15
On his instructions, Simon’s driver drove the carriage like a bat out of hell, and it was only that fact that enabled Simon to make the train. He jerked open the door of an empty first-class carriage and leapt aboard just as the train was pulling out of the station, earning himself an indignant oath from the porter on the platform. But upon seeing his face through the window, Simon was given a respectful tip of the cap and a hushed, reverent greeting of “My lord,” and for the first time since his elevation to the peerage, Simon appreciated the fact that having a title did have its uses.
“I’ll pay for my ticket, I promise,” he called through the window, then fell onto the carriage seat as the train pulled out of the station and started on its ninety-minute journey to London.
On the way, he stared out the window, striving to think of some other reason Richard would call a meeting before Delia had been investigated, but there was only one, and he knew it. Not that it mattered, really, for his own course was already decided.
He arrived back at the Savoy at a quarter past one to find his secretary anxiously waiting for him. “You did catch the morning train,” Ross exclaimed as he entered the office. “I didn’t know if you’d manage it.”
“You knew about the telegram Helen sent me?”
“Oh, yes, my lord. Mrs. Carte called first thing this morning. She told me she’d sent it, and that you might be returning from Berkshire today as a result. She also asked me to give you this.”
Ross plucked a large sealed envelope from the stack of papers on his desk and held it out to him. “She said she’d be at the Savoy Theatre until five o’clock, my lord, if you wish to call on her after you’ve read it.”
That, he reflected, might be a good idea. “Anything else?”
“She also instructed me to tell you that the Savoy board is assembling for the Monday meeting at the Carte residence. Nine o’clock in the morning. She did not say what it was about, only that—”
“I already know,” he cut in. “Thank you, Ross. I’ll be out for the rest of the day. But if you are free this evening, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay. I might need your assistance later.”
“Of course.”
Simon paused, considering. Delia, he knew, was coming back tomorrow. “Make a reservation for me and Morgan at another hotel for tomorrow night.”
“Another hotel?” The secretary blinked at these unexpected instructions, but being an excellent secretary, he recovered at once. “Very good, my lord. Just the one night?”
“Yes. I’ll return to the Savoy sometime Sunday evening. Very late. Just don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone.”
“Do you have a preference for any hotel in particular?”
“No,” he added as he turned and walked away. “But make it as far on the other side of town as you can.”
Having ensured that he would be nowhere near Delia when she returned and in no danger of repeating his behavior of a few hours ago until after the vote was over, Simon then left the Savoy and went to a pub, where he ordered a plate of sandwiches and a pot of coffee, broke the seal on the envelope, and pulled out the sheaf of papers. After taking a deep breath and saying a little prayer, he began to read.
Cassandra’s party was a raging success. As Delia had predicted, Lady Bassington was late—thirty minutes to be exact—and Lord Nasby expressed his gratitude that no organ meats were on the menu. Everyone accepted Lord Calderon’s absence with good grace, though Lady Nasby did sniff a little and murmur to Delia that a gentleman earning a living wasn’t quite proper. Delia smiled back, reminded herself that these were Cassandra’s closest neighbors, and refrained from reminding the other woman that she, too, held a job.
Cassie, she was relieved to note, proved an able conversationalist, managing to be both a lively talker, which pleased the silent, rather dour vicar, and an encouraging listener, which helped the shy Lady Mary Nasby emerge from her shell. The party was such a triumph, in fact, that by the end, Lady Nasby deigned to mention her unmarried son to Delia, and inquired if Cassandra would be coming out in May.
It was the wee small hours of the morning before the last guests departed. Tumbling at last into bed around half past one, both relieved and exhausted, Delia expected to fall asleep at once. But sleep, perversely, refused to come.
The day had been so busy she’d had no time to think about what had happened with Simon that morning in the library, but now, as she lay in bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling of her dark and silent room, those extraordinary moments came roaring back.
So long since she’d felt desire, even longer since she’d enjoyed its completion. But instead of proving to sate her, those moments had only served to make her remember what she’d been missing. Even now, hours later, his kisses still burned her lips and sexual desire pulsed through her body, making her ache with need from head to toe.
