12
Having been married three times, Delia had experienced many kisses in her life. The sweet, shy kisses of youth, the knowledgeable ones of experience, the tender ones of mutual affection. But no kiss had ever been like this.
No kiss had ever turned her blood to molten lava, burning away all her strength and melting her very bones. No kiss had ever ignited desire this quick or pleasure this hot.
Until now.
Simon had warned her that it might be like this, at least for him, but she hadn’t been able to believe such a thing was possible for herself. How could she? Bit by bit, husband by husband, disillusionment, heartbreak, and grief had eroded any romantic or sexual feeling she’d ever had, and for the past five years, no man had ignited even the tiniest spark of her feminine interest. But from their very first meeting, this man had aggravated her, provoked her, and challenged her in ways no man ever had before, and in the process, he had somehow reawakened longing and lust within her, two things she never thought she would feel again. Now, his kiss was doing far more than reigniting long-forgotten needs and desires; it was transmuting them into something beyond all her previous experience. She had dared to play with fire, and this was the result: an exhilarating, dizzying, blazing-hot ride. Like flying into the sun.
She ought to pull away now, she supposed, before either of them could get burned. She had a history with men, one that didn’t bode well for Simon, or for her. And yet, this awakened hunger was too strong, and her starved body refused to listen to her mind’s reminders of past pain. Hungry for more of this intoxicating pleasure before life inevitably snatched it away, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his.
His response was all she could have hoped for. He made a rough sound against her mouth and his arms came up, wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer as his tongue pressed against her closed lips, urging them to part.
Happily, willingly, she complied, raking her hand through his hair as she tasted his mouth and reveled in the sensual storm. She felt the throb of life surging through every cell and every nerve, and the pleasure began to seem like pain, the pain of pure joy, as her frozen heart began to thaw.
His hands slid down, cupping her buttocks as he lifted her onto the very tips of her toes, until her hips were pressed to his. In a position of such scorching intimacy, there was no mistaking his arousal, and Delia moaned against his mouth. “Come to my room,” she heard herself say. “We can—”
His hands gripped her shoulders, hard, cutting her off midsentence. “God, you are the most relentless woman alive,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “Why are you doing this?”
She could hear her own rapid breathing and his; she could see it, too, white clouds mingling in the still, cold night air. She could hear her heart thudding in her chest, and she’d have sworn on her life that she could hear his, too. Desire was like a living thing, pulsing and seething between them. And she knew the only answer she could give him was the truth.
“Because I want you,” she said simply. “And,” she added as he gave a humorless laugh, “I know that you want me. Deny it if you must,” she added as he shook his head, “but we both know I’m right.”
He shook his head again, but he didn’t let her go. Instead, his hands tightened on her shoulders. “I can’t do this,” he muttered and gave her a little shake. “Damn it, Delia, I can’t. I won’t.”
“Why not?” She gave a wild little laugh. “You wouldn’t be taking an innocent virgin. I’m a fully experienced woman, and I know what this means. And anyway, who’s to know?”
“I would.” He let her go then, his hands sliding away, his voice telling her there was no point in further discussion. “I would know.”
She stared at him, feeling suddenly raw, exposed, and vulnerable in a way she’d never felt before.
With an abrupt move, he turned and left her, striding away into the darkness beyond the ring of lamplight, vanishing from view before she could even assimilate that he was gone.
She didn’t follow him. Her knees were so weak, she wasn’t even sure she could walk, and she sagged back against the balustrade, her lips burning, her nerves raw, her body aching with unfulfilled need.
Delia pressed her fingers to her mouth with a grimace, appreciating that she had just been kissed within an inch of her life, and then, without any reason or warning, spurned and decidedly rejected. Not that she could blame him, really, given the fate of all the men who had come before.
So much, she thought ruefully, for lighting matches around gunpowder.
Simon didn’t get a wink of sleep. Instead, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, cursing himself, his body in full rebellion against what he’d done. It had been ages since he’d been with a woman, and when he had one, warm and willing, in his arms, he’d pushed her away. When, as she had pointed out, no one would have seen, no one would have known.
He was an idiot.
And yet, had he taken what she’d so temptingly offered, had he gone to her room and done what he’d been imagining for weeks, he’d still be lying here afterward, wide awake, cursing himself—not for being an idiot, no, but for being a dishonorable bastard who let his cock do his thinking for him.
