5
He was in the Savoy’s American Bar, sipping a bizarre concoction of whisky, gin, and crème de menthe that had been recommended to him by the barkeep, waiting for Devlin, and imagining various ways he might rid himself of Lady Stratham, when a voice intruded on his thoughts.
“Difficult day?”
Simon looked up to find the Duke of Westbourne standing by his chair, faultlessly attired in white-tie, a drink in his hand and a smile on his face.
Simon leaned back in his chair, giving the other man a rueful look. “Is it that obvious?”
Westbourne’s smile widened into a grin, one that bore a strong resemblance to that of his provoking cousin. “Well, it’s rather a safe bet when a man’s drinking alone in a bar. May I join you?”
Simon hesitated, for he’d quite had his fill of aristocrats for one day. But then, he remembered the shareholders’ meeting, where he’d told the investors of his father’s disgrace. Helen and Richard had advised him not to, but he felt he’d had no choice; honor demanded full disclosure of that information, even though he’d been sure it would sink his chances. It was Westbourne who had pointed out to the other investors that a man could not be blamed for his father’s sins.
“But,” the duke went on before he could reply, “if you would prefer to drown your frustrations with the Duchess of Moreland all by yourself, I would completely understand.”
Simon sighed. “You saw the whole encounter, I suppose.”
“I think everyone in the lobby saw it.”
He grimaced, knowing that was probably true.
Westbourne, however, merely laughed. “Don’t worry about it, old chap. Being a duke myself, I ought not to say it, but a more odious woman than the Duchess of Moreland never drew breath.”
Simon gestured to the empty chairs at his table. “Please join me, but know that it won’t be for long. I’m waiting for someone, and when he arrives, we’re going to dinner.”
“And I’m off to dinner with friends at my club, where they intend to bore me for the remainder of the night with discussions of politics. So please, take pity on me,” he added, taking the chair opposite, “for this is my only chance this evening to be in congenial company. What is that green stuff in your glass, by the way?”
“Mr. Wells called it a Savoy Hurricane.” Simon held up his glass to study the emerald-colored contents, then he took a swallow, almost relishing the cocktail’s medicinal, ice-cold burn. “He didn’t have anything in his repertoire called a Tornado. This,” he added as the duke gave him a dubious look, “was the best he could do.”
“I’ve no idea what tornadoes have to do with anything, but either way, that drink looks absolutely vile.”
“It is rather,” Simon agreed, and in a contradictory spirit, he downed the contents of his glass and signaled for Mr. Wells to bring him another. “But the taste seems to improve as one goes on.”
“That’s both the delight of cocktails and their danger.”
“Indeed? I don’t imbibe often enough to know. I dislike the effect strong drink has on me. That’s probably because,” he added as he remembered Lady Stratham’s words from their first meeting, “of my obsessive need for control.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Or,” he mused, ignoring the question, “it might be my need for efficiency. After all, cocktails are a much faster way for a man to get sodding drunk than port, claret, or beer. And efficiency, so I’ve been told, is the god I worship. Or it might be profit. I can’t quite remember which.”
The duke shook his head, laughing in obvious bafflement. “You seem determined to speak in riddles, Calderon.”
Simon did not enlighten him. “It’s all your fault, really,” he said instead. “If you hadn’t spoken in my favor at the shareholders’ meeting, I doubt I’d be here now.”
“It’s the least I can do for a fellow Old Harrovian.”
“I’m not sure how much good my public-school education has done me so far. I’ve got members of the nobility dressing me down and hotel staff loathing the sight of me. Nothing at Harrow prepared me for that.”
“Minor problems to a man of your abilities,” Westbourne countered lightly.
“Perhaps,” he acknowledged as the barkeep whisked away his empty glass and set a fresh cocktail on the table. “But as a fellow Old Harrovian, couldn’t you have at least warned me what I’d be in for?”
“If you mean the Duchess of Moreland—”
“I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about that black-haired tornado you are forced by familial obligation to acknowledge as a cousin.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “My condolences on that, by the way.”
“My cousin?” he echoed, still clearly puzzled, but after a moment, his brow cleared. “Ah, now I understand your references to tornadoes,” he said and grinned. “Delia is lovely, isn’t she?”
“In appearance or temperament? If you mean the former, I am forced to grant it. But if you mean the latter, I must disagree. Never have I met a more exasperating female—”
He broke off, for even in his own decidedly middle-class upbringing, one didn’t disparage another man’s relations to his face. “Sorry. I don’t mean to insult a member of your family.”