If anyone had told her when she’d first met Simon that a mere six weeks later, she’d be engaging in torrid sexual escapades with him against the wall of his library, she’d have laughed in that person’s face, not only because of their mutual animosity during their first meeting, but also because she’d never have thought Simon capable of feeling such deep and ardent passions. Even now, the discovery seemed something of a revelation.
With three marriages to her credit, Delia had always thought herself fairly adept at managing the sterner sex, but when it came to Simon, her prior experience was no help at all.
She never knew quite where she stood with him. He could go from extraordinarily reserved to hotly erotic in the space of a heartbeat. One day he spurned her; the next day, he had her up against a wall with her skirts around her waist.
And the things he said were equally baffling.
Don’t hate me.
What a thing to say. Considering that she’d willingly let him pull up her skirts, that she’d shamelessly reveled in his mouth on hers and his hand between her thighs, and the orgasms that had rocked her body, the idea that she could ever hate him seemed ludicrous in the extreme.
Delia groaned and turned over, pressing her hot cheek into the pillow, his desperate, baffling words echoing in her head.
When it’s over, when it’s behind us…
What on earth did that mean? When what was over?
Suddenly, Delia felt a shiver of foreboding that dampened her desire, a far less delightful feeling. It was like the stirring of wind and the darkening of the sky that preceded a thunderstorm. Clearly, something was coming, something that he thought would make her hate him, but what was it?
Maybe he intended to fire her. The moment that thought entered her head, every instinct she possessed rejected it. Granted, she wasn’t always the best judge, but she just couldn’t believe Simon, of all men, would kiss her within an inch of her life, touch her the way he had, if he intended to fire her.
There were men, of course, who would have no pangs of conscience about that sort of thing, but Simon wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t that type of man at all, and despite her epically bad judgment in the past, there was nothing in the world that would make her believe him capable of such duplicity.
He might be intending to fire Ritz. Given that the two men didn’t get along, that might be a much more likely prospect, except that it seemed so unfair, and as aggravating as Simon could be sometimes, he was scrupulously fair. And even if he wanted to fire Ritz, he alone didn’t have the power to do it. Ritz had an ironclad contract. Only the board could revoke that contract with a vote, and even then, only for cause. What cause could they possibly have? A few unprofitable quarters? It seemed absurd.
Simon’s stringent fiscal management was all very well, and obviously necessary in the present circumstances, but Ritz was the Savoy. It was his imagination, his vision, that had created the most extraordinary hotel in the world. Firing him would be madness.
Throughout the night, Delia’s mind spun round and round in these futile circles. It was nearly dawn when she finally fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, and she only awakened when Susan, the housemaid, shook her shoulder with the urgent whisper that if she didn’t wake up soon, she could miss her train.
An hour later, she and Cassandra stood by the carriage saying their farewells as footmen loaded her luggage onto the boot.
“I am so grateful, Lady Stratham,” Cassandra said for the second time in as many minutes. “I really couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Nonsense. My contributions were quite minor. Never sell yourself short, my dear,” Delia added as Cassie started to protest. “Maidenly modesty is all very well, but be aware enough of your talents to have some self-confidence. You were an excellent hostess last night, and that’s what made the party go. Whenever your confidence starts to flag in the future, remember that.”
“I’ll try, but I still shudder to think how things could have gone—collapsing overcooked soufflés, or poor Lord Nasby being carried out on a stretcher with his gouty foot all wrapped up. So I can’t thank you enough.”
“The luggage is loaded, my lady,” the footman said, coming around to open the carriage door for her and roll out the steps.
“Thank you, Thomas,” Delia called over her shoulder, then reached out to give Cassandra’s shoulder an affectionate pat. “I shall see you in London when the season starts.”
“If Simon lets me come,” Cassie replied as Delia stepped into the carriage and settled herself on the tuck-and-roll leather seat. “He hasn’t agreed to allow it, you know.”
