7
Delia scowled at the closed door, almost wishing she had lived up to that impossible man’s expectations and dosed his breakfast. Not with arsenic, of course, but would a harmless little emetic in his coffee have been so bad? That, she couldn’t help but feel, would have been poetic justice.
Still, playing such a trick, as satisfying as it might be in her imagination, would not be quite so satisfying in reality, since it would also get her fired. And it certainly wouldn’t solve the problem at hand.
She heaved an exasperated sigh, circled her desk, and plopped down in her chair, knowing she needed to come up with a more practical course of action than making Lord Calderon throw up.
She’d offered peace in the hope it would enable them to get along, help him see her point of view, and generally make things easier for everyone, but she’d clearly muffed it. So now what?
Going to Sharpe was out of the question. She wouldn’t give that scoundrel the time of day, and besides, it probably wouldn’t do any good. He knew Kay was her friend. And Simon would regale the other man with twisted stories about her motives as soon as he possibly could, warning the other man not to trust a single thing she said.
Nor could she go to Kay. After all her friend had suffered at Devlin Sharpe’s hands, Delia would not heap more pain and worry on her, especially not now, when she finally had the chance for some happiness.
And talking to Calderon, trying again to persuade him to see her point of view, was also out the window. Having had three husbands, Delia knew quite well when a man could be persuaded to a certain course and when he couldn’t. This man was definitely in the latter category.
The reason for that, of course, was that he was stubborn, unreasonable, and quite possibly off his onion. He not only disliked her for the most unjust reasons, but he now thought her some kind of scheming seductress as well.
What an insufferable presumption. As she’d tried to explain, all she’d been thinking to do was be nice, forge a truce, and become friends, and she’d gotten soundly snubbed and insulted for her trouble.
And why was that? she wondered in baffled irritation. What the devil was wrong with her? Most people liked her, damn it all. So why didn’t he?
Not that it mattered, of course. She didn’t, she reminded herself sternly, care two straws for his opinion of her. As for seducing him, the thought had never even occurred to her. Why would she ever want to seduce a cold fish like him?
Suddenly, the image of his face came into her mind. The lean planes of his cheekbones, the straight Roman nose, the hard line of his mouth so close to hers, the spark of heat in those cool green eyes as they had homed in on her mouth.
She was no green girl. She knew what a look like that usually meant. And when she’d seen it in Simon’s eyes, her body had responded at once, her pulses quickening with a faint, answering thrill.
The heated look she’d seen in his eyes must—must—have been her imagination, or a trick of the light. But what if it hadn’t been?
With that tantalizing question, Delia leaned forward, resting her elbow on her desk and her chin in her hand. What if the man she’d deemed such a cold fish wasn’t so cold after all? If he had kissed her, what then? What would it have been like, to have his arms around her and his lips on hers?
Again, she felt that thrill of excitement, that heated longing in her blood. It had been years since she’d felt such a thing, and it was wonderful. Quixotic, exciting, and wonderful.
It was also absurd. Simon wanting to kiss her? Not bloody likely.
I will strip naked and dance a jig on the Savoy rooftop before that happens.
For some reason, an image of him standing naked before her flashed through Delia’s mind—his wide shoulders, his narrow hips, his—
Appalled by the wayward direction her thoughts had taken, Delia veered her mind firmly away from carnal imaginings of Calderon’s manly attributes. She didn’t know which was more unlikely: being kissed by him or watching him dance naked on the hotel roof. But either way, such speculations were hardly helpful. Unless—
Suddenly, without any warning, a possible solution to her current problem flashed through her mind. She jerked upright in her chair, jolted by a shot of renewed hope.
It was a wild idea, she told herself. A wild, extravagant, perhaps even mad idea. But wasn’t the Savoy known the world over for its wild, extravagant, mad ideas? And if she could pull it off, Kay would have a wedding banquet so unique, people would talk about it for years to come.
There was only one problem: how to get Simon to agree. After this morning, she doubted she could get him to agree with her about the color of an orange.
Once again, his face came before her eyes, and her own question echoed through her mind again.
What can I do to convince you?