“Please, don’t apologize. I’ve gotten crosswise with my cousin a time or two, so I know how you feel. And truth be told, I’m rather amused to discover that there is at least one man in the world who refuses to fall immediately at Delia’s feet.”
Simon found such a prospect so appalling that he emptied his glass in one hefty swallow, making the duke laugh.
“She seems to have gotten under your skin,” Westbourne commented.
“It would be more accurate to say I got under hers,” Simon clarified and once again signaled for Mr. Wells.
“So, what’s Delia been up to? You needn’t mind telling me,” the duke went on as Simon hesitated to reply. “I won’t take offense, and I might be able to offer you some insight you’ll find useful, so feel free to be frank.”
Frankness in this place was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Westbourne was one of the Savoy’s major investors, but he was not a member of the board. He was not privy to the infamous letter, the hiring of private detectives, or Helen’s suspicions about the duke’s beautiful and exasperating relation. And if Westbourne got any inkling of how deep the rot within the Savoy had gone before proper measures could be taken, he’d surely tell the other investors, they’d all run to dump their shares, the value of the Savoy’s stock would plummet, and the fat would be in the fire.
It wasn’t quite fair, he supposed, to pump Westbourne for information about his cousin when she was one of those under suspicion. On the other hand, the duke had freely offered some insight regarding her, and Simon could certainly use it.
“I had my first meeting with her last week,” he said, choosing his words with care. “Just as I have with every other member of hotel management.”
“Yes, so I heard.”
“Went running to cry on your shoulder afterward, did she?”
“Delia? God, no. She’s not the crying sort. There was some gnashing of teeth and cursing your name, however. Along with some dire predictions about the hotel’s future if the things you want to do are implemented.”
“The things I want?” Simon echoed with some heat. “As if what I want has anything to do with it. I’m doing what’s necessary.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. I supported your nomination because I’m sure you have the experience and skill to turn things around.”
Simon had been sure of that, too, but the events of the past week were giving him cause to doubt. “She declared she could never work for me. I offered to put her under Mrs. Carte’s supervision, but she wasn’t having that, either. I then pointed out that her only other choice was to resign, and as you might guess, that suggestion did not serve to improve her opinion of me.”
“Ultimatums,” Max said gravely, “are not among Delia’s favorite things.”
“Yes, I realized that when she declared I’d never force her to resign, referred to me in a way that put my mother’s honor in doubt, and stormed out of my office.”
“You were lucky,” Max assured him. “Remind me to tell you about the time I read her diary.”
Diverted by this rather unsavory admission, he eyed Max with doubt. “You read her diary?”
“What can I say? I was only twelve at the time. Delia’s revenge was to shred the essay I’d just completed for my tutor, which had taken me a week to compose. She also hid my best cricket bat in the attics and put itching powder in my socks.”
From what Simon could see, the years hadn’t changed her much. “I suspect she’d adore exacting similar revenge upon me.”
“For your sake, I hope not. As you have seen, my cousin’s got a bit of a temper.”
“Thank you for the reminder,” he replied as Mr. Wells set his third cocktail before him, “but what I’m waiting for is some of that insight you promised me.”
“The most useful thing I can say is to quote the old proverb that one always catches more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
Simon stared, appalled at the idea.
The duke grinned. “You look as if I’ve just suggested a visit to the dentist.”
“Forgive me,” Simon said at once. “It’s just that flattery is not my strongest talent. And even if it were, I daresay your cousin is far too clever to be taken in by such a tactic—”
“No, no, you misunderstand me. I’m not suggesting you attempt to charm Delia. As you’ve already pointed out, it wouldn’t fool her for a moment. No, in this scenario, Delia needs to be the honey. If you can gain her support, she can convince others to accept the policies you’ve introduced. She might even be able to get the duchess to pay her bill.”
“Gain her support?” he echoed in disbelief. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? She despises me. How on earth can I gain her support when she feels that I’m undermining Ritz and that everything I’m doing will bring the hotel to ruin?”
“The loyalty to Ritz runs deep around here. That is especially true in Delia’s case. They are close friends. Nonetheless, if you can get her on your side, she can be of great assistance to you. She knows a great many people, and she’s got a persuasive way about her when she chooses. Most of the scrapes I got into as a boy were at her instigation.”