“He will once he is assured by me of how well you’ll do. I shall be giving him a full report of last night’s triumph, I promise you.”
But keeping that promise, Delia found upon her return, wasn’t going to be easy, for Simon proved as elusive as the wind. Ross could give her no clue as to his whereabouts, other than to say he was away. And when she tried to probe for more information, the secretary mumbled something about an errand he simply had to run before he went beetling off.
Monsieur Echenard, who had only just returned from his holiday in the south of France, assured Delia that he knew nothing of Lord Calderon, his whereabouts, or his schedule. And Ritz, when she asked him where his fellow manager might be, flew into a rage and suggested she stop sucking up to Calderon and tend to her own job.
Delia, though a bit stung by the implication that she wasn’t paying attention to her duties, tactfully retreated and didn’t pursue the matter any further, but during the next twenty-four hours, Simon’s ominous words continued to echo in her head, causing her apprehension to deepen.
She got even less sleep that night than she had the night before, and by Sunday evening, she was exhausted. She wished she could just fall into bed, but unfortunately, she had already made plans that evening to attend a dinner party at the home of Lord and Lady Malvers.
Returning to the Savoy afterward and hoping for a good night’s sleep, she ordered a hot-water bottle and a cup of warm milk and retired to her room, but she’d barely gotten settled beneath the sheets with the water bottle at her feet before a careless remark from her maid sent Delia’s plans skidding sideways.
“You were wondering this morning where Lord Calderon’s been, my lady? Well, I think I know.”
The girl’s expression contained such a degree of suppressed excitement that Delia was surprised. “Really? Do tell.”
“His valet was in the laundry not an hour ago,” she said, offering Delia the cup of warm milk. “And Lizzie heard him say something about a house in…” She paused, leaning closer in a confidential manner, and whispered, “St. John’s Wood.”
“St. John’s Wood?” Delia blinked, even more surprised. “What was he doing all the way up there?”
“Talk is that his lordship’s got a mistress there and he stayed the night with her.”
“What?” A pang of raw, outraged feminine jealousy radiated through her, and Simon’s last words at Ivywild once again whispered insidiously into her ear.
Don’t hate me, Delia.
Delia recovered her poise with an effort and worked to scuttle such unfounded gossip. “Nonsense. It’s not,” she added firmly, “the least bit like him.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have thought so, either, my lady. He’s never chatted up any of the maids. Never flirts with us or nothing. He’s ever so polite, always, just like a proper gentleman. Never loses his temper. And he’s a fair man; no one can deny that. Though I don’t much like the new way of having to keep count of every single thing I do every minute so Mrs. Bates can write charge tickets for it, and so I told her—”
“What makes anyone think Calderon’s got a mistress just because he stayed the night in St. John’s Wood?” Delia cut in, returning to the vital point, but even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. St. John’s Wood, though quite posh and respectable on the surface, was well-known as the place where rich men bought villas in which to keep their mistresses.
The little maid colored up. “Oh, well,” she mumbled, embarrassed, as if suddenly remembering she was talking to a proper lady, “it’s only talk. He might have been there for some other reason altogether, mightn’t he?”
The maid’s tone was wholly unconvincing, telling Delia she didn’t believe her own words. And when Delia thought back to what Simon had said to her in the library, she realized in dismay that the gossip might well be true.
When it’s over…
Those words, she realized with a pang, made more sense now.
Don’t hate me.
“Will that be all, my lady?”
Delia came out of these agonizing contemplations with a start. “Yes, thank you, Molly. You may go.”
The maid departed, and the moment she was gone, Delia set aside the milk and got out of bed, her hopes for rest forgotten. After hearing this sort of news, what woman in the world could fall asleep?
A mistress, she thought, and began to pace. She’d never, she appreciated with chagrin, thought of such a thing. Perhaps she ought to have done, and yet, it seemed curiously out of character. Not the part about having a mistress—she knew quite well by now that he was passionate enough under his starchy surface to have half a dozen mistresses. But to toy with her at the same time? Try as she might, she just couldn’t imagine Simon doing such a thing. On the other hand…
Delia turned at the wall and started back across her bedroom, nibbling absentmindedly on her thumbnail, her thoughts racing. On the other hand, did a woman ever really know the truth about men? Given her history, she certainly didn’t.
