does?” She nudged a piece of broken flagstone with her shoe, dislodging it. “I have my doubts.”

He turned, making a sweeping gesture to their surroundings. “This is one of the most prosperous parts of London. Rich, professional men—bankers, industrialists, and the like—live and work around here.”

“Agreed. And?”

“It’s a good location for a quality hotel, but this building is for sale at quite a reasonable price.”

“That could mean it has bad drains and smells,” she pointed out.

“True. Best go in and have a look.”

She shoved the particulars sheet into her handbag and handed him the key. They crossed the courtyard, past an eroding stone fountain, and he unlocked the main entrance door.

They passed into an enormous lobby with a well-worn terrazzo stone floor, columns of dark purple mahogany, and a domed ceiling of leaded glass. Thankfully, it did not have the sulfurous odor that spoke of bad drains, but most of the ceiling’s glass panes were broken, and rain had got in, damaging the mahogany and staining the floor with the sooty London air.

“See?” he said. “I told you it had potential. The architectural lines are stunning.”

Kay eyed the broken ceiling. “I see what you mean, but won’t the dome cost the earth to repair?”

“That’s something we shall have to find out. I think it is worth an engineer’s report, provided the rooms are all right. Let’s have a look around.”

For the next two hours, she followed him through the offices, kitchens, and rooms of the hotel. Clipboard in hand, she scribbled notes, taking down every comment he made about the place, from its non-functioning lift to its surprisingly decent bathrooms, to its recently installed electricity. By the time they left the building, she had five pages of notes.

“How do you know so much?” she asked him as their cab took them toward St. James and the Woodville Hotel for their third viewing of the day. “About hotels, I mean.”

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