19
Delia propped her elbow on the arm of the settee in her suite at the Bristol and rested her chin in her hand, staring disinterestedly through the doorway at her new maid, who was packing her trunks for Paris. Normally, a trip to Paris would fill her with delight, but not this time. Turning away, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Only midmorning, she thought with a sigh, and she already felt tired.
“What do you think of these, my lady?”
Delia opened her eyes and turned her head toward the bedroom where Bartlett was holding up two evening gowns.
“Leave the ciel-blue satin,” Delia told her. “I’m not going to any balls in Paris, so I won’t need a ball gown.”
“You might be invited to a ball, my lady. One never knows.”
“There won’t be time for such things. Ritz will have me working most of that time, if I know that man at all. No, put the satin back in the armoire. But pack the tangerine silk. I might have need of that. Marie-Louise may drag us off to some dinner party somewhere.”
The maid returned to the bedroom, and Delia once again leaned back and closed her eyes, overwhelmed by a weariness of spirit that was all too familiar.
The past few days had been utter hell. Stories about Ritz’s departure—and hers—from the Savoy had been the stuff of lurid speculation in every London paper. Interestingly enough, nothing about those absurd accusations of fraud had leaked out. Simon had assured her that would be the case, but given his duplicity during the past two months, she was hardly feeling inclined to be grateful.
During the past three days, her emotions had run the gamut—pain, love, and betrayal had all come and gone, leaving her now both spent and weary. She’d been here so many times before, and she was once again baffled at her own willful blindness when it came to men she loved.
Not surprisingly, such self-recrimination hadn’t helped boost her spirits. Nor had blaming Simon done much good, either. Her mood remained as bleak as a winter’s day.
For the second time, Ritz had come to her rescue. He’d told her he was taking his wife, Marie-Louise, and the children to Paris, and he thought she might like to come, too. Not only would she have the chance to see the progress made on the Paris hotel, she could pick which of the staff offices she preferred, hire a secretary, and start looking for an apartment. And, Ritz had added with his uncanny knack for knowing just what she needed, she might like to be away from London and the wild stories that were circulating in the press.
With happy relief, she had agreed. She’d hired a maid, notified her family, and written a carefully worded letter to Cassandra Hayden, explaining that something had come up and that she would not be able to launch her for her London debut, but promising to find someone willing to chaperone the girl in her stead.
It was, she knew, a rather craven thing to do, but she couldn’t bear the idea of seeing Simon, being near him, deceiving herself into thinking she could trust him. And anyway, she was moving to Paris when Ritz opened the new hotel in June. Wasn’t she?
Feeling the need to move, she stood up and walked to the window. From here, she could see the tip of the spire decorating the roof of the Savoy. There would be no hothouse banquet room up there now, she realized.
Stupid tears stung her eyes, and Delia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep them at bay.
“Everything’s packed, my lady.”
With relief, Delia turned from the window. “Excellent. Thank you, Bartlett.”
“Of course, my lady. If you’d just look things over, and make sure I’ve got everything you’ll need, I’ll go down to fetch a footman and order a cab. We’ve got only an hour before we catch the train for Dover.”
The maid went out, and Delia went to the bedroom, where trunks, valises, and hatboxes lay open on the floor. She glanced through them, noting that Bartlett was proving to be an excellent lady’s maid. Not a thing had been forgotten.
She straightened, staring down at the clothes and hats without a speck of enthusiasm. Her heart felt like a ten-ton weight in her chest, and the idea that she might soon be leaving England for good was like a hard, tight knot in her stomach.
She didn’t want to go. But would staying in London be better? Cassie would be coming out, which meant even if she didn’t launch the girl herself, she’d surely see Simon if she remained here. How could she bear that?
A knock on the door of her suite roused Delia from these depressing contemplations. Relieved by the distraction, she returned to the sitting room and opened the door to find a boy of perhaps twelve standing in the corridor.
“Delivery for Lady Stratham,” the boy said.
“I’m Lady Stratham.”
“Here you are, my lady.” The boy held out a large envelope containing a thick sheaf of papers. “From Lord Calderon.”
At the mention of Simon, Delia’s heart gave a leap, but she quelled any foolish excitement. Why should she want to read a letter from him?
She took the packet anyway. “Thank you. What’s your name?” she asked as she tucked the envelope under her arm and reached for her handbag from the table by the door.
“Joseph, my lady.”
“And do you work for the hotel, Joseph?” she asked as she opened her bag and extracted a half crown from the coin pocket.
“What, the Bristol? No, my lady. I’m at the Clarendon.”
The Clarendon. So that was where Simon was staying. Not that she cared, of course. She was going to Paris. And it wasn’t likely she’d care when she got back, either, she reminded herself firmly.
The boy tipped his cap and started to turn away, making her remember her manners. “Thank you, Joseph,” she said, holding out the coin.
The boy took it, tipped his cap again, and departed. Shutting the door behind him, Delia stared at the envelope in her hands, studying the direction written in Simon’s precise copperplate script. She had no idea what had inspired him to write her pages and pages, but she couldn’t bear to read justifications and explanations and declarations of love. Not now. The pain was still too fresh.
She tossed the envelope onto the table, but then, on impulse, she picked it up. She returned to the bedroom and shoved the letter into the side pocket of her valise. She’d read it later. Maybe.
“Well, gentlemen?” Simon leaned back on the settee of his hotel sitting room, lifting his glass of whisky as he glanced back and forth between the other two men in his suite at the Clarendon. “Shall I have my solicitors draw up a partnership agreement? Or do you wish to take more time to consider?”
“No need for more time as far as I’m concerned,” the Duke of Westbourne said at once and lifted his whisky glass. “I’m in.”
Simon turned to the man seated beside him. “Well, Devlin?”