The real question, however, was why it even mattered. Why should she care if he had a mistress? It wasn’t as if that episode in the library was her first sexual experience. She knew her way around, knew that such an event, even if deliciously pleasurable, didn’t really mean much. There was no deflowering of an innocent virgin, no possibility of pregnancy, no consequences. Hell, even if someone had caught them, it would have been a bit embarrassing, but hardly a scandal. She and Simon were both mature adults, capable of a quick romp in a library without any long-lasting repercussions. So why should she care if he had a mistress?
But she did care. Cared like hell. She wanted to find that woman and rip her throat out. She wanted to find Simon and slap his face. And as she realized that, Delia also made another astonishing discovery. She cared because she was falling in love with him.
She stopped pacing, tilting back her head with a groan of dismay. Love was something she’d really hoped never to feel again. She was horrible at it. She didn’t want it. Things always got messy, complicated, and painful, leaving one bruised, battered, and thoroughly disillusioned—a consequence that seemed highly likely in this case, since she could not see Simon ever falling in love with her. Hell, half the time, he didn’t even like her. And yet…
She thought back to those moments in the library at Ivywild in agonized uncertainty. Could he really have held her, kissed her, caressed her in that scorching-hot way when he had some beautiful courtesan available to him anytime he wanted her?
Men did. Armand had taught her that.
But Simon was not Armand. Nothing like. Besides, his words to her only made sense if he’d had a mistress and had decided to break with the woman because of Delia.
If that was true, she thought with a sudden flare of outrage, why had he stayed away last night? It didn’t take that long to break off an entanglement with a courtesan.
But then, mistresses could be very artful. Had the woman persuaded him to enjoy one last fling in the hope he would change his mind and keep her? Had she succeeded?
Delia decided she was damn well going to find out.
She strode over to the armoire, opened it, and studied the contents for several moments, considering. Then she pulled out a dressing robe of gold, tangerine, and purple silk. She slipped the garment on over her cream-colored chiffon nightdress as she crossed the room to her dressing table. There, she unraveled the braid of her hair, dabbed on a bit of perfume, and pinched a bit of color into her pale cheeks. After surveying her reflection for a moment, she gave a satisfied nod, slid her room key into the pocket of her robe, and left her suite.
Tonight, she was going to end this unbearable suspense once and for all. She’d ask her questions, and depending on his answers, she was either going to throw him down onto the bed and shamelessly have her way with him at last, or she was going to tear his philandering male heart into pieces, grind it into dust, and drive him away for good.
She could only hope that his fate was the former and not the latter, and as she padded down the darkened empty corridor toward Simon’s room, she crossed her fingers that her usual tendency to fall for a cad proved to be wrong this time around.
Simon liked to think that in the six years since he’d left the army, he’d become a pretty good man of business. He’d learned how to size up a situation, weigh his options, decide a course of action, and negotiate a satisfactory outcome. Today, he’d had to do all of those things, but how successfully he’d done them, he didn’t know.
Tucking his hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling of his darkened room, reflecting on the frantic events of the past thirty-six hours.
Things had started out splendidly. The final report from the solicitors revealed that Ritz, Echenard, Escoffier, and Agostini had committed even more abuses than the ones Helen had already told him about, but in that report there had not been a single shred of evidence against Delia. Not one bottle of wine taken by her left unpaid, not one piece of clothing laundered without a charge ticket, and not a single admission from Savoy’s suppliers that she’d received any gifts. Wonderful news, and he’d arrived at the Savoy Theatre relieved and in good spirits.
And then, he’d seen Helen’s face, merciless and implacable, and from that moment on, everything had gone completely off the rails.