That was no surprise to Simon, but before he could think of a more tactful reply, another voice entered the conversation.
“Simon, what the devil are you doing in a bar? The last time I saw that was in Cape Town. About fourteen years ago, as I recall.”
Simon looked up to find Devlin standing behind the duke’s chair, a look of amused disbelief on his dark, rakish face.
“I had to find something to occupy my time waiting for you,” Simon countered. “You’re late, as usual.”
He stood up, a move that brought the duke to his feet as well, but when Westbourne turned in Devlin’s direction, Simon saw the amusement inexplicably vanish from his old friend’s face and a wooden expression take its place.
“Duke,” Devlin greeted the other man with a stiff, barely perceptible nod of acknowledgment.
“You two know each other?” Simon asked, surprised by the sudden, unmistakable tension in the air.
“Not well, I’m afraid,” the duke answered, “but we have met. Mr. Sharpe,” he added. “Pleasure to see you again.”
“Is it?” Devlin’s smile was back, a mocking curve that Simon knew from long acquaintance could mean trouble. “Afraid I can’t say the same.”
An offensive remark, but oddly, the duke did not seem offended. “Quite understandable,” he replied, “given the circumstances. And now,” he added, turning to Simon, “I must be off. It won’t do if I’m late to dinner. Good evening, gentlemen.”
With a nod to both of them, the duke departed, and Simon turned to Devlin, frowning in puzzlement. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing.” Devlin took the chair vacated by the duke. “Just a bit of ancient history.”
“Between you and Westbourne?” Simon resumed his own seat. “I wasn’t aware you two had ever met.”
“Only once. When I was spared from making the worst mistake of my life.”
At this mention of the night fifteen years earlier when Devlin had been jilted at the altar, Simon began to understand. They hadn’t known each other at the time, but from what the other man had let slip over the years, Simon knew his friend had every right to resent anyone associated with the bride’s defection. “The duke is a friend of Lady Kay, I take it?”
“Not him. But they move in the same circles, and one of his sisters was her bosom companion. Kay was staying with them the night she agreed to elope with me. The duke and his sisters are the ones who came after us. While his sisters persuaded Lady Kay to change her mind, the duke reminded me that, because I am the fifth son of a baron, I am a gentleman of birth, breeding, and absolutely no prospects, without so much as two shillings to rub together.”
“But that last bit’s not true. You’ve got heaps of money.”
“Ah, but I didn’t back then. I was only nineteen, after all, and wholly dependent upon my minuscule quarterly allowance. Lady Kay’s family, the duke informed me, felt she could do better. Lady Kay, I soon discovered, agreed with them.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know of the connection.”
“Not to worry.” Devlin flashed his characteristic mercurial smile. “As I said, I was spared from marrying the wrong girl, and it was a blessing in disguise; believe me. Especially since I’m now about to marry the right girl.”
“What?” Simon laughed. “Engaged already? You’ve only been home from Africa a week.”
“What, you don’t believe I could sweep a girl off her feet in a week? All right, all right,” he added as Simon gave him a pointed look. “I’ll own up. My intended is Lady Pamela Stirling, beloved only daughter of the stone-broke Marquess of Walston. We met in Cairo last autumn when she was on holiday with her family.”
“You must have fallen for each other straightaway.”
“Yes, well, it’s amazing how much more appealing a baron’s fifth son becomes once he’s amassed an obscenely large fortune. Lady Pamela is quite willing to tie the knot with me in order to help me spend it.”
“That’s rather a cynical way of approaching matrimony. Shouldn’t love play a part in this sort of thing?”
Devlin laughed. “Good God, Simon, you really are the golden boy so beloved in English literature. Decorated war hero with unimpeachable morals, a stout heart, and remarkably good looks. You’ve even got the right color hair. I can’t think why we’re friends.”
“You have to have at least one honorable friend. Especially now that you’ve decided to do something as honorable as matrimony.”
“A man’s got to settle down sometime. Which reminds me… the wedding is the seventh of June, and Pamela’s mother is inviting half the damn ton. Any chance we can have the wedding dinner here at the Savoy? We’ll need the largest banquet room you’ve got.”
“If it isn’t already reserved, it’s yours.” He stood up. “Let’s go to dinner. We can inquire at the front desk on our way out.”
