4
This is outrageous!” Lord Synby flung down his napkin. “Deposits in advance? Simply outrageous!”
“I know, I know,” Delia murmured with the appropriate show of sympathy, spreading her hands in a helpless gesture. “But what can one do?”
“The members shall take our business elsewhere. The Bristol,” he added with injured dignity, “will be delighted to host the banquet for one of London’s most distinguished clubs without any nonsense.”
His reaction wasn’t a surprise to Delia, but she put on an expression of shock and dismay. “Oh, no! Dear Lord Synby, please don’t go to the Bristol. Surely we can work around this bagatelle.”
“Good woman, this is not a trifling matter. It’s an insult. I shall tell Ritz so.”
She bit her lip in apology. “I’m afraid Ritz is in Rome. And dear Mr. Echenard is on holiday. Lord Calderon is in charge while the two men are away.”
“Calderon? Lord Calderon, you say? Don’t know him.”
“No? Viscount Calderon. Fought in the Boer War, I understand, and saved a general.”
“Oh, that fellow.” Synby, the twelfth of the Synby earls and a descendent of Tudors, gave a disparaging snort. “And he’s running things?”
“For the moment. The Savoy has been so successful, and Ritz and Echenard so inundated—poor fellows—that the members of the board decided the two men needed help, so they have brought in Lord Calderon to assist.”
“A peer managing a hotel?” Synby sounded scandalized.
“Calderon is a member of the Savoy’s board of directors, you see, and the other members felt he could be of some assistance.”
“And he made this decision about the deposits? Well, what can you expect from a man whose title is as shiny as a new penny? It’s clear he doesn’t know the ropes.”
Delia took a bite of her baba au rhum and made a vague sound that might have been agreement with the earl’s point of view or merely a sigh of appreciation for Escoffier’s wonderful dessert.
“The Queen’s handing out titles like candy these days,” the earl went on, shaking his head. “It won’t do, Lady Stratham. Won’t do.”
“You’ve clearly given the matter more thought than I. In light of that,” she added, choosing her words with care, “perhaps you are just the person to offer Calderon a bit of guidance? If you were to take a hand…” She paused delicately and took another bite of her dessert as she let her idea sink in. “You would be able to explain things to him so well. A word or two from you, and I’m sure he’ll realize that these new rules are completely unnecessary for gentlemen such as the members of the Godwyn Club.”
“Hmm… perhaps, perhaps; but dash it, one shouldn’t have to explain this sort of thing.”
“I know,” she replied with feeling. “Believe me, I know. But there it is. More coffee?”
Synby waved aside their waiter, Henri, who had paused beside the table with a silver coffeepot. “I’ve no time to idle over luncheon, Lady Stratham. The banquet is less than a fortnight away, and this matter must be decided at once. Is Calderon anywhere about?”
“I believe he’s in his office. It’s just down the first corridor past the dining room. Shall we go together? That way, I can introduce you, then leave you gentlemen to talk things through. He’s an open-minded fellow,” she added, striving to keep a straight face as she put aside her napkin and stood up. “I’m sure you will easily make him see our point of view, and everything can be settled immediately, and no harm done.”
“Splendid idea, Lady Stratham,” the earl said as he rose to his feet. “Splendid.”
She ushered him out of the restaurant and led him to Calderon’s office. The viscount was in (a fact she had, of course, ascertained ahead of time), and was presently dictating letters to a short, sandy-haired young man. At the sight of her, Calderon stopped dictating and rose to his feet. “Lady Stratham.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said brightly as his secretary also stood up, “but there’s someone I felt you simply must meet.”
She pulled her companion through the doorway. “Lord Calderon, this is Lord Synby. And this is…” She paused, giving a pointed glance at the sandy-haired young man before returning her attention to his employer.
“My secretary, Mr. Ross,” Calderon supplied. “Ross, this is Lady Stratham, and… er… Lord Synby.”
“How do you do, Mr. Ross?” She beamed at him, holding out her hand. “Such a pleasure to see that the Savoy’s new policies allow the truly important people to have secretaries.”
