20
Well, mon chéri,” Ritz said, smiling at Delia as they settled into chairs at a Parisian café in the Place Vend?me, “what do you think?”
“They’ve done so much,” Delia exclaimed, leaning back as a waiter poured coffee for them. “Really, César, I can hardly believe it. When I was here in January, I despaired at the idea of a June opening. I didn’t think we’d ever be ready. I thought surely you’d need more time.”
The dapper little man across from her smiled into his mustache. “Money can always accomplish great things. I say I want to open in June, and comme ?a.” He paused to snap his fingers. “It happens.”
“That’s always been your way,” she agreed. “And it shows in this hotel. You’ve done incredible things here. I just know it is going to be the finest hotel in the world.”
“You have been a part of making it so, don’t forget.”
That was true, she supposed, and yet, as she glanced at the hotel across the square, she felt no sense of accomplishment. Curiously, she felt nothing at all.
“Now that you have toured the suites,” he said, breaking into her thoughts, “have you picked which one you wish to make your own?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t, actually.”
“But why not? I told you that you could have your pick.”
“I know, but…”
She paused, Simon’s words from their first meeting echoing through her brain.
Suites are a valuable commodity to the hotel.
As she had done more times than she could count during the past two weeks, she shoved that man out of her mind. “Oh, I don’t know,” she answered with a laugh. “Perhaps it’s because none of this seems quite real. I haven’t yet accepted your offer, you know.”
“But you will.”
Such a complacent reply irked her a little. She was accustomed to Ritz’s arrogance, of course. He wouldn’t have become the most famous hotelier in the world without that particular trait. On the other hand, his arrogance had been part of the reason he’d been so ignominiously dismissed from the Savoy. Richard had said as much, according to Ritz’s own account of his firing.
Either way, this quality in Ritz’s character was something she’d accepted long ago. It couldn’t be the reason she was hesitating, could it? And it certainly couldn’t be because she harbored any romantic hopes about Simon. That was all over. So what was making her hesitate?
During the past ten days, as they had toured the hotel and surveyed the progress of carpenters, tradesmen, and decorators, she’d felt enveloped in a dreamlike haze. As usual, Ritz had asked for her opinions and solicited her advice, but not once had he asked her for her acceptance of his offer, and now she appreciated that was because he’d taken that acceptance completely for granted. She, however, was not quite so sanguine, and she did not understand why.
“Either way,” she said, neatly sidestepping in case Ritz did actually press her for a formal answer, “I’m not really sure I want to live in the hotel. It was all very well before. I mean, after Hamish died, I had to leave Stratham House and I had no home of my own, so living at the Savoy was quite convenient. But after five years of living in a hotel, I’ve grown a bit tired of it.”
“Lease an apartment, then. There are several nearby.”
“I know. I looked at a few, but…” Delia paused, wriggling a little in her chair, hating to be put on the spot this way, so she took refuge in flippancy. “But they are so expensive. When the house agents told me the rent, I nearly keeled over.”
“My dear!” Ritz stared at her, looking stricken. “Is that what makes you hesitate? I had no idea you were strapped for cash. All the years we have known each other, and I have never known this. You should have told me.”
She wasn’t short of money, not in the least, but she seized on the excuse. “Oh, you know how it is with my lot,” she countered lightly. “We don’t talk about money.”
“Of course, but it’s not a problem at all. I can easily fix you up.”
Delia blinked, bewildered. “Fix me up?” she echoed. “How?”
He shrugged. “The usual way, of course. The hotel will extend you credit.”
“Oh,” she said, relieved by that reply, though she wasn’t quite sure what she’d been expecting him to say. “I know we have extended credit to hotel guests in the past, but I’m not a guest, and anyway, I do hate charging things. When the bills come due, they are always so much higher than one expects.”
“But, my dear, you are my friend. For my friends, the bill never comes due!”
She stared, riveted, more of Simon’s words echoing in her head.