“Out?” Devlin echoed as he rose. “I thought we were dining at the restaurant here.”
Simon shook his head. “Let’s not. I need to get clear of the Savoy and all the refinement of your damned aristocracy.”
“Don’t be spiky. It’s not my fault I was born into this ridiculous institution of so-called nobility. Tell you what.” He clapped Simon on the shoulder as they started out of the bar. “Let’s find an East End pub and wrap our bellies around a pair of underdone steaks, a plate of chips, and an old-fashioned plum tart.”
“As long as there’s plenty of ale to go with it all.”
Devlin laughed. “First cocktails, then pints of ale? What’s brought on this sudden uncharacteristic impulse to drink?”
“A tornado, my friend.” Simon picked up his glass and drained the remaining contents. “A black-haired, blue-eyed tornado.”
“A woman,” Devlin said at once, giving a nod of sympathetic understanding. “Best batten down the hatches then.”
An image of Lady Stratham and her provoking smile came into Simon’s mind. “I intend to,” he said as he set his now-empty glass on a table by the door. “Believe me, Devlin, I intend to.”
The following morning, Delia was in her office before eight o’clock. She wasn’t usually an early riser, but she had no intention of allowing Calderon any excuse to fire her. No, she would be the picture of a cheerful, cooperative, and industrious employee, and when she saw him, she wouldn’t crow about being right. Well, she amended as she sat down at her desk, she might crow a little.
She smiled, remembering how the duchess had torn Calderon apart the night before. He’d held his own end up all right, she had to admit—no easy feat in front of all those people. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered; for not only had the duchess departed for Claridge’s, but she had also not paid her outstanding bill. A few more incidents like that, and Calderon might be prepared to start listening to those who understood the Savoy and its clientele.
Delia’s smile faded, however, as she eyed the piles of work on her desk. Many of the letters that had accumulated during her absence were still unopened. In addition, she had to plan a luncheon party for Lady Gray, a regimental dinner for the City of London Royal Fusiliers, and a banquet for Viscount Ridley, the British home secretary, and she could only hope none of them would walk away from the Savoy before Calderon saw sense. In addition, the invitation cards for the East India Club dinner had arrived from the printer and were now waiting to be filled in, placed in envelopes, and sent out.
That event, thankfully, was too close to be canceled, but the fact that it was only two weeks away meant the invitations were her top priority, so Delia shoved aside her unopened letters, opened her inkwell, and reached for a pen.
“You rang for tea, my lady?”
She looked up to find a waiter in the doorway. “Ah, yes, James, thank you. Come in. Goodness,” she added, eyeing the extra teacups and heaping plate of breakfast pastries on the tray as the waiter came toward her desk. “How much does Auguste think I’ll be able to eat?”
“I believe he thought you might be meeting with clients. You usually have morning tea sent to your room, my lady, not your office, and never this early unless you have a meeting.”
Delia, notorious for rising late, made a face. “You needn’t remind me I’m awake before the birds today,” she said, clearing space on one side of her desk to make room for the tray. “But with Calderon in charge, I don’t dare slack. What’s this?” she added, noting an envelope on the tray.
“A cable from Rome, my lady. It arrived this morning, so I brought it along.”
“At last.” Relieved, she plucked the envelope off the tray and tore it open, pulling out the printed missive inside. But if she’d been hoping for some advice from her mentor that would be helpful, she was disappointed.
Calderon wants to ruin everything I’ve built at the Savoy. Do not help him do it.
—Ritz
“That’s not very helpful, César,” she murmured under her breath.
“My lady?”
“Nothing, James.” She shoved the telegram in her skirt pocket. “How is the staff adapting to the new regime?”
“It’s been a bit hard, my lady, I admit. We’ve lost two waiters and a kitchen maid in the restaurant.”
“Yes, I heard,” she murmured, thinking of Escoffier raging about that fact in her office the evening before. “Cost-cutting measures, I was told.”
“We were told the same. And it’s not just the restaurant. Two cashiers and one of the maids were let go as well, and rumor has it they aren’t done yet. It’s got us all on tenterhooks, wondering who might be next to get the boot. Most of the staff live hand to mouth, you know. We can’t afford to lose our jobs.”
Delia nodded, sympathetic but not surprised. “I know, and I’m sorry. I wish I could do something.”
“Couldn’t you talk to him, my lady? Tell him that we’re working ’round the clock and we can’t afford to lose any more people?”