She did not miss Calderon’s wry look as she shook hands with the young secretary, but she ignored it. “Lord Synby and I have just been discussing the upcoming banquet for the Godwyn Club. It seems there’s a bit of a muddle over the deposit requirement. Of course, I…” She paused, pressing a hand to her bosom and attempting to look the picture of wide-eyed innocence. “I, being a mere woman, know little of finance, so I felt the best thing was to bring Lord Synby to you, Lord Calderon. I’m sure you can explain the Savoy’s new policy far more effectively than I ever could. Now,” she added before Calderon could reply, “I simply must be off. I have a meeting with Lady Malvers about her widows and orphans luncheon, and the dear baroness is such a stickler for punctuality. Good afternoon, everyone.”
Giving all three men her brightest smile, she departed. Pausing in the doorway to her own office, she reached for her hat from the coat-tree, and as she put it on, the earl’s booming voice echoed from the office next door.
“Lady Stratham tells me the Savoy is requiring deposits now. Whose idiotic idea was that?”
Chuckling under her breath, Delia shoved in her hatpin, reached for her cloak, and left her office to break the bad news about deposits to Lady Malvers.
Lady Malvers was every bit as insulted by the prospect of paying money in advance as Lord Synby had been, and by the time Delia had departed from the Malverses’ sumptuous apartments in Park Lane, the baroness, like the earl, was complacently confident that a word or two in Calderon’s ear from a peer of the realm would straighten out the mess. She heartily approved Delia’s suggestion that Lord Malvers discuss the situation with Calderon directly, and she promised that the baron would be calling upon the viscount in very short order.
By the end of the following day, Lord Malvers had also expressed his displeasure with the new policies to Calderon, and had, like Lord Synby, vowed to take his business elsewhere. Delia might have been able to persuade them not to do so, of course, but as much as she hated to lose business to a competitor, she could see no other way to make Calderon see that his method of doing things was wrongheaded. No, he needed to be hit with the painful consequences of his decisions as quickly and decisively as possible. Faced with a slew of complaints, canceled parties, and lost revenue, he’d soon be forced to change course, and she consoled herself for the business lost by imagining the delicious moment when Calderon would be forced to eat some humble pie.
Lord Synby and Lord and Lady Malvers were not the only ones to abandon the Savoy. Within a few days, three more of her clients had moved their upcoming banquets and luncheons to rival establishments, just as she had predicted. She could only hope that Calderon saw sense in time for her to repair the damage before Ritz returned. The poor man had enough to concern himself with these days, and the last thing he needed was to come back and find his beloved Savoy in shambles and all his favorite customers in a rage.
A week after Lord Synby and the Godwyn Club’s departure for the Bristol, however, Delia discovered that not everyone was as willing as she to take the long and patient approach to the situation.
She was in her office, still wading through the pile of correspondence that had accumulated during her Paris trip, when she was interrupted by a torrent of angry French.
“It is insupportable, Madame. Insupportable!”
Delia looked up as Auguste Escoffier came striding into her office, and the look of fury on his face made her grimace. “What’s the trouble?” she asked, responding in the Frenchman’s native language, though she was sure she was going to regret the question.
“That I should suffer such insults, such treatment!” He ran a hand through his thinning silver hair and puffed out his chest, actions that made him look less like the world’s greatest chef and more like an agitated banty rooster. “That he and his minions should do this to me? To me? I am Escoffier, not some third-rate cook in an East End tavern.”
Delia had a pretty fair idea of who the man in question might be, but the mention of his “minions” piqued her curiosity. “Who are you talking about, Auguste, my darling? Lord Calderon?”
“Him and the others.”
“What others?”
“That pig of an accountant, Monsieur Deloitte. He and his clerks are with Calderon in my office as we speak, looking through my papers. What business have they to look through my private papers?”
Delia’s gaze slid to the broken lock on her splintered desk drawer. “Believe it or not, I know how you feel,” she said with a sigh. “But I hardly see what I—”
“I cannot come in, they tell me. I must stay out, they say. Keeping me out of my own office? How dare they? And not only that, Madame. They go through the wine cellars, the larders, even my kitchen. My kitchen, Madame! They go everywhere. They even talk to my suppliers about me, and about Ritz, too, and Echenard—poking, prying, asking questions. I am not supposed to know about that, but my suppliers are loyal. They tell me about this.”
“Your suppliers?” she echoed, surprised and baffled. “But why talk to them? Whatever the accountants want to know, why don’t they just ask you directly?”