And extending credit to his friends who never pay? Is that promotional, too?
“I wasn’t sure,” she said, keeping her voice carefully noncommittal, “that sort of thing was possible.”
He chuckled. “I had no idea you were so na?ve, my dear.”
“Neither did I,” she murmured with feeling. “But I’m getting a quick education. Do—” She broke off and gave a little cough. “Do very many of our friends do this?” she asked, striving to keep her voice as casual as possible. “Charge things to the hotel and not pay for it?”
“Of course! Friends, employees—”
“Employees, too?” she cut in.
“Of course. In return, they are loyal to me. They do what I want done and do not question it.”
“Including me,” she murmured.
“When you came to work for me, I thought you understood all this. I assumed you did not take advantage of these opportunities because you had no need to do so, but now I see that you simply didn’t know how it works. Still, there is no need for you to worry about the cost of your apartment. The hotel will pay for it.”
“Do your fellow investors know that?”
He waved that aside as if it didn’t matter. “I decide these things. They do not need the details.”
This, she realized, was what the investigation had revealed to the Savoy board and why the hotel had not been making a profit. Not just a few bottles of wine or credit to aristocratic clientele, but fraud on a massive scale. As Simon had told her.
Delia felt sick to her stomach, nauseated not only by this entire scheme, but also by her own unknowing part in it. She’d always assumed that most people were like her—that they paid their bills eventually, that their loyalty to Ritz stemmed from respect and affection, not bribery. “Is this how it’s always been?”
“Of course.”
Once again, she’d been a mug. How many times did that have to happen before she learned her lesson? When it came to judging the character of men, she was hopeless. Granted, her fondness for Ritz was platonic, not romantic, but still… Her only comfort was that she wasn’t the only one who had been fooled. It had taken Richard and Helen eight years to figure out what was going on. “The Savoy board didn’t seem to understand that this is how it works,” she murmured. “That was why we all got fired.”
“Bah!” he said contemptuously. “They have no imagination, no vision, no idea what is needed to run a great hotel. But here—” He broke off and leaned back, spreading his arms in an expansive gesture that included the nearby Ritz hotel. “Here we will show them how it is done. Here…”
Ritz’s voice droned on, but Delia scarcely heard. Simon had wanted to tell her about these schemes, but he’d been unable to do so. Something about legalities and confidentiality agreements.
He should have told her anyway. He should have trusted her. She had trusted him.
But had she, really? The moment her trust had been tested, she’d turned him away. If he had broken his promise of silence, would she have listened?
She rubbed a hand across her forehead, her thoughts spinning in circles. How could she ever again know who to believe about anything? Who to trust?
So, if I had broken promises made before I met you, that would make me trustworthy in your eyes?
She’d answered yes, because if he’d told her, they could have faced it together, decided what to do together. If only he had trusted her, if he had explained—
Perhaps he had. Delia stiffened, remembering the letter he’d sent her, a thick enclosure of multiple sheets. She’d thought it merely a reiteration of what he’d already said, with perhaps a plea for her to understand, but what if it was exactly what she’d asked for: a gesture of trust?
Delia lurched to her feet. “Pardon me, César, but I’m not feeling well. I have to go.”
César stood up. “Of course, my dear. Shall Marie-Louise and I see you for dinner? Or is it serious enough that you need a doctor?”
“No doctor,” she said and reached for her handbag. “And no dinner. And,” she added, meeting his gaze across the table, “no job. I’m not taking it. I appreciate the offer,” she rushed on before he could reply, “but I don’t want to live in Paris, César. I want to stay in England. My life is there. Good luck to you.”
She turned away from his astonished face and ran across the square toward the hotel, sending the pigeons into startled flight, feeling a bit like them.
For the past ten days, she’d felt like a bird who’d crashed into a window—dazed and numb, paralyzed by pain and indecision, mired in self-doubt because of all her past mistakes—but now she knew it was time to fly again. To try again.