“Calderon doesn’t listen to me, I’m afraid,” she replied, the words bitter on her tongue. “He doesn’t like me.”
“Oh, my lady, I don’t believe that for a moment.”
She smiled at this show of loyalty. “It’s a shock, I know,” she said wryly, “but it’s true, nonetheless. We got off on the wrong foot from the moment we met, and it’s gotten no better since then. In fact,” she added lightly, “the next person let go might very well be me.”
“He’d never fire you. Why, you’re a countess, my lady. He wouldn’t dare give you the sack.”
From what she could see, Calderon would dare anything in the name of his precious profits, but she didn’t say so. “The same could be said of you, James,” she said instead. “The restaurant is so busy; I can’t imagine he’ll dismiss any more waiters.”
“I hope not, my lady. And in the meantime, there is one benefit to being short-staffed. Our share of the tronc is bigger for those of us who remain.”
She knew at once what he meant. The tronc was the accumulated total of all the day’s tips, which were divided equally among the waiters who had worked that day, and it was the only pay they received. “I suppose that’s something. And the extra money is quite a help to you right now, I imagine. How are you enjoying fatherhood, by the way? Your wife had a boy, I heard?”
The young man beamed at her mention of his newborn son. “A fine, healthy boy, my lady.”
“Excellent. And Lizzie? She is recovering well, I trust?”
“Oh, yes. She’s already back in the laundry, hard at work.”
“Already? But she only had the baby two weeks ago. She shouldn’t be working! At least, not yet.”
“She vows she’s up to it, my lady. And as I said, we need the money.”
“Of course,” Delia said at once, appreciating that not everyone had the luxury of working only when and if they wanted to.
“Anyway, Lizzie and I are just crossing our fingers Calderon doesn’t decide to let either of us go.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen. But please don’t allow Lizzie to overtire herself. And tell her I have a gift for the baby. It should be arriving any day now.”
“Thank you, my lady. That is most generous of you. Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you, James. You may go.”
The waiter departed, and after a sip of tea and a bite of croissant, Delia once again picked up her pen, but she had barely dipped her pen in the inkwell before she was once again interrupted.
“Good morning, Lady Stratham.”
Turning her head, she spied Mr. Ross in the doorway between her office and Calderon’s, and though she couldn’t help feeling a little bit resentful that Calderon had decided his own secretary was necessary while hers was not, she knew none of that was Ross’s fault, and she gave him a sunny smile.
“Good morning,” she replied and gestured to the tray at her elbow. “Would you care for some tea and croissants? Please have some,” she added as he hesitated. “The kitchen sent up far too much, and if you don’t help me, I fear I shall eat all of them by myself, and then I’ll have to loosen my corset, something a lady never wants to do.”
The young man blushed to the roots of his hair at the mention of corsets, but when she poured a cup of tea and held it up with an encouraging nod, he came into her office. “Your ladyship is very kind.”
“Not at all. Do sit down,” she added, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk. “Would you like sugar? Milk?”
“Neither; thank you, my lady,” he replied as he took the offered cup and saucer and sat down.
“Your employer seems to be running a bit later than you this morning,” she commented, nodding to the empty adjoining office as she set a croissant on a plate for him.
“I have been informed that his lordship will not be in today.”
“Oh? Early meeting?” she guessed, handing over the croissants and a napkin.
“Oh, no, my lady. His valet sent word that he was feeling a bit under the weather this morning.”
“Indeed?” Taking pleasure in news like that, she reminded herself sternly, would be very, very wrong. “It’s not serious, I hope?”
“Oh, no. He’ll be quite all right by tomorrow, his valet has assured me. But it leaves me rather at loose ends in the meantime, with nothing much to do.”
It was an opportunity she could not resist. “Really? I’m sure it must be difficult to be idle, but…” She paused, assuming a woeful expression as she gestured to the heaps of files, letters, and papers on her desk. “I’m so inundated with work, I can’t help envying you.”
Like a magnet to steel, the young secretary responded at once. “Can I help you in any way?”
“Oh, would you?” She clasped her hands, looking hopeful. “Would you really?”
Fifteen minutes later, the tea and croissants had been consumed, and the invitations, envelopes, and list of invitees for the East India Club dinner had been transferred from her desk to the secretary’s. “You’re an angel, Mr. Ross,” she told him with relief and gratitude. “An absolute angel.”