“You ask me to tell you why they do what they do?” He lifted his hands to the sky in exasperation and let them fall. “They snoop, they spy on us. They dismiss members of my staff without my consent. They—”
“What?” Delia cried in dismay. “More people gone?”
“Two of my waiters were dismissed last week. And one of the kitchen maids today.”
“Heavens! We shall soon have no staff at all.”
“We are not the only ones who suffer. Agostini has lost two cashiers. Calderon says they cost too much, they must go, and pfft—” He paused to snap his fingers. “They are gone. No notice, no warning. They are told to leave at once, and they are shown the door.”
“This is absurd!” she cried, too furious at such unfair treatment toward the staff to remember her newfound strategy of staying neutral. “Oh, that man is impossible!”
“As you say,” Escoffier agreed. “How shall we serve the food? My dishes, so meticulously prepared, shall be cold before they reach the tables! And who shall wash the dishes? Me? Can you not do something, Madame?”
At that question, Delia’s anger faltered, and she gave a frustrated sigh, remembering harsh realities. “Unfortunately not,” she admitted, the words bitter on her tongue.
“I cannot operate under such conditions as this. What are they looking for in my papers? Do they wish to steal my recipes, and then fire me?”
As much as she disliked the man, Delia could not see Calderon doing such a thing. “I don’t think you need worry about that,” she murmured soothingly.
Escoffier was not pacified. “Nowhere else would I be treated this way. Nowhere! At any other hotel, they would fall to their knees and beg to acquire me.”
That, Delia knew, was not an exaggeration. He’d be snatched up in a heartbeat if he ever left the Savoy, and though that would be just what Calderon deserved, it would be a calamity for the hotel and for Ritz, and that was a price she wasn’t willing to pay. She tried again to apply oil to the troubled waters. “My darling Auguste, you know we’d never survive without you. The hotel wouldn’t last a day.”
“And I should care about that? If I did not have a contract, I would have departed already, Madame.”
The reminder that a contract bound him filled Delia with profound relief. “Of course,” she murmured. “And you have every right to feel as you do. It’s completely understandable. But—”
She broke off as a movement from the doorway caught her attention, and she looked up to find a most welcome sight in the doorway. “Kay?” she cried in delighted surprise. “What a treat to see you! Come in, come in,” she added, beckoning her friend into the room as she rose and circled her desk. “Heavens, how long has it been?”
“Ages,” Lady Kay Matheson replied as she entered Delia’s office. “A year, at least.”
“That long? Well, the passing time certainly does you justice. You look lovely.”
Kay, never comfortable with compliments, made a scoffing sound. “Oh, stop. You’ll turn my head.”
Delia doubted such a thing was possible, for Kay had always been painfully self-conscious about the generous curves of her figure, her flaming red hair, and the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and who could blame her? The scandal sheets had been vicious to her upon her debut fifteen years ago, deeming her England’s least desirable debutante and making her vulnerable to the machinations of scoundrels with bad intentions. Her disastrous elopement one year later with notorious hellion Devlin Sharpe had not only broken her heart and torn apart her family, but it had also put her decidedly beyond the pale in the eyes of society.
“It’s true,” Delia insisted, moving past Escoffier to give her friend an affectionate kiss on each cheek. “You’re looking absolutely radiant. But what brings you to town at this god-awful time of year? Off to the Riviera with your parents?”
“Oh, no, we’re far too busy for that. No, no, I’ve come to ask you for a favor.”
“How splendid. I adore doing favors for people.”
Behind her, Escoffier gave a cough, and she stepped sideways. “Kay, do you know Monsieur Escoffier? Escoffier, this is Lady Kay Matheson, daughter of the Earl of Raleigh.”
“Monsieur,” Kay greeted him with a pleased smile. “I have partaken of your magnificent culinary creations so often, I feel as if I know you, but it is a pleasure to truly meet you at last.”
Despite having lived in England for years, Escoffier still spoke no English, but Kay’s warm and friendly smile communicated her point so effectively that the chef’s thunderous frown was soothed away at once.
He responded with some equally flattering words in French, and Delia, hoping to preserve his momentary good mood, took full advantage. “Thank you, Auguste,” she said, taking him by the arm and propelling him past Kay to the door, “for bringing this matter to my attention. As soon as Ritz returns from Rome, we will sit down, all three of us, and decide what to do. Until then, we must soldier on and continue to do our part.”