A no-win situation if ever there was one.
It was a good thing indeed that he was leaving for the country today. Perhaps he ought to stay in Berkshire longer than a few days. It could easily be managed. Ross would be here to deal with anything that might come up in his absence, and he would only be a few hours away by train if anything happened at the hotel that required his return. He hadn’t had a holiday in ages, and Cassie could certainly do with the company.
All those reasons made perfect sense, and yet, he knew his real motive for wanting to linger in the country had nothing to do with being sensible. He needed to get clear of Delia. He needed time and distance so that he could regain his perspective, put his priorities back in order, and cool the desire for her that ran through his blood.
He heard the clock on the mantel chime the hour. Six o’clock. With an oath, he tossed back the sheets, giving up any idea of sleep, and got out of bed. He slid on a dressing robe, fetched a towel and a cake of soap, and went to take a cold bath.
An hour later, he was in his office with a stack of financial reports and correspondence in front of him. Given the early hour, and the fact that it was Sunday, this part of the hotel was quiet as a tomb, but if Simon thought he could get clear of Delia by immersing himself in work, he was very much mistaken.
The door to her office was open, and every time he looked up at the darkened room next door, he remembered the first time she’d awakened his arousal with her attempts to call a truce. Though she was not here, he seemed to catch the scent of her perfume with every breath he took, and in the quiet of a Sunday morning, he could hear her whispered words of a few hours ago.
Come to my room.
His body responded at once, heat curling in his groin, temptation beckoning.
I want you and I know that you want me.
Want? God, he ached with wanting.
Tossing the pencil aside, Simon closed the accounting ledger in front of him, plunked his elbows on the desk, and rested his head in his hands with an aggravated sigh. He had no one to blame for this mess but himself.
The question now was what to do about it.
The most agreeable answer was obvious, but not one he could act upon. But perhaps when this mess with the Savoy was over, and Ritz was gone—
He cut off that hopeful possibility at once. Guilty or innocent, there was no way in hell she’d ever make him that delectable offer again. If she was guilty, she’d be fired along with the rest, and blame him for it. If she was innocent, she would only hear what had happened from Ritz, for Simon had signed confidentiality agreements upon his appointment, and he could not break his word to give her the true facts.
The idea that he even wanted her at all was baffling to him. Morality and honest dealing were not just words to him, they were a way of life, and wanting a woman like her, a woman who, at best, played fast and loose with the rules, was an aggravating thing indeed. At worst, she was a thief, but even if the evidence proved her so, he feared it would not be enough to dampen his desire for her.
“Ah, so here you are!”
The sound of a strident feminine voice broke into his thoughts. He looked up to find Helen in the doorway, and the look on her face told him Delia was not the only female giving him grief today.
“Helen.” He stood up. “What brings you out so early on a Sunday?”
“That you can even ask that question amazes me. What in God’s name are you thinking?”
He had no idea what she was referring to, but the question almost made him want to laugh just the same, for he’d been asking himself that exact question for the past six hours with no answer in sight. Still, given her anger, laughing at this moment, even if that laugh was an ironic one, probably wasn’t a good idea. “I beg your pardon?”
She crossed the small office in three quick strides. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean,” she said, halting before his desk. “I saw you.”
“What?” He stared at her, dismayed and appalled, and those torrid moments on the roof with Delia came roaring back. How the hell could Helen have seen them? The steel lattice doors of the lift, when opened, rattled loud enough to wake the dead. Surely he’d have heard. The moment that thought went through his mind, however, he grimaced, remembering the state of arousal he’d been in at the time, and he appreciated that a herd of water buffalo could very well have rumbled across the rooftop without gaining his attention.
“Really, Simon,” she went on, her voice vibrating with the force of her fury, “sitting in that woman’s box at the opera? Are you mad?”
“The opera?” he echoed, relief beginning to displace his dismay as comprehension dawned. “Oh, the opera.”
“Yes, the opera! What did you think I meant?”
Guiltily, he looked away. “Well,” he began, but she spoke again before he could articulate some sort of answer to that question.
“I was there, Simon. I saw you sitting in her box, plain as day. I daresay half of London saw you!”