Delia drummed her fingers on her desk, thinking hard. Convincing a man to see things her way wasn’t usually such a problem, but in this case, it was painfully clear that the easiest tactics—putting on a pretty dress and a dab of perfume and being friendly and nice—were not going to work. No, to convince Simon of the soundness of her idea, she’d have to present it to him in terms he could accept, terms of viability, cost, and profits. That meant some serious research on her part.
After another moment or two of consideration, she stood up. A trip to Westbourne House, she decided, was the first step.
As his secretary had predicted, Simon opened the letter from his sister straightaway, and just the act of slitting the envelope and pulling out the sheets of notepaper banished all his frustrations, filled him with pleasurable anticipation, and made him smile.
A few moments later, however, his smile was gone, and an ominous frown Delia Stratham might have recognized took its place. Slowly, grimly, he reread some of the lines penned in his baby sister’s round, generous handwriting.
I encountered Miss Maberly and Lady Mary Nasby in the village last week, but though I was as friendly as I could be, they were not inclined to be the same. I fear they do not like me very much.
What the devil was there not to like?he wondered with all the baffled fury of a protective older brother. Cassandra was a sweet, pretty, lively girl who’d never in her life had a spot of trouble with making friends. At least, not until now.
I invited them to come for tea one day, and they assured me they would do so if it were possible. But two weeks have passed since then and neither of them has called upon me. I can only think they must be terribly busy.
Busy? Simon’s hand tightened around the sheets of notepaper as a fierce, protective anger rose inside him. It was January in the country. How could two young ladies be too busy to visit a new neighbor and have a cup of tea?
In fact, none of our neighbors have come to call. I rattle around in this big, cold, empty house all day long, with no one for company but my governess and the servants. It makes the days seem endless.
At those words, pain joined his anger, squeezing his chest like a fist around his heart, for even in a letter read from miles away, he could hear the forlorn note in his sister’s voice.
Dearest Simon, I know you are terribly busy just now and it is hard for you to get away, but I miss you so. I know it is not as bad as the days when you were in Africa and I only got to see you once a year, but somehow, it feels worse because I don’t even have Mama. I am so lonely here, I can hardly bear it.
“My lord?”
Simon looked up to find his secretary standing in front of his desk. “Yes, Ross, what is it?”
“Mrs. Carte is happy to have lunch, but only if you can meet her immediately, for she has another engagement scheduled for half past two. She suggested Rules, which is a very short walk from her office and yours. I took the liberty of confirming the engagement, and I reserved a table at Rules.”
“She doesn’t want to dine here in the hotel?”
“She said it might be best if the Savoy staff didn’t see the two of you with your heads together.”
“That’s probably wise. Very well, then,” he added as he stood up, “I’d best be on my way. Helen hates to be kept waiting.”
He tucked the letter from Cassandra into the breast pocket of his jacket and started for the door, but on the threshold, he stopped, struck by another thought. “Ross, do I have any engagements for the weekend?”
“No, my lord. Ritz is scheduled to return from Rome tomorrow, and you had planned to leave him in charge here and go to Dover so that you could see to things at the Bainbridge. I have tickets for us on the ten o’clock train tomorrow morning, returning Friday afternoon.”
He waved aside the trip to his Dover hotel. “Yes, but I’m free for the weekend? Then,” he added as Ross gave a confirming nod, “I think I shall go straight from Dover to Berkshire and spend a few days with my sister.”
“Oh, she’ll love that, I’m sure. It’s been a month, I believe, since you last went down.”
I am so lonely here.
“A month too long, I fear,” he muttered. “I’ll return Monday night, so you’ll need to reschedule any engagements I have for that day. Now, I’d best be on my way.”
With that, he exited his office, left the hotel, and made the two-block journey to Rules. He walked quickly, but by the time he arrived, Helen was already seated at one of the restaurant’s famous red booths, waiting for him.
“Helen,” he greeted the dark-haired, sloe-eyed wife of the Savoy’s founder with the affection and respect of long acquaintance. “How are you?”
“A bit tired, Simon, I confess. Between Richard’s ill-health, running the Savoy Theatre, and this awful business with the hotel, I’m worn to a nub.”
“I can imagine,” he replied as he slid into the seat opposite. “How is Richard?”
“Still ailing.”
“Really? But when I last saw him, he assured me he was doing better.”
“My husband has always been so optimistic.” She gave a weary sigh, pressing a hand to her forehead. “But the doctors are not.”