His best friend frowned, gesturing to the man across from him with his whisky glass. “I’d feel better about this whole venture if I had more shares than he does.”
“There are other investors,” Simon reminded. “Wilson Rycroft, Lord Hever… And anyway, I own the controlling interest, so I have final say when you two get quarrelsome.”
“You’ll have no quarrels from me,” the duke assured him. “As long as he doesn’t spirit another underage friend of my sisters off to Gretna Green in the dead of night.”
“If you’re implying,” Devlin began, but Simon cut him off.
“Gentlemen, enough,” he said, his incisive voice making it clear to both men there would be no quarrels, at least not today. “Well, Devlin, are you in or out?”
Devlin heaved a sigh. “Of course I’m in. You know I can never turn down a good business deal.”
“Excellent,” Simon replied with profound relief. “Perhaps one day you two could even become friends.”
“Don’t count on it,” the other two said in unison, making him grin.
“To new beginnings,” he said and held up his glass.
The other two put aside their animosity enough to echo this optimistic sentiment, and the three men clinked glasses, swallowed the last of their whisky, and stood up.
After handshakes all around and an agreement to meet three days hence to sign the papers, Simon escorted the other two men downstairs to the hotel lobby. As Devlin went to see the doorman about a hansom cab, Simon took advantage of this private moment with the duke.
“Have you heard from Delia?” he asked.
Westbourne nodded. “I got a letter from her just before I came down. She’s in Paris.”
“Paris?” Dismay knotted his guts like a fist. “She’s decided to take up Ritz’s job offer then?”
But to his profound relief, the duke shook his head. “She’s only gone to have a look at things there. She’ll make a decision when she gets back, she said.”
Simon drew a deep, steadying breath. “And when will that be?” he asked, striving to sound as casual as possible.
“She didn’t say. Ah,” he added, glancing past Simon’s shoulder. “I believe the hansom has arrived.”
Simon walked out with him, said farewell to both men, and noted with amused chagrin that Devlin had ordered two hansoms. Despite having just formed a business partnership that included the duke, and despite the fact that both men were going to the West End, Devlin’s opinion of Westbourne hadn’t softened enough to share a cab. Ah, well. Perhaps with time, Simon could effect a more amiable truce there. After all, Devlin was his best friend, and if his hopes ever came to fruition, Westbourne would become his cousin-in-law.
But the latter would only happen, he thought, his smile fading, if he could persuade Delia to marry him. And at this point, that prospect wasn’t looking too promising.
Defying the confidentiality agreements he’d signed, he’d sent her the investigators’ reports, thinking that reading the actual documented proof would show her the extent of Ritz’s guilt. Simon had also hoped subjecting himself to a civil lawsuit that could financially wreck him would demonstrate to her that he was worthy of her trust, but neither of those hopes appeared likely to come true. She’d gone to Paris anyway.
During the week ahead, Ritz would be working on her, dazzling her with his grandiose plans and schemes, but as nauseating a prospect as that was, there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was ensure that when she returned, he was in a position to make an offer of his own that might, just might, appeal to her more. If not—
“Simon?”
The sound of a feminine voice calling his name caused his heart to give a leap. But he knew it wasn’t Delia’s voice, and when he turned toward the front desk, the sight of Helen standing there confirmed the fact.
She spoke before he could do so. “Forming new alliances, I see,” she said, nodding to the door through which Max and Devlin had just departed.
“I didn’t have much choice.”
“Well, you certainly burned your bridges with the old allies,” she said with a touch of wry humor he could not share. “I’m the one who persuaded Astonby not to press charges, by the way.”
He met the amusement in her eyes with a hard look of his own. “Is that why you came? To show me what a Lady Bountiful you are? Then why are you here?” he asked when she shook her head.
“I regret things happened the way they did.”
“But you don’t regret the part you played in them?”
“No.”
“Anything else?” he asked.
“You were right, you know,” she said. “When you told me that my own suffering is why I dislike Lady Stratham. I know I ought to have some sympathy for her, since she’s lost three husbands and I know I’m losing mine. But I couldn’t feel that, because I was jealous as hell. You see, despite her pain from losing three husbands, she has never lost her zest for life, and I can feel myself slowly losing mine. When Richard dies, I think I will just dry up and wither away.”
He stirred, impatient. “Is this a bid for my sympathy?”
“No, actually. I just wanted you to know that you were right. That’s why I was so vehement about her guilt. I wanted her to be guilty.”
“And yet, after you knew she wasn’t guilty, you worked to have her dismissed anyway. And you succeeded.”
“As I told you, I did what I felt was best for the Savoy. You may trust that woman completely, but I do not have that luxury. I am a woman of business, you see.”
He heard the bitterness in her voice, but he was unsure what she expected him to say or how she expected him to feel. “I’m quite busy, Helen. Is there a point to this little visit or not?”
“I heard you’ve been visiting house agents.”
“How do you know that?”
“You called on Smythe, Ellis, and Hall, the house agents Richard and I use.”
“What of it?”
Instead of answering, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a card. She handed it to him without a word.
He glanced at it. “Jessop and Davis, Piccadilly,” he read. “So?”
“I take it you have not seen them yet?”
“No.”
“You should.” She turned away. “I’ve already told Mr. Jessop to expect you.”
He frowned at her retreating back, puzzled. “But what—”
“Good luck, Simon,” she called as she walked away, but then she paused and looked at him over her shoulder. “To both of you.”
With that, she walked out of the hotel, leaving a bemused Simon staring after her. He doubted Helen’s wish to regain his goodwill would ever come to fruition. Her wish for him to have good luck, on the other hand, he’d gladly accept, for he feared that when it came to winning Delia over, he was going to need every scrap of luck he could get.