Darting between workmen, she sped through the lobby of the hotel, up the only working lift, down a corridor, and into her room that still smelled of fresh paint. She earned herself a startled look from Bartlett as she ran past her, unstrapped her travel valise, and yanked out the envelope. With shaking hands, she broke the seal, opened the envelope, and pulled out the papers Simon had sent her.
One glance at the top page told her this was not a letter at all. And the first typewritten lines told her that Simon had given her exactly what she’d asked for. Exhilarated, relieved, and suddenly gloriously happy, she laughed out loud.
“My lady?”
She looked up to find Bartlett staring at her askance. “Is something wrong?”
“No, Bartlett,” she cried, waving the thick sheaf of papers in the air. “Everything is absolutely right. Start packing my things, please. We’re returning to London.”
Simon leaned over the desk of his new office, studying the plans of the hotel in which he stood. Old and yellowed with faded ink, they were difficult to read. “So, in your opinion, the kitchens will need a complete gutting?”
“évidemment.” The Frenchman opposite him gave a shrug. “The ovens, the ranges… they are ancient. And the plumbing.” He gave a shudder. “Mon Dieu.”
Simon nodded, not the least bit surprised. During his first tour of the place with Mr. Jessop, he’d only needed one glance at the kitchens to know everything would need to be redone there. And the kitchens were not the only problem. According to Jessop and Davis, the Mayfair hadn’t had any renovation in nearly forty years. Draperies, mattresses, and bedding were all below the way things ought to be…
Surely you wouldn’t want the guests to sleep on lumpy mattresses with yellowing sheets and rotting drapes, would you?
As Delia’s words from their very first meeting went through his head, he smiled. How they had butted heads that first day, and many more times since then, too. They were still doing that, obviously, or she’d be here with him now. They could be looking over hotel plans together, battling over the budget, perhaps even planning their own wedding. If only…
Two weeks she’d been in Paris. Two weeks for Ritz to harden her more against him and justify himself. And against that, what did he have? A thirty-page report from the Savoy’s private investigators.
Would it be enough?
Given that two weeks had passed with no word from her, he feared it wasn’t. Surely she’d read it by now. Perhaps he ought to have followed her to Paris. He’d thought it best not to push her too hard. Better, he’d thought, to give her breathing space; but that choice had come with its own set of risks. It had given Ritz an unfettered opportunity to work on her. A Hobson’s choice, if ever there was one. He was banking on the fact that she hadn’t agreed to Ritz’s job offer straightaway, hoping with all his heart that he was the reason she was hesitating. Would that hope prove true, or would it be the most colossal mistake he’d ever made?
“Vicomte?”
Roused from these agonized contemplations, Simon returned his attention to his newly hired chef de cuisine and their plans for renovating the kitchens of the hotel he’d just bought. “And the electricity, Monsieur Frossard? I assume you will want that as—”
A cough interrupted him, and he looked past Monsieur Frossard to find Ross in the doorway of his office.
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but you have a delivery in the lobby.”
“The lobby? Well, bring it in here, then.”
He started to return his attention to the architectural drawings spread across his desk, but then Ross spoke again.
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but bringing it here will be… difficult. Impossible, I should say. Might I suggest you come and see for yourself?”
Simon capitulated with a sigh. “Monsieur Frossard, if you will pardon me for a moment?”
“But of course.”
Given this assent, Simon stepped around the piles of not-yet-unpacked crates and boxes that had been brought here from the Clarendon this morning, started down the dimly lit corridor, and entered the main lobby, where he came to a startled, stunned stop.
All he saw was color—every possible shade of pink and purple nature had ever invented seemed spread out before him. Flowers, he realized—masses of them. But not just any flowers.
Hyacinths.
Vases and pots of them covered the desks and the tables. Gigantic sculptures of them in the shapes of cones, balls, squares, and animals stood on the floor. Baskets of them stood on chairs. In the middle of it all was an arbor covered with them. And under it, in a dress of buttercup yellow that was like a burst of pure sunshine, stood Delia.