He took a deep breath and got firm hold of his scattered wits. “My sister is in town, and I wanted to take her out for the evening. Lady Stratham kindly invited us to share her box at Covent Garden.”
“Oh, my God!” she burst out, staring at him in unmistakable horror. “She’s done it to you, too.”
“Done what?”
“All Delia Stratham has to do is crook her little finger and men everywhere come running. But you? Really, Simon,” she added as he opened his mouth to reply, “I thought you had more sense than to be taken in by that schemer!”
“I’m not taken in by her,” he said, but even as he spoke, he remembered the taste of her mouth and the feel of her in his arms, and he was forced to admit, much to his own chagrin, that Helen’s accusation had a degree of validity.
“I warned you about her,” Helen went on, oblivious to his denial. “I told you what she’s like. But I see that my warning was in vain. You’ve fallen under her spell, just like every other man in London. My God, that you could be such a fool!”
Helen made a sound of exasperation and looked away, shaking her head, and he decided perhaps he ought to try to handle this matter in a way she was more likely to appreciate.
“I have to work with her, Helen, at least for the time being.”
“But you don’t have to go to the opera with her!”
That was a point he could not refute. “No,” he agreed mildly. “But it seemed harmless enough.”
“Harmless? Delia Stratham is not harmless.”
The venom in her voice was unmistakable, and he tilted his head, studying her thoughtfully, his curiosity piqued. “Why do you dislike her so much?”
“Why?” she echoed, staring back at him in disbelief. “Because she’s dishonest!”
“So you’ve found proof of that since our last conversation?”
“No, but as we discussed that day, the indications are clear. Her secretary, the florist—”
“Those indications are slim enough to border on absurd.”
Her eyes narrowed, warning him she didn’t appreciate having her opinion called absurd. “I was right, then,” she said flatly. “That day at lunch, you were defending her. You still are. You’ve taken her side.”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” he shot back, feeling defensive and hating the feeling. “I’m working damned hard not to do so.”
“Why should it be such a battle?”
That was a question he’d been asking himself for days now, but he’d be damned before he’d admit that to Helen, of all people. “I appreciate your concerns, Helen. I do. But if her innocence were proved beyond any doubt, I have the distinct impression you would still dislike her. Why? Is it because of her friendship with Ritz? You’ve never liked him, I know, but is it really fair to condemn someone else so wholeheartedly because of that?”
“Fair?” Helen cried. “You wish to talk about what’s fair? That woman has always been able to do whatever she wants and never suffers any consequences for it. She’s feckless and careless and she spends money like water, and everyone loves her for it. While I—”
She broke off, her face twisting with pain, and she looked away.
Simon studied her bent head with both compassion and understanding, appreciating that jealousy lay at the heart of her resentment. “While you, on the other hand, are sensible, responsible, and suffering,” he said.
“And universally disliked,” she added with a humorless laugh. “Don’t forget that. The staff loathes me.”
“I doubt that. And you know as well as I do that anyone with power over their livelihoods is going to earn the resentment of some among the staff. I have felt it, too. But there’s another side to that coin. Ritz is loved, but he has enemies as well. If that were not so, you never would have received that anonymous letter. And Helen,” he added as gently as he could, “it’s not as if Lady Stratham has not suffered, too. Losing one husband is tragic enough, but three? Her life has hardly been perfect.”
With a sound of impatience, Helen lifted her head. “I see that my warnings are useless,” she said coldly, making it clear she was in no frame of mind to sympathize with someone she disliked and distrusted. “But there is one thing I must ask you, and I expect an honest answer.”
He stiffened, offended by the implication that he would offer her any other. “Of course. What do you want to know?”
“We’re nearly done investigating Ritz, then we will be doing the same with Lady Stratham. Once the evidence against that woman is presented to you, how will you vote?”
“If there is such evidence, I will vote to have her dismissed, along with all the rest. How can you doubt it?”
“You’re a man, that’s how.” She turned away abruptly. “But for the sake of our friendship, I hope you mean what you say.”
He watched her as she walked out of his office. “I hope so, too, Helen,” he said under his breath. But he had the uneasy feeling that his choice, when it came, was not going to be so simple.
From the moment she woke up Sunday morning, Delia resolved to forget about those fiery moments with Simon on the roof. But during the two weeks that followed, fate seemed determined to circumvent her. He remained at his estate in the country, so she didn’t have to see him, but reminders of him seemed to be everywhere.