“I’m sorry. I shall make a point to visit more often.”
“He’d appreciate that. He has a great deal of affection for you, you know.”
“It’s mutual, Helen. After the scandal with my father came out, Richard took my mother on at the Bainbridge when no one else would hire her.”
“It wasn’t your mother’s fault that your father was dishonest. To this day, Richard says making her the head of housekeeping at the Bainbridge was one of the best decisions he ever made. Letting you buy half that hotel and take over its management was another. You doubled the profits in less than a year.”
“Still, the fact remains that at the time of my father’s death, no one wanted to hire a woman whose husband was a thief.” Simon paused, his father’s shame still a bitter taste in his mouth even after all these years. “I owe Richard more than I can ever repay.”
“Well, we are grateful to you as well, Simon. Especially now, I find your help with this Savoy business a godsend.”
He cast a worried glance at her. “Helen, please don’t distress yourself about the Savoy. Given Richard’s illness, I can manage things with the auditors and solicitors on my own if it’s too much for you. You needn’t be involved at all if you don’t wish to be.”
Her tired face took on a hard, determined look. “If you think I can bear to stand by, doing nothing as Ritz robs my husband blind, you don’t know me at all.”
He smiled at that. “I know you well enough to have known that’s what you’d say, but nonetheless, the offer stands. I take it our solicitors and detectives have made some progress in the investigations?”
“They have, and I’m afraid things are even worse than we previously suspected.”
“Worse?” Somehow, that surprised him, though he didn’t know why it should. “How much worse?”
Helen hesitated, but her grim expression told its own tale, and Simon drew a deep breath. “It’s that bad, is it?”
“Let’s just say we’ll be dismissing a great many more people before it’s over.”
As she spoke, an image of Lady Stratham stole into Simon’s mind. “Which people?” he asked, his voice harsh to his own ears.
“Let’s have lunch first.” Helen picked up the menu in front of her, and Simon forced images of Lady Stratham out of his mind. Over an excellent meal of turtle soup, filet of beef, and apple tart, the two of them discussed other topics, avoiding the matter of the Savoy altogether.
Only after the last crumb of tart had been eaten and they were both sipping their coffee did Simon once again broach the question uppermost in his mind. “Who will we be firing? Ritz, obviously, but then, we already knew it would come to that in the end. Who else?”
“Many of the restaurant staff will have to be replaced. As the anonymous letter said, half the waiters are collecting bribes from customers for the best tables, charging customers for flowers that were never ordered, and pocketing commissions on cigar sales instead of putting them in the tronc. They are also granting restaurant credit to the biggest tippers and then giving the cashiers a part of the tronc as a bribe to ensure the bills never get collected.”
“So these generous tippers never end up paying for the food and wine they consume.”
“Exactly. By the way, you recall how the author of that letter accused Ritz, Echenard, and Escoffier of helping themselves to the hotel wine and liquor without paying for it?”
“Yes, but then we learned that Madelaine Alverson, two of the waiters, and a kitchen maid were colluding to steal wine out of the Savoy cellars and sell it. The detectives caught them red-handed.”
“Yes, but we have now confirmed that what they were taking was only a drop in the bucket. When the accountants audited the wine inventory, they realized there was far more wine unaccounted for than those four could possibly have taken.”
“So another of the accusations of the letter writer has now been confirmed beyond doubt.”
She nodded. “And there’s more. Ritz, Escoffier, and Echenard have not only been taking wine for themselves, but they’ve also been dispensing additional hotel wine and liquor to their personal friends and charging it as an expense to the hotel. We estimate they’ve taken over ten thousand pounds’ worth during the past twelve months alone.”
“Ten thousand pounds’ worth of wine in a single year?”
“And they’ve been engaging in this practice from the very beginning, right under Richard’s nose. The accountants tell me that between them, those three men have stolen over fifty thousand pounds’ worth of wine and liquor during the past eight years.”
“If that’s so, then the head cashier must know all about it. Which explains why when Ritz was hired, he insisted on bringing in his own man for that position.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Agostini is in this up to his neck. And it isn’t just the wine. As the letter said, they’ve also been helping themselves to the Savoy’s food stores, as have Agostini and both restaurant managers.”