“What the devil?” he muttered, staring at her, too stunned to move. “Delia?”
From beneath the brim of an enormous hat of white straw, yellow ribbons, and purple hyacinths, she studied him, biting her lip. “I’m hoping,” she said after a moment, “we might call a truce?”
Joy rumbled within his chest—joy, relief, and exhilaration—and he began to laugh.
As if galvanized by the sound, she moved, running toward him, zigzagging her way among the flowers like a gazelle.
He moved as well, meeting her halfway, catching her up in his arms and hauling her against his chest. He ducked his head beneath her hat, kissing her mouth, her cheeks, her chin, her nose. “My God,” he said and kissed her again just to be sure she was real. “My God.”
“I suppose that’s a yes?” she said, laughing.
“How could I not say yes to an offer of truce like this?” he countered, sliding her down to set her on her feet again. “But are you really here? When did you get back, and what in blazes took you so long, and how did you know where to find me?”
These questions, fired in such rapid succession, made her laugh. “I arrived three days ago. The Clarendon told me you were at the Mayfair now, and they were forwarding your mail here, but I don’t see how you could be living here, since the sign outside says the place is closed for renovations.”
“And so it is. I’m the only one living here at the moment. Well, me and Ross. I bought the place.”
“What?”
“Not only me. I formed a new investment group with Devlin and your cousin Westbourne.”
“Max? And Devlin Sharpe? In a company together? Heavens.”
“You’re not the only one who can forge truces, my love.”
“Obviously not, but Devlin Sharpe?” She made a face. “Did it have to be him?”
“Don’t start,” he admonished. “Devlin’s top-drawer. You’ll just have to trust me on that. But,” he added as she groaned, “I haven’t told you the most surprising part of it all. Helen is the one who told me the Mayfair Hotel was for sale. She sent me to the house agents Jessop and Davis so they could show me this property before it officially went up for sale.”
“She did?” Delia sniffed, clearly skeptical. “Then there’s something wrong with it. Drains or boilers or something. Helen,” she added as he laughed, “would never pass off a good business deal to someone else, especially someone she now sees as an enemy.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the drains,” he assured her, “or the boilers. I had everything inspected by experts. No, I actually think it was her way of offering a truce. Like hyacinths, you know. Speaking of which…”
He paused, glanced around, and laughed again. “You really are the most unexpected woman I’ve ever known. How on earth did you manage this?”
“I cut my decorating teeth at the Savoy, my darling. Ritz taught me you can do anything with enough imagination and money. And no,” she added, pressing her gloved fingers over his mouth as he started to reply, “I’m not telling you how much it cost, so don’t even ask.”
“I won’t,” he assured her. “The expense didn’t even occur to me.”
“A miracle.” She cupped his cheek. “I must be rubbing off on you.”
He reproved her with another kiss, this one into her palm. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, then glanced around, shaking his head. “You must have bought every hyacinth in London.”
“I really think I did. The flower sellers won’t have any available for the local churches in time for Easter, I fear.”
He grinned. “Their loss, then. Does this mean—” He paused, taking a deep breath, not wanting to make assumptions. With Delia, that always got him into trouble. “Does this mean you aren’t moving to Paris and taking up Ritz’s offer?”
“It does.” She slid her arms up, wrapping them around his neck. “I came back to see if that other offer was still open.”
“So my letter convinced you? Well then, damn it, woman,” he added before she could reply, “what took you so long to come back? It doesn’t take two weeks to read a letter.”
“What you sent me wasn’t a letter, it was a tome. And anyway, I didn’t even read it.”
He blinked. “You didn’t? But then…” He paused, pulling back so he could look fully into her face. “I sent it to show you that I trust you and that you can trust me.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But you didn’t read it?”
“No.”