She’d wasted no time on polite greetings. “Did Lady Stratham enjoy her visit to Ivywild?” she’d asked in a voice as cold and hard as ice, and he’d known that at least one vote in the board meeting was not going to go Delia’s way. No lack of evidence or words from him were going to change Helen’s opinion or her vote. He knew her well enough to know that. He’d tried anyway, to no avail.
But fortunately, Helen was not the only one who had a vote, and he’d spent his evening and all day today calling on other members of the board to discuss the situation.
Helen, he soon discovered, had been busy during his absence in the country, plying the other board members with implications that Lady Stratham’s innocence was still in doubt, her loyalty to Ritz absolute, and her ability to be trusted nonexistent. He’d combated those concerns, emphasizing to the other members of the board the lack of evidence against her. He’d also shamelessly used her gender and her position as a countess to bolster the idea that she was wholly ignorant of what Ritz had been doing. Women, after all, he’d said with the dismissive, superior amusement many men were wont to use when discussing the fairer sex, knew little of finance and were easily deceived by a man of Ritz’s smarmy charm. It was laughable, of course, for no one who knew Delia could believe such nonsense, but it was the only play he’d been able to think of, and he could only hope that he’d managed to become adept enough at dodging the truth to pull it off.
And other women, he’d added, feeling no pangs of conscience about throwing Helen under the trolley after she’d gone behind his back, were known to be jealous of other women’s beauty and charm, and could be vindictive.
He arrived back at the Savoy just before midnight Sunday night, bone tired and with no idea if his efforts would bear fruit. He’d fought the good fight, but he knew that with Helen on the warpath, Delia could very well lose her job anyway.
Fortunately, he had a new post in mind for her—if she’d give him the chance to go down on one knee and propose it. Given her quick temper, he knew she might not.
Ritz, her dear friend and the mentor she revered, would be fired, disgraced, and humiliated. Like all the other men she had trusted in her life, Ritz would fall off his pedestal and all her illusions about him would be shattered. In addition, she would know the part Simon had played in bringing about the other man’s downfall, and she’d probably lay a good bit of the blame at his door. And she’d undoubtedly subject him to a thorough tongue-lashing as well.
He might mitigate the damage to his own image in her eyes by voting in Ritz’s favor, but he could not do it. He could not vote against his conscience, not even for Delia. The man was guilty and the evidence undeniable, and even though it would be hard for her, she would eventually have to accept the truth that the mentor she revered so much was crooked as a fishhook. She might also face the loss of her own job and blame Simon for that, too.
Regardless, he knew his own course was set. After it was all over, he intended to be by her side. And there he would remain, whether she wanted him or not, because that was the only way he could prove to her that there was one man in her life who would never let her down, and that man was him.
She’d need that sort of reassurance if she was ever going to agree to marry him. And marriage it had to be, for he was not the sort of man who could ever accept less. Her hints about a torrid affair were all very well, but free love had never appealed to him and never would. He was old-fashioned that way. And she wanted children; she must, or her miscarriage would never have grieved her so deeply that suicide had seemed a viable alternative.
He stared into the darkness, daring for the first time to imagine what married life with Delia would be like. Glorious, if those quixotic moments in his library were any indication. Tumultuous, no doubt, with fights and makeups, and probably many, many times when he’d act like an imbecile. Ah, well.
One thing he did know, and it made him smile: life with Delia would never, ever be dull.
By this point, he’d almost decided permanent bachelorhood was his destiny, for in his entire thirty-six years, he’d never met a woman he could see sharing a lifetime with. But then, he’d never been in love before. Lust, of course. Infatuation, certainly. But love? Never.
Until now.
He honestly had no idea if Delia felt about him as he did about her. He’d liked to have been able to say with certainty that those hot moments in the library proved her feelings and that they would remain unshaken, despite the events that would soon change her world, but he knew quite well that with Delia, nothing was certain. That was, he acknowledged ruefully, part of her charm.
But it could very well be that she did not feel as he did. She might never forgive him for keeping the truth from her. What then?
Before he could even begin to contemplate that wrenching possibility, a soft knock sounded at his door.