With a few more platitudes, she finally rid herself of the temperamental chef and closed her office door behind him with relief.
“Oh, dear,” Kay murmured. “I seem to have interrupted something terribly important. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Believe me,” she added, making a face, “your arrival was a blessing and your timing impeccable. Things are a bit chaotic just now with Ritz away, and Escoffier hates it when things don’t go smoothly, but there’s little I can do for him but commiserate. It makes one feel so helpless. So,” she added, happy to change the subject, “doing a favor for you will be a most welcome distraction. How can I help?”
“I need the Savoy’s biggest, most lavish banquet room for the seventh of June, along with the finest plates, silver, and linen you’ve got and the most exquisite dishes Escoffier can make.”
“Heavens! What’s the occasion?”
Her friend drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m getting married.”
“Kay!” she cried, wrapping her friend in a hug. “Now I know why you’re glowing. What delightful news.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”
There was an odd, wistful note in her voice, and Delia pulled back to look into her face. “Isn’t it?”
“Of course it is!” Kay said at once. “It’s just that it’s all so overwhelming. And so unexpected at my age.”
“Nonsense! You’re only a year younger than I am.”
Kay made a rueful face, her pert, freckled nose wrinkling up. “But a fetching widow of thirty-three has a bit more appeal to the average male than a disgraced spinster of thirty-two.”
The fact that darling Kay was a spinster of thirty-two could be laid directly at the feet of Devlin Sharpe. Even after all this time, Delia still felt outrage on her friend’s behalf. She didn’t express her feelings aloud, however, for there was no point in rehashing the past, not when Kay seemed close to happiness at last. Before she could think of a reply to her friend’s self-disparaging view of her situation, Kay spoke again.
“Either way, Dee, you’re right to say it is delightful news. You’ll help plan the wedding banquet, won’t you?”
“You know I will. But first you must tell me, who is he?”
“Wilson Rycroft.”
“Rycroft?” She blinked, startled. “The American millionaire?”
“The very same.” Kay gave a short laugh. “You seem surprised. Not that I blame you. The family could hardly be expected to view a man from the wilds of America’s Middle West as much of an improvement over a penniless fortune hunter.”
Delia bit her lip, appreciating the pain her friend had endured. “That’s not how I feel, darling. If you’re happy, I’m happy. It’s just that I know your family’s approval has always meant so much to you.”
“Dearest Dee,” Kay said with warm affection. “There’s no need to worry about my family. After all, things have changed a great deal since Papa died.”
Delia nodded with understanding, well aware that Kay’s father had been, to put it kindly, a domestic tyrant, obsessed with controlling anyone and everyone within his power. “It’s good to know they accept your choice of husband this time.”
“As I said, everyone is relieved, especially my mother.”
“And you?” Delia asked gently. “Are you relieved?”
“How could I not be? Wilson is as unlike Devlin as a man can be.”
Delia couldn’t help being glad about that. She’d never met the American millionaire, but it was reassuring to know that he was not as dangerous to her friend’s heart, soul, and reputation as Devlin Sharpe had been.
“Well, that’s all right then,” Delia said. “It’s nearly time for dinner. Are you free? We can go over to the Criterion and discuss all your wedding plans over some lovely food and obscenely expensive champagne.”
“The Criterion?” Kay laughed, the shadow passing from her face. “Don’t you want to eat here?”
“Heavens, no. I eat here every day. I’m dying to dine somewhere else for a change. But if you tell Escoffier I said so, I’ll denounce you as a liar. Shall we?”
Delia gestured to the door, but before they could depart, another visitor arrived, one whose hard breathing told her he must have run the full length of the corridor.
“Michel?” Delia stared at him, noting the gleam of excitement in his eyes. “What on earth?”
“You’ll never believe what’s happening,” the florist gasped, pressing a hand to his narrow chest and sucking in air as he glanced at the closed door into Calderon’s office. “Ross anywhere about?”
“No, he’s on an errand,” Delia replied, growing more surprised by this mention of Calderon’s secretary. “What is going on that has you looking so excited?”
“Darling, it’s just too delicious.” Michel stepped inside Delia’s office and closed the door behind him. “Calderon’s in the lobby being shredded into spills by the Duchess of Moreland as we speak.”