At this gushing praise, Mr. Ross’s fair, freckled face once again turned bright red. “Not… not… at all, my… my lady,” he stammered. “It’s my pleasure.”
“I know it isn’t, though you’re terribly sweet to lie and say it is. But please understand,” she added before he could protest, “that I am in your debt. If there is anything I can ever do for you, I insist you let me know.”
Delia returned to her office, sat down, and prepared to tackle her correspondence, but then she noticed the note she’d scribbled on her blotter last evening during her conversation with Kay: a reminder to reserve the banquet room for the other woman’s wedding dinner.
Deciding it was best to handle that now while it was at the forefront of her mind, and happy to avoid tackling the pile of letters on her desk for a few more minutes, Delia left her office and headed for the lobby.
When she arrived at the registration desk, she found young Ricardo on duty. Frowning over a slip of paper in his hand, he didn’t even notice her until she gave a little cough.
The clerk looked up. “Lady Stratham,” he said, straightening respectfully and setting aside what he’d been reading. “Good morning, my lady. You’re out and about quite early today.”
Delia made a face. “I know it.”
He smiled, but it was an abstracted smile, and watching him, Delia grew concerned. “You seem rather preoccupied today, Ricardo. Can I help?”
“Oh, no.” He sounded shocked. “I couldn’t possibly trouble your ladyship.”
“By all means, trouble me.” She gave him a wink. “You should know by now how much I adore trouble.”
He hesitated, then said, “Two cashiers were let go this week, and Mr. Agostini asked if I would help with the charge tickets.” He held out the slip of paper. “This was waiting for me when I arrived this morning.”
Delia glanced at it, recognizing that it was a ticket for charges from the American Bar to one of the rooms, and aside from the brow-raising amount of liquor consumed, she saw nothing particularly extraordinary about it. “Yes, and…?” she asked, looking up, not understanding the problem.
“It is for room 538. Lord Calderon’s room,” he added as she remained unenlightened.
“Indeed? All this is from last night?” At Ricardo’s nod of confirmation, Delia thought again of Calderon’s set-to with the duchess, and she had a pretty fair idea of why the man had decided to embark on a bout of alcoholic excess afterward. It was also, she reflected in amusement, why he was feeling unwell today. “Poor fellow,” she said and had to bite her lip to hide her smile. “He seems to have accumulated quite a bill.”
“He and his friend were in the bar before dinner, and then they came back a few hours later and stayed the rest of the evening. I can’t be sure, but I believe they were still there when I departed at midnight.”
“Quite a night,” she replied, donning as grave an expression as she could manage. “But I’m not sure what the problem is, Ricardo.”
“He’s management, my lady. The hotel usually doesn’t charge management for liquor, as you know. I can’t imagine why Mr. Wells would even do up a ticket for it, but it was here with the other tickets when I came in this morning. And since Mr. Wells is not in yet, I can’t ask him about it.”
“Why don’t you just put the ticket through with all the others and let the bookkeepers sort it out?”
“I don’t know what Mr. Agostini will say about that, I really don’t.” As he mentioned the head cashier’s name, his frown of worry deepened, and Delia immediately knew what was needed.
“Put the ticket through and charge Calderon’s room,” she told him. “If Mr. Agostini questions you about it, tell him I told you to do it.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Clearly relieved to cede responsibility to a higher authority, he set the ticket aside. “What can I do for you this morning?”
“I need the reservation book.”
Ricardo pulled the volume in question out from behind the counter and placed it before her. Opening it, Delia began flipping pages as she reached for a pencil, but when she located the page for the seventh of June, her fingers froze.
Devlin Sharpe. Wedding banquet. Sixty guests. HMS Pinafore Room.
She stared at the page in disbelief, not only because the Savoy’s largest banqueting room had somehow been reserved without her knowledge, but also because of the name of the man who had reserved it.
“Devlin Sharpe?” she murmured, reading the entry again, hardly able to believe it. “Devlin Sharpe is getting married?”
“It sounds as if you know the gentleman, my lady.”
At the sound of Ricardo’s voice, Delia looked up. “Not really,” she said slowly and looked down at the book again.