When Michel came to her to discuss the flowers for Lady Gray’s upcoming luncheon party, she thought of the day six weeks ago when she’d first met Simon, and how baffling it seemed now that she had ever thought him cold.
When she left the hotel one afternoon to meet Kay for luncheon, she saw that the hyacinths were starting to crop up in the Embankment Gardens, and her mind went back to the day she’d sent him breakfast and flowers and tried to broker a truce with him. He’d tossed her efforts quite decidedly back in her face and questioned her motives, and why? For the flimsiest, most ridiculous reasons.
I suppose you wear that seductive perfume and dresses that cling to your curves when you meet with duchesses and debutantes, too.
To hear him talk that day, anyone would have thought she was a shameless opportunist for putting on a little perfume and a pretty dress. What woman didn’t do that when she wanted a man on her side? Would he have preferred her to don sackcloth and ashes and smell as if she hadn’t bathed for days? Would that have persuaded him to make peace and see her point of view?
As she requested bids and worked on the proposal for the rooftop hothouse, there was no way she could avoid thinking about their dinner together at Westbourne House, and how, after giving her every sign in the world that he found her deuced attractive and wanted to kiss her, he’d walked away. His explanations for that had managed to be both delightfully flattering and maddening as hell. They had also, she was forced to admit, only served to make him more attractive than ever.
And then, when at last her curiosity had gotten the better of her, when she had thrown all caution and feminine decorum to the winds and kissed him, she’d been thoroughly spurned for her trouble.
God, you are the most relentless woman alive.
Delia grimaced and leaned back in her chair, shoving aside her notes for the greenhouse and staring glumly at the ceiling of her office. That’s what a girl got for taking the initiative with a man. Rejection and insults. She was a fool, and this mooning over him was becoming ridiculous.
He’d made his opinion of having an affair with her perfectly clear. Why keep reliving it?
Because when she’d been in his arms, with his mouth on hers, it had been the most intoxicating, glorious kiss of her life. That was why.
But it hadn’t stopped him from walking away, again, had it?
How many times, she thought, angry with him and with herself, was he going to spurn her before she got it through her head that what she wanted—what she knew they both wanted—wasn’t going to happen? And why was she more wildly attracted to him than ever?
Because she was deranged.
Delia sat up in her seat, scowling at his empty desk through the doorway, frustrated beyond belief. He was the most impossible, unfathomable man she’d ever met, and yet, he’d awakened in her desires more powerful than any she’d ever experienced. Unfortunately, he welcomed her advances about as much as he’d welcome a plague epidemic.
On the other hand, given her history, who could blame him? She was the black widow, after all. Was it really so surprising that even if he wanted her, he would run from her as fast as he could?
“He probably doesn’t want to die,” she muttered, half in jest.
But even as she tried to joke about it, her shoulders slumped, and she gave a sigh.
Despite how much he exasperated and infuriated her, the truth was that she had really begun to like him, damn it all. She actually liked his implacable will. She admired his honorable, upright nature and his insistence upon playing by the rules, and she was vastly entertained by his almost puritanical notions of sexual conduct, even after he’d just kissed her within an inch of her life. That combination of qualities made him unlike any man she’d ever had a pash for, including her late husbands. Especially her late husbands.
Melancholy stole over her suddenly, a misty, brooding fog as gray as the late February day outside, and she realized in horror that she was rapidly sinking into a hopeless morass of self-pity. How ghastly.
With that thought, she resolved to stop thinking about that man, stop feeling sorry for herself, and get back to work, but she’d barely picked up her pen before she was interrupted with yet another reminder of him.
“Good morning, my lady.”
She looked up as his secretary came through the doorway with a handful of letters. “Morning post,” he added, placing the letters beside her.
“Thank you, Ross. Do you know,” she added on impulse, “when Lord Calderon will be back?”
“I am not certain, my lady, I’m sorry. Perhaps next week, he told me. But we correspond daily. Was there something you needed?”
“My sanity,” she sighed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. Thank you, Ross. You may go.”
He returned to the office next door, closing the door behind him, and Delia picked up the first letter on the pile he’d given her, reminding herself she had work to do.