“How can they get away with that? What, do they all just walk into the larder whenever the mood strikes and take what they want and no one notices?”
“Oh, no, it’s much more subtle than that. The food is given directly to them by the hotel’s suppliers as gifts. Vast quantities of groceries are being sent every week from the Savoy’s suppliers directly to these men’s personal residences.”
“But how can the suppliers make any profit if they’re giving so much food away?”
“Because the food supplied to the Savoy kitchens is being delivered short in order to make up the difference. If the hotel is charged for a dozen eggs, only ten are delivered. A fifty-pound bag of flour is really only forty-five, and so on.”
“The arrogance of these people,” Simon muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “The absolute arrogance.”
“Arrogant is the word. They haven’t even bothered to try to cover their tracks. Once the auditors started delving into things, they had no trouble uncovering what’s been going on and how.”
Simon considered for a moment. “Escoffier must be aware that the hotel is being shorted on food supplies in order to pay for these gifts.”
“Oh, he knows.” Helen’s voice vibrated with outrage as she spoke. “He knows. Even worse, we have also confirmed that he’s taking bribes from suppliers.”
“In addition to the gifts and shorted supplies?”
Helen nodded. “Bellamy’s and Hudson Brothers, among others, are marking up the prices for all foodstuffs they sell the hotel. They charge the higher price and give Escoffier the difference. Five percent on every food order. Among themselves, they call it a commission.”
“Commission?” Simon made a sound of contempt. “That’s rich. What about Ritz himself? What bribes is he receiving?”
“Ritz?” Helen fairly spat the name. “As the letter said, he’s been giving away the Savoy’s food and wine to favored guests and giving them unlimited credit at the restaurant. The total outstanding unpaid debt accumulated by Ritz’s friends and associates is nearly fourteen thousand pounds.”
Simon was staggered by the amount, though he knew he shouldn’t be. “Ritz isn’t the sort to do anything halfway, is he? Not even theft.”
“Adding insult to injury, there is a definite quid pro quo involved. For example, not long ago, Ritz hosted a party for a group of railway executives, and—”
“Let me guess,” Simon interjected, “he got free railway passes in exchange.”
“Exactly. His stockbroker and his doctor have dined for free at the restaurant numerous times. In exchange, it’s understood that Ritz pays no brokerage fees and no medical bills to these gentlemen. A year ago, Ritz hosted a party for a group of wealthy businessmen in the restaurant. The bill, which came to over five hundred pounds, has never been paid. Many of those businessmen are now investors in his Paris hotel, which has nothing to do with the Savoy or my husband. And there’s something else the detectives have uncovered,” she went on before he could ask for more details, “something that wasn’t in the letter.”
Simon braced himself. “Go on.”
“The detectives noticed big, unmarked bundles being delivered to the Savoy laundry every Tuesday and taken away every Friday. They became curious about this practice and started investigating, and they learned those bundles contain laundry.”
“Ritz is getting his personal and household laundry done for free?”
“Him, Echenard, Escoffier, and God only knows who else.”
“And no charge tickets are ever written for this service?”
“No, but Mrs. Henderson, the head laundress, has brought her family and friends to dine in the restaurant numerous times without paying.”
“Good God,” Simon burst out, at the end of his tether. “These men already get exorbitant salaries. Can’t they at least pay for their own damn laundry?”
“Why should they?” Helen countered grimly. “They don’t seem willing to pay for anything else.”
“The question is,” he countered as he picked up his coffee cup, “what do we do about it? At the very least, anyone involved will have to be dismissed.”
“Dismissed?” Helen made a sound of derision through her teeth. “I want far more than that. They have turned the Savoy into a den of thieves. I want them criminally prosecuted. Ritz, Escoffier, Echenard, Agostini, Lady Stratham—all of them.”
Simon’s coffee suddenly tasted bitter on his tongue. “Lady Stratham?” he echoed, careful to keep his voice indifferent. “What evidence have the detectives uncovered against her?”
“Nothing that can be considered criminal, but they haven’t begun investigating her yet. If you recall, we decided to concentrate our investigation on the specific accusations in the letter, and she wasn’t mentioned. But already, there are some very clear indications of her culpability.”
“Such as?”
“We know her own secretary was stealing wine and selling it.”
“Guilt by association is not guilt. What else?”