“No!” Delia gave a laugh, hardly daring to believe such delightful news. “Not really?”
“Yes, really. I was right there, placing the new flower arrangements, and saw it all. He was talking to Ricardo at the registration desk when the duchess swept in, interrupted them, and demanded a room. Calderon stepped aside so that Ricardo could assist her, but when Ricardo told her she had to pay her previous bill before he could offer her a room, she tore him to bits. Calderon jumped into the fray, and she turned her ire on him. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Quite right,” she applauded, hooking her arm through Kay’s and starting for the door. “Come on, Kay. I’ve simply got to see this.”
“You’re looking terribly gleeful, Delia,” Kay commented, allowing herself to be hauled down the corridor at what was almost a run, with Michel following close on their heels.
“I suppose I am,” Delia admitted, unrepentant, as they turned the corner and entered the lobby. “It’s a flaw in my character, I confess, but I do love it when I turn out to be right.”
Simon’s own hotels ran like well-oiled machinery, and he was determined to see that the Savoy did the same. But as the Duchess of Moreland dressed down the poor reception clerk, the Savoy, and him in withering tones, Simon appreciated that changing things around here was going to require more on his part than mere determination.
“I realize,” he said the moment he could get a word in, “that this new way of doing things is a bit disconcerting, Your Grace—I mean, Duchess,” he corrected at once, remembering the rules of etiquette his newfound position required only after seeing the duchess’s mouth twist with contempt at his faux pas.
Cursing the entire ridiculous slew of aristocratic rules that now governed his life, Simon planted a firm but polite smile on his face and persevered. “Perhaps you would care to accompany me to my office?” he suggested, well aware that every eye in the lobby was upon them. “That way we can discuss—”
“I see no need to be shuttled off to some little cubbyhole,” she said haughtily. “Nor do I see the need for any discussion. I merely require a suite for the next two nights until I depart for Paris, where the Méditerrannée Express shall take me to the Riviera. If you will kindly comply with this simple request, we can end this most unpleasant encounter.”
Simon, who had already explained the hotel’s new policy three times in the most delicate fashion he could manage, decided it was time to be blunt. “That will not be possible, Duchess, until you pay your bill and make the required deposit.”
The duchess was a frail, elderly woman, but her eyes were imperious, her manner supremely confident, and though Simon had little understanding of and even less patience with the aristocracy, he couldn’t help admiring the way they stubbornly clung to the notion of their superiority. “Are you refusing to oblige me, Lord Calderon?”
“The Savoy is not a bank, Duchess, and we will no longer be granting credit to those who have a history of not paying their debts in a prompt fashion. If you were to pay the balance you already owe, then of course we can—”
“How dare you?” The duchess’s jewel-like eyes narrowed, and he knew that if they were living a few centuries ago, he’d be seized by guards, dragged away, and hurled off the nearest rampart. Fortunately for him, this was 1898, and they were not in some medieval castle.
He gave a slight shrug, his polite smile still firmly in place. “It is my job to dare such things, Duchess. As I have already explained, when you have paid your outstanding bill and have put down a deposit on your pending reservation, I will be happy to oblige you with the finest suite the Savoy has available.”
“I have no intention of rewarding your insults in such a way. I shall be informing all my friends of the Savoy’s outrageous new policies. Furthermore, I shall go to Claridge’s. At Claridge’s, the managers are not fueled by naked ambition. They know their place. And,” she added, glancing over him with disdain, “they stay there. They do not presume to elevate themselves above their birth.”
There it was. His place. Everything always came back to that, didn’t it? His new title notwithstanding, to people like the duchess, he was a nobody from nowhere and he always would be. He’d accepted that fact of life a long time ago, and yet, somehow, the duchess’s words succeeded in flicking him on the raw.
Still, it wouldn’t do to show it, and Simon gave a nonchalant shrug. “That, of course, is your prerogative. But,” he added as she turned away, “if you would be so kind as to tender payment for your outstanding bill before you go, it would be much appreciated.”
The duchess, unsurprisingly, did not comply with that request. Not even bothering with a backward glance, she marched toward the exit doors, oblivious to every avid stare.
As Simon watched her depart, he was reminded of another imperious female who’d stalked away from him a week ago in a blaze of offended aristocratic sensibilities.
Your requirements will be regarded as an insult, and peers will go elsewhere.