Her virtuous intentions lasted about three seconds, long enough to read the name of the sender penned on the back flap of the envelope.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she muttered in complete exasperation, staring at Cassandra Hayden’s name. Was she never going to stop being reminded of that man?
She stared at the letter, torn between curiosity and the rather craven impulse to shove it in a drawer. Curiosity won.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured a few moments later, staring at the penned lines, sympathy replacing her earlier aggravation. “Poor girl.”
Her own troubles forgotten, at least for the time being, she read the letter again, wondering how she could be of help. The girl was clearly in over her head. Perhaps she could write to the ladies of the county and put in a word? But there wasn’t much time. And in any case, would that be—
“Delia, my dear!”
She looked up, and at the sight of the balding, mustachioed man in the doorway, she dropped the letter in complete surprise. “César?”
He bowed. “In the flesh.”
“Back at last!” She jumped up, circled her desk, and flung herself into his arms with the familiarity of their long acquaintance. “I was beginning to think you’d vanished from the face of the earth, and I’d never see you again,” she declared, pressing a kiss to each of his cheeks with profound affection. “How was Paris?”
He rolled his eyes, his smile fading. “Chaos, my dear. I wish you had been with me to help straighten out the mess. How we’ll ever be ready to open by June, I cannot think.”
“You could delay the opening,” she replied, moving to return to the chair at her desk and gesturing for him to take the chair opposite. “Give yourself more time.”
“Only if I must. How have things been here?”
There was a nuance in his voice as he asked the question, a casual indifference that was unlike him, making her appreciate at once what he was really asking, and she decided a bit of flattery wouldn’t go amiss. “As well as they can be when you are away.”
“Yes, yes, you try to put the good face on, but the staff is unhappy. This I know.”
“There has been some grumbling,” she admitted. “But things are getting better.”
“Are they? I do not think so.”
Delia gave a diplomatic shrug. “I can only say that no one has come to me with any complaints for several weeks now. I take that as a good sign.”
“You are always so optimistic, my dear friend. But I appreciate your honesty.”
“I’m always honest, César. You know that.”
“Yes, of course. You are too honest, sometimes, I fear.”
That took her aback a bit, but before she could ask what he meant, he went on, “And what of our friend Lord Calderon?” he asked. His voice was light, almost unconcerned, but Delia heard the tension beneath the question. “What is your honest opinion there?”
She wriggled a little in her chair, sensing that in this case, César would definitely not appreciate her honesty. “Well, it’s early days yet,” she hedged. “I think it’s too soon to judge.”
“You form no opinion, even though he makes the Duchess of Moreland and Lord Synby take their parties elsewhere?”
“You heard about that, did you?”
“Of course. But I am curious why I didn’t hear it from you before I left for Paris.”
The rebuke was plain, making her grimace. “I was completely inundated the day you wanted to meet. And then you left for Paris, and you’ve been away ever since. And you know how bad I am at writing letters, darling!”
That was something he could not refute, and she was relieved when he nodded his head. “I know, but I need you to help me against Calderon. If we let him have his way, he will be the ruin of everything we have built here.”
“That was my opinion, too,” she acknowledged. But before she could point out that for the good of the hotel, she had changed her mind, Ritz spoke again.
“We must fight him, all of us. Together.”
“Fight him?” Delia echoed in dismay, appreciating that what she’d blithely assumed was a minor skirmish between two powerful men was in fact a full-fledged war. And she was caught squarely in the middle. “I’m not sure what can be done in that regard,” she murmured tactfully.
“Ah, but I do. I know.” He smiled, rubbing his hands together as if quite pleased with himself. “We shall have a party.”
Delia blinked. “A party?”
“But of course!” he said, laughing. “What better way to reassure our friends that nothing has changed?”
“But, César, things have changed,” she pointed out.
She was ignored. “We will invite the most influential people in society—Lady Gray, Mrs. Williams… and your cousin, the duke, of course, and his delightful wife. You will make the arrangements?”
“I could,” she murmured doubtfully. “But we can’t really afford to host such a lavish affair, can we? We’re supposed to be cutting costs these days, you know.”
“Nonsense!” he scoffed, brushing that objection aside with a wave of his hand. “We do not worry about such trifles here. This is the Savoy. We do not pinch the pennies.”
“I realize that, darling. Still, it’s not as if we have much choice these days.”