“The head florist, Michel DuPont, is involved, and he’s under her direct supervision.” She gave a huff of outrage. “Had Ritz never hired that woman and allowed me to continue handling the flowers and the decorating, I might have caught on to all these schemes long before I got that letter. Now I know why Ritz was so eager to boot me out and hire her.”
The florist’s involvement still didn’t prove anything against Lady Stratham, but Helen’s animosity toward the other woman was so deep and unwavering that he saw no point in saying so. “How is DuPont involved?” he asked instead. “Are the managers getting free flowers, too?”
“Ritz and Escoffier definitely are. Flowers delivered to their homes whenever they like, and they never pay for them. The flower sellers, like the food suppliers, deliver the hotel orders short to make up the revenue.”
“And in exchange for his inability to count how many roses are in a dozen, does Monsieur DuPont enjoy free meals in the restaurant like our head laundress?”
“We don’t know yet. But in auditing the cashiers, the accountants discovered that when DuPont’s daughter was ill, the hotel paid for her to have a very exclusive Harley Street doctor—Lady Stratham’s doctor, as it turns out. The private detectives confirmed that it was the countess herself who made the arrangements. The bill is recorded as a debt from Monsieur DuPont, but it’s been sitting on the books for two years without ever being paid.”
Simon drew a deep breath. “And is there any proof of a quid pro quo between him and Lady Stratham?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure they’ll find it.”
“Will they?” He felt compelled to point out the obvious. “She is a countess, Helen. And quite wealthy in her own right, from what I understand. She can easily afford to buy her own wine and flowers.”
“Ritz is wealthy, too, and it hasn’t stopped him from stealing us blind.”
“No, but—”
“Are you defending her?”
“Of course not. But until her guilt is established—”
“How could it be doubted? She feels every bit as entitled and privileged as the rest of them, believe me. And her loyalty to Ritz and her friendship with him are well-known. Thick as thieves can be, those two.” Her eyes narrowed accusingly on him before he could reply. “And why should I even have to remind you of all that? You seemed quite willing to entertain the possibility of her guilt when you first came. What’s changed? Working her wiles on you, is she?”
A picture of midnight-blue eyes and a dazzling dimpled smile came into his mind, and he shoved it out again at once, reminding himself how Delia had tried only an hour ago to do the very thing Helen was accusing her of. But even that was not enough to condemn her as a thief.
“They call her the merry widow, you know,” Helen went on before he could reply. “Black widow is more like it. Three husbands and counting. Someone told me,” she added when he didn’t reply, “that she stole her first husband from another girl. He was engaged, I was told, unofficially, of course, but still…” She paused and sighed. “Once a thief, always a thief, I suppose.”
He set his jaw and met Helen’s eyes with a hard gaze of his own. “Using unrelated gossip to make your point is unworthy of you, Helen.”
She had the grace to look ashamed.
“As for the rest,” he went on when she didn’t reply, “as we discussed only minutes ago, my own mother was dismissed from her post because of my father’s thefts. I won’t do that very thing to someone else, Helen. Not without proof.”
“Your mother was innocent. You can’t possibly believe the same about Delia Stratham!”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. It only matters what can be proved, particularly in the case of Lady Stratham. She’s quite highly placed in society.”
“So because she is a countess and the cousin of a duke, you think she should be allowed to walk away unscathed?” Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps your recent elevation to the peerage, rather than Lady Stratham’s charms, has influenced your view, then.”
“I don’t give a damn if she’s a cousin of the Queen,” he shot back, stung and almost insulted by the idea that his useless new title and considerations of aristocratic privilege held any sway with him. “As I said, if she’s guilty of embezzlement, I’ll happily vote to fire her. But a criminal prosecution?” He shook his head. “It would be unwise, in my opinion, and I’m not just talking about her, but all of them.”
She sighed, her shoulders sagging a little. “You sound like Richard. He wants them all fired. But he is reluctant to prosecute any of them criminally. He says it would be the deuce of a mess.”