As much as he hated to admit it, the days following Lady Stratham’s prediction had proven her right, for several members of the ton had already broken with the Savoy over the new policies. He thought he’d been prepared for that, but with Lady Stratham’s words ringing in his ears as he watched the duchess walk out the doors, he felt a sudden, unwelcome glimmer of self-doubt.
In instituting the new credit policies for guests, he’d been absolutely certain that any fury would quickly pass, and that the lack of quality hotels in London would lure people back. Even if the board were forced to fire Ritz, he had been confident that eventually everything would work itself out.
You’re remarkably sure of yourself.
He had been sure, true enough, but what if he was wrong? What if they did not return? What if others followed in their wake and things kept getting worse? Aside from the galling prospect of Lady Stratham crowing about it, he’d be letting Helen and Richard down. He’d also be tossed from the board, his compensation in stock shares would not be paid, and his chance to finally gain a foothold in a London hotel would be lost. And he’d still be trying to lay his father’s ghost to rest.
Simon rubbed four fingers across his forehead, feeling a headache coming on, and he couldn’t help wondering if he could have avoided Lady Stratham’s predictions by being less blunt.
Tact seems to be an alien concept for you.
Another accusation of hers he could not refute at this point. He preferred to call a spade a spade, but as he watched the duchess sail out the exit like a victorious battleship, he appreciated that in the rarefied air of the Savoy, blunt speaking was costly.
If you converse with our aristocratic clients in the same odious way you speak to me… we’ll be broke in six months.
As more of Lady Stratham’s words from a week ago echoed through his mind again, Simon muttered an oath.
“Having trouble?”
Those sweetly murmured words penetrated his consciousness, and he turned to find the very object of his thoughts standing a few feet away, arm in arm with a friend, a tiny smile curving her lush pink lips.
The sight of that smile caused Simon to stiffen. “No,” he said, shoving self-doubt away, reminding himself that customers who didn’t pay their bills were no great loss. “Not at all.”
“That’s good to hear. I was on my way to dinner and saw you with the duchess. You seemed to be having a bit of trouble with her, and I was about to inquire if I could help, but you managed to settle things with her before I could jump in.”
He’d have hurled himself in front of a train before asking her for help, and besides, if that provoking smile of hers was anything to go by, any help she gave would end up doing him more harm than good.
“I appreciate your thoughtful offer,” he lied. “But I had things well in hand.”
“Of course you did.”
Oddly, this quick and mild agreement was more galling than her smile, but thankfully, the clerk on the other side of the registration desk gave a little cough, and Simon offered Lady Stratham and her friend a polite bow of farewell. “Enjoy your evening.”
She gave a nod and turned away, and with relief he returned his attention to the clerk, who was waiting expectantly. “Yes, Ricardo, what is it?”
“Before the duchess arrived, you were asking me about a certain Mr. Sharpe?”
“Yes, Devlin Sharpe,” he confirmed, happy to return to the subject that had brought him to the lobby in the first place. “Mr. Sharpe is a friend of mine, and he’s staying at the Savoy for a day or two. We are dining together this evening, and I wanted to inquire if he had checked in yet?”
The clerk opened the registration book and scanned the most recent names that had been added. “Not yet, my lord,” he said, looking up. “Do you wish to be notified when he arrives?”
“Yes, thank you. And if you could please ask the ma?tre d’h?tel to reserve a table for us in the restaurant for…” He paused to pull out his pocket watch. “For nine o’clock, I would appreciate it.”
“Of course. And where can we find you when Mr. Sharpe arrives?”
“I’ll be in my office,” Simon answered, but as he shoved his watch back into his waistcoat pocket, his gaze slid past Ricardo and down the long foyer in the direction of the American Bar, and he reconsidered his decision. The Savoy’s famous barkeep, Frank Wells, was said to make the best cocktails on this side of the pond.
He’d never been much of a drinking man, but Lady Stratham was the sort of woman who could make even the staunch teetotaler break the pledge, and he was glad Mr. Wells hadn’t been one of the corrupt people he’d had to fire during the past few weeks.
“On second thought, I’ll be in the American Bar,” he said, and as he headed in that direction, he wondered if Mr. Wells’s repertoire of famous cocktails included one called a Tornado. With Lady Stratham’s damnable smile still in his mind, it seemed an appropriate choice.