He must have looked as disconcerted as he felt, because she laughed. “I didn’t have to read it, Simon. I knew what you’d done and why the second I saw the letterhead at the top.” She sobered, her laughter fading. “I know it took me a while to open it, but I was so hurt. I thought it was just some long-winded explanation from you, justifying what you did, and I was in no mood for that. I thought you were just my latest romantic mistake. I mean, falling in love with the wrong man seems to be my special gift, you know. But then, when I was with Ritz talking about the new hotel, some of the things he said made me see him in a whole other light. He was my mentor, my friend. I worshiped him.”
“Yes, I know,” he said with feeling.
“I thought he could do no wrong, but then, suddenly, I realized that you and the board were right about him.”
He stared at her, hardly able to believe it. “How did that happen if you didn’t even read the report?”
“He offered to let the hotel pay for my apartment.”
“That scoundrel. He hasn’t learned a thing.”
“That’s when I realized he and the others had been skimming off the Savoy profits for years in ways that went far beyond the trivial things I knew about, and I couldn’t look the other way about it. I knew at that moment that I had picked yet another wrong man in whom to place my trust, but that it wasn’t you. It was him. And I caught the next train for home.”
“A miracle,” he said, having no idea what else to say but to repeat her own words back to her. “I must be rubbing off on you.”
“You are. I really think you must be, because when Ritz was showing me the new hotel, I was adding up what everything cost, and even I was a bit staggered. Don’t misunderstand me. I still believe Ritz is a wonderful hotelier. He is,” she added as he scoffed. “And the Paris Ritz is going to be the most famous, amazing hotel in the world.”
“If it stays afloat.”
“If it stays afloat,” she agreed. “And it might not, the way he’s spending money like water.”
“My Delia becoming frugal,” he said and kissed her nose. “Definitely a miracle.”
“That’s not even the biggest miracle of all, though.”
“No?” He smiled, sliding his arms around her waist. “What is?”
“I’ve finally fallen in love with a man I really can trust. And who trusts me, trusts me enough that he risked everything he’s worked for to prove it to me. And that’s you.”
“I’m glad you know that, my darling. So you’ll marry me? Are you sure? If you’re not, and you want to think it over, I’ll wait however long it takes.”
Her black brows came together in a little frown, but her mouth was a teasing curve. “For someone who was so sure he was the right man for me a few days ago, you’re not sounding very sure now.”
“It wasn’t a few days ago,” he grumbled. “It was fourteen days, one hour, and about seventeen minutes ago.”
“Been counting the hours, have you?” She smiled, the little devil, clearly pleased that he’d been suffering in an agony of suspense.
“Don’t tease. Are you going to marry me or not?”
“Yes, Simon,” she said so meekly that he was instantly suspicious, and then she looked around and added, “but only if you promise to let me be the one to do up this place. It could certainly use a decorator.”
“Decorator?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, darling. I’ve already hired someone to handle that.”
“Oh.” Her face fell, making her look like a little girl who’d been told there wasn’t going to be a Christmas. “I see.”
“I have a different job in mind for you.”
“Wife, I suppose. Viscountess. Mother to our children. If—” She broke off and cleared her throat. “If we have any,” she whispered.
“Either way,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose, “there’s another role for you as well, if you want it.”
“What’s that?”
“This hotel needs a general manager.”
She pulled back, staring at him, looking so stunned that he laughed.
“I believe I’ve rendered you speechless,” he said. “Wonders never cease.”
“Well…” She paused, clearly confounded. “Me as general manager of the Mayfair? But don’t you want to do it?”
“I’ve already got four other hotels under my purview. And Jessop and Davis have two hotels by the sea they want me to consider as well. If I’m going to take on all that, I’ll need help.”
“And you want it to be me? But, Simon, you know how I am. I’m extravagant and over-the-top, and I’m horrible at keeping track of expenses, and—”
“That,” he interrupted tenderly, “is why you have me. I’ll keep you in line.”
One of her eyebrows rose, warning him he might have some trouble with that notion. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really,” he said firmly, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her.