“It shall be a dinner,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Twelve courses. For the dessert, Auguste shall carve an ice sculpture in which to put a serving for each guest. The best wines, of course, and the best champagne. I wonder if there is enough of the Clicquot ’91 for eighty people?”
“Eighty people?” She stared at him, aghast. That particular champagne was the most expensive one in the Savoy cellars, and to serve it to eighty people would run up an exorbitant sum.
“We shall engage a salon orchestra to play through dinner,” Ritz went on happily, not seeming to notice her shock. “Then we can have dancing afterward.”
Suddenly, Simon’s words from their first meeting echoed back to her.
I’ve been here quite long enough to note the wanton extravagance displayed by every department of this hotel.
Remembering those words as Ritz prattled on about this wholly unnecessary party when everyone’s livelihood—including that of the man before her—depended on austerity, she truly appreciated for the first time the validity of Simon’s criticism. But before she could remind Ritz again of the constraints on their finances these days, her friend spoke.
“I shall leave the arrangements to you, dear Delia, of course. The decorations must be superb. Orchids, of course, and perhaps some of those—” He broke off, waving his hands in the air. “What is that flower? The one of New Guinea that is orange and purple, about so big, and has the shape of a bird?”
“Bird-of-paradise?” she murmured faintly, remembering the cost of those ran about six shillings each.
“That is the one, yes. We shall have them at every table. I wonder—should the vases be crystal?”
She’d never been one to let cost get in the way of a good party, God knows, but as agreeable as all this sounded, she knew she simply must bring Ritz back to reality.
“I’m happy to arrange a party, if you like, but I’m not sure Calderon will approve the expense.”
“Him?” In that one word, there was no mistaking his opinion of the other man, and Delia winced. It wasn’t surprising, of course, that Ritz didn’t like Simon. He clearly resented the other man’s power over him and he was accustomed to being in absolute control.
Nonetheless, it was not like Ritz to show such open contempt for a peer. He was a snob from head to toe. But then, she thought, remembering the Duchess of Moreland’s odious condescension, Simon’s title was terribly new, and in consequence, perhaps Ritz didn’t deem it worthy of his usual obsequious deference.
Either way, Delia knew that Ritz was going to have to do what she had done: accept the inevitable and call a truce. Perhaps, she thought, studying her friend’s resentful expression, she could help that along. Before she could decide how to set about it, he spoke again.
“You think I care what that contemptible tyrant approves?” he demanded, his voice rising a notch.
She stared at him unhappily as more of Simon’s words came back to her.
Ritz will have to accept my way of doing things, and frankly, I’m not sure he can.
How right he had been.
“Well,” she said in reply, trying to take a reasonable, middle-ground sort of approach, “he is in charge of hotel expenses these days. A party such as this will require his permission.”
Ritz drew himself up. “This is my hotel. I do not ask permission to do what is best here. Especially not from men like him. Men who do things on the cheap, who do not have the vision to see beyond a quarterly profit? Non.”
Delia feared that reminding her friend of tiresome facts was only making matters worse, but she persevered. After all, she was the one being asked to plan this party.
“Of course you are,” she said soothingly. “Of course you are. But we must consider whether or not this is a good time for a party. The investors are expecting a profitable first quarter, and we won’t be able to meet that expectation if we throw any lavish parties. Perhaps when the season starts, we can work with him to plan something acceptable to both of you.”
“I have no intention of working with him. He must work with me.”
“But, César—”
He stood up. “I can see,” he said coldly, “that you have made up your mind to side against me.”
“I’m never against you!” she cried, stung. “I am your friend, and you know that.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she rushed on: “As your friend, I tell you it would be unwise to go against Calderon at this stage.”
“If you don’t wish to plan this party for me,” he said, his voice now like ice, “I will do it myself. But I never thought you, of all people, would take the side of my enemy.”
With that parting shot, he stalked out of her office in a fury, and she let out her breath on a slow sigh, appreciating that getting these two men to cooperate with one another and work together was not going to be easy.
Perhaps she ought to just stay out of it. After all, she didn’t seem to be very good at brokering truces these days. On the other hand…
Her gaze strayed to Cassandra’s letter, and she wondered if perhaps she could accomplish two good deeds in one fell swoop. It was, she decided, worth a try.