It had to be the same man. The name was not a common one. So, Kay’s long-lost love, the scoundrel who had persuaded her to an underhanded elopement fifteen years earlier, then ruined her reputation when she changed her mind, was getting married on the same day she was, and he wanted the same banqueting room? It was such an incredible coincidence that Delia couldn’t help wondering if his choice was deliberate. She’d never met Sharpe herself, but from what she knew of the man, it would be just like him to try to throw a spanner in the works and hurt Kay’s plans. But how, Delia wondered, had Sharpe managed to reserve the same banquet room that she had promised Kay? The only people who were allowed to reserve banquet rooms were Ritz, Echenard, and herself. How had this happened?
“Ricardo?” She looked up again. “Echenard isn’t back from his holiday yet, is he?”
“No, my lady.”
And Ritz, she knew, was still in Rome. “Then who put this entry in the reservation book?” she asked, tapping the appropriate line on the page with her finger as she spoke. “Do you know?”
The young clerk leaned over the desk to glance at the entry. “Oh, that was Lord Calderon,” he said as he straightened.
Of course. She should have known. That man had his finger in every pie. Was it any wonder Ritz resented him?
“He came by here with Mr. Sharpe as they were going out to dinner and had me put the entry in the book. They seem to be quite old friends.”
The fact that Calderon would do something like this without consulting with her wasn’t a surprise, but that a man like Devlin Sharpe was his friend did take her aback a little. Calderon was so damned buttoned-down and straightlaced that having Devlin Sharpe as a friend seemed rather incongruous.
“Being he’s in charge now,” Ricardo went on, sounding anxious in the wake of her silence, “I thought it was all right. It’s for Mr. Sharpe’s wedding banquet. He’s marrying an earl’s daughter, I understand, and it’s to be a big affair. Sixty guests, I heard them say. That’s why Lord Calderon wants the HMS Pinafore.”
“Oh, he’ll get the Pinafore all right,” Delia muttered and slammed the book shut. “Over my dead body.”
“My lady?”
But Delia had already turned away, and as she headed back to her office, she realized that her current method of dealing with Calderon was just not going to work. Granted, it had been amusing to hand the outraged Lord Synby over to him and duck out, and an absolute delight to watch him face down the formidable Duchess of Moreland. But such pleasures, she appreciated with chagrin, were very short-lived and would not be at all helpful in solving her immediate problem. But what could she do? As she asked herself that, the words of Ritz’s telegram echoed through her mind.
Calderon wants to ruin everything I’ve built at the Savoy. Do not help him do it.
Easy for César to say, she thought in aggravation. He was a thousand miles away. She was here, and she had a problem that only Calderon could resolve. In this case, at least, her strategy of standing by while his policies backfired was untenable.
Kay’s wedding would be in the midst of the London season. By the time the consequences of Calderon’s other decisions came back to bite him, Kay would have been obliged to choose a different venue for her wedding banquet. Kay had been through hell at the hands of Devlin Sharpe. Allowing that man to cause her any more grief was a nauseating prospect and one Delia absolutely refused to accept.
And if things kept on this way and Calderon did not change course, Kay wasn’t the only one who would suffer. Half a dozen employees had already been dismissed, and they might not be the only ones. As James had said, many of the staff lived hand to mouth and could not afford to be without employment. Having grown up in the aristocracy, Delia had been raised with a strong sense of responsibility for one’s staff. It was the duty of people like her to provide employment for others whenever and wherever possible, not to stand by silently as they were dismissed without cause. And with Ritz and Echenard away, she felt that sense of duty and responsibility even more keenly.
There was also the matter of the hotel’s image as London’s finest hotel, an image Ritz had worked hard for years to cultivate. How could she continue to watch helplessly as that image and Ritz’s legacy were tarnished? But damn it all, how could she stop it?
Delia stopped in the corridor. Taking deep breaths, she tried to cool her temper and think logically of a solution.
Can’t you talk to him, my lady?
James’s words echoed back to her, a repeat of Escoffier’s plea from last night, but she didn’t see how talking to Calderon would make a difference. Unless…
Just be your usual charming self, and you’ll have him eating out of your hand.
The memory of Max’s solution to the problem made Delia groan.
“Not that,” she muttered. “Anything but that.”
She rubbed a hand over her forehead, her mind working desperately to come up with a less nauseating prospect. But there was no other course she could think of that had a prayer of succeeding, and at last, resigned to her fate, she turned around.
“I hope everyone appreciates the enormous sacrifice I’m about to make on their behalf,” she grumbled as she headed for the kitchens. “My pride may never recover.”