Simon frowned, lifting his head. What the devil?
Perhaps he’d imagined it, he thought, but then, the knock came again, a bit louder this time, and he got out of bed. He switched on the nearest electric lamp, then retrieved his dressing robe from the armoire. He slipped it on and tied the sash as he crossed the room, hoping to hell Cassandra hadn’t taken it into her head to come for another unannounced visit or that Ritz hadn’t somehow learned of his looming comeuppance and had come to his room to shoot Simon with a pistol.
Both of those possibilities seemed extremely unlikely. It must be, he decided as he reached for the doorknob, a member of the staff. Some hotel emergency, no doubt.
He opened the door to find that his third guess had been right, but the member of staff wasn’t Ricardo, or Agostini, or even his own secretary. Instead, much to his astonishment, he found Delia standing in the corridor.
She was scandalously clad in a filmy nightgown with some sort of silk kimono over it, and at once, hope leapt in his chest and desire flared in his body. Sadly, however, there was a frown on her face that made it unlikely she was there to fling herself into his arms and make mad, passionate love to him. Could she know already? he thought wildly. Could Helen, perhaps, have told her? But why would Helen—
“Just tell me one thing,” she said, cutting off the speculations rattling through his head, her voice low, brusque, and unmistakably urgent. “Do you or do you not have a mistress?”
“What?” The question was so unexpected and so ludicrous, he couldn’t help a laugh of disbelief.
“You were away last night,” she went on, “and the rumor going around the hotel is that you’ve been with your mistress at a house in St. John’s Wood.”
He rubbed his eyes, still not quite able to believe she was standing here and baffled by this nonsensical conversation. “Delia, what are you doing here? It must be after one o’clock in the morning.”
“Is it true? If it is true…” She paused, her chin lifting proudly even as her cheeks flushed a delicate, embarrassed pink. “I think I have the right to know.”
Simon didn’t know quite what to say. He knew all about St. John’s Wood, of course; most men with money did. But why Delia was coming to him at this hour to ask him about some silly rumor defeated him utterly. But then, he noted her lower lip caught worriedly between her teeth and the hint of what might be jealousy in the frown drawing her dark brows together, and he began to understand.
“People think I’ve been staying with my mistress in St. John’s Wood?” he asked, striving to sound nonchalant even as a powerful wave of exultation rose within him.
“And that you keep her in a house there,” Delia went on. “Do you deny it?”
Her jealousy was unmistakable now, and it took all the sangfroid he possessed not to smile. “I do deny it,” he said gravely, rather enjoying that he wasn’t the one assuming things for once. “I was not in St. John’s Wood. I was in Hanover Terrace. Granted, that’s right below St. John’s Wood, but not actually in it. And it wasn’t a house. It was a hotel.”
“Oh.” She looked away, and her chin quivered. “I see.”
“Why do you ask?” he said, watching her, wanting so badly to haul her into his arms and kiss her. “Are you jealous?”
She sniffed and looked at him again, donning an expression of extreme indifference that didn’t fool him for a second, sending his exultation rising higher. “Not in the least.”
“No?” he asked, unable to stop the grin that spread across his face. “Then why did you come to ask me this in the middle of the night? Why…”
He paused, his voice going dry and his grin fading away as his gaze slid down to her bare toes peeking out from beneath the frothy hem of her nightdress. It was a sight he knew he might not see again for quite some time, if ever. But at least he now knew that she cared about him. That was a start. “If you’re not jealous, why are you here, dressed like that?”
She made a scoffing sound, all her feminine pride plain to see. “You think I came because I want to show you how much more alluring I am than some courtesan in St. John’s Wood? You’re dreaming.”
One kiss, he thought. It wouldn’t be fair to take it to full completion, at least not for him, not until after she knew the truth. But a kiss, he told himself, was different; they’d already crossed that bridge and then some.
“Perhaps.” He lifted his hands to cup her face. “But if I am dreaming, for God’s sake, don’t wake me up yet.”
With that, he bent his head and kissed her.