Simon nodded, not surprised by his old friend’s view of the matter. “Ritz is highly respected, even adored, by many influential people. So is Escoffier. The scandal would be enormous. Some of society’s most highly placed people would have to admit they’ve been receiving things for free and giving quid pro quos in exchange, and they’d blame the Savoy for dragging them into it. As gratifying as it might be to prosecute, it’s wiser to just dismiss those involved without any fuss, as we did with Mrs. Alverson and the others we’ve let go, and keep things as quiet as possible. The threat of criminal prosecution and the possibility of public humiliation will be enough to ensure their discretion. But,” he felt compelled to add, “in Lady Stratham’s case, the accountants have yet to find the evidence.”
“You took a look at her expense accounts. Was there nothing there to tell against her?”
He shook his head. “Some sloppy bookkeeping, a few questionable expenditures.”
“Nothing that could be considered suspicious?”
“Not really, but then, my examination was cursory. When will the accountants be doing a full audit of her records?”
Helen lifted her hands in a gesture of exasperation, then let them fall into her lap. “They have to finish with Ritz, Escoffier, and Echenard first. They tell me it will be several more weeks, perhaps a month, before they can delve into Lady Stratham’s involvement.”
“A month?” An image of Delia came into his mind again, and a month suddenly seemed like an eternity.
“That is what the auditors are telling me,” Helen said, breaking into his thoughts. “They are too cautious, in my opinion.”
“I approve of caution, but can’t they move any faster? The investors want a dividend at the end of March, and that would be much easier to do if the hotel could stop pouring money into the pockets of Ritz and his cohorts. And though I know Ritz agreed to give his full cooperation to an audit, the more intrusive these investigations become and the longer they go on, the more likely he is to smell a rat.”
“He already does. He sent Richard a most irate cable from Rome, demanding to know why his staff was being harassed. And even though we managed to get Echenard out of the way by sending him on holiday, he also cabled Richard. I can only assume that Escoffier, Agostini, and Lady Stratham have been keeping both of them informed of the changes you are making and the audits the accountants are conducting.”
“Yes, I daresay they are starting to realize there’s more to this than cost-cutting to satisfy the investors. We knew they would, of course, but I’d hoped to be finished before they truly appreciated what dire straits they’re in.”
“It doesn’t make your job any easier, of course, but there it is. Mr. Dever tells me they need another month.”
“Very well, but the minute they learn anything more, let me know.”
“Of course.”
Forced to be content with that, Simon paid the bill, and he and Helen went their separate ways. But as he walked the short distance back to the Savoy, he decided that although the accountants would not be able to start investigating Lady Stratham for four more weeks, there was no reason he could not do some investigating of his own. He’d have to tread carefully, however; for though Delia was aggravating as hell, she was also devilishly clever.
Rather a shame now that he’d thrown her offer of a truce back in her face this morning. On the other hand, if he’d agreed to make peace and be friends, pumping her for information now wouldn’t be quite playing the game.
Nonetheless, as he reentered the hotel and started toward his office, he appreciated that there were ways to delve into her activities and find out more about what she might be doing without pretending to be her friend. He was her employer, after all. He could keep as close an eye on her activities as he wanted.
A glance through her doorway revealed that she was out, and he questioned Ross as to her whereabouts the moment he entered his office.
“Lady Stratham is at an appointment this afternoon, I suppose?” he asked as passed the secretary’s desk on the way to his own.
“Oh, no, my lord,” the secretary replied as he stood up. “I don’t think Lady Stratham left for an appointment. I believe she went down to the laundry.”
“The laundry?” He stopped halfway to his desk and turned, suddenly alert. “Did she say why?”
“No, not to me. But I’m sure it must have been because of the duffel bag.”
“What duffel bag?”
“When I returned from luncheon, I noticed this enormous duffel bag on Lady Stratham’s desk. A few minutes later, when her ladyship came in, I heard her give an exclamation of annoyance and say out loud—she was talking to herself, you understand—that the bundle ought to have been delivered to the laundry. Then,” he added, gesturing to the open door between offices, “I saw her pick up the bundle and go out again. I presume she was going to the laundry.”
The detectives noticed big, unmarked bundles being delivered to the Savoy laundry every Tuesday.
As he remembered Helen’s words from a short time ago, he also remembered that today was Tuesday.
“Thank you, Ross.” Feeling grim, he turned away. “I’ll be back later.”
Helen’s investigation into Lady Stratham’s activities might have to wait, but right now, he decided, was the perfect time to begin his own. Leaving his office, he started for the laundry.