If Delia perceived the amusement beneath his grave reply, she didn’t show it. “But Evie managed to procure some for me. How she did it, I still don’t know.”
“I begin to see why you have such a reputation as a canny shopper.”
“Oh, dear, I’ve given myself away now, haven’t I? But Evie really is a marvel. What I’d do without her, I can’t imagine. Anyway, for the Epicurean Club, she and I have dreamed up a theme of the Far East, and she’s promised to find me some exotic recipes from that part of the world. She mentioned a dish of chicken feet, if you can believe it.”
Max stared, not certain he’d heard correctly. “Chicken feet?”
“We discussed various soups as well—one made from birds’ nests and another from shark fins.”
Max had always considered himself an adventurous sort of chap, always willing to try new things, which was why he was a member of the Epicurean Club, but the food she was describing might be a bridge too far, even for him. “How...ahem...exotic.”
Delia smiled, showing the fetching dimples in her cheeks. “It’s not to my taste, but Evie assures me these are prized delicacies in Peking.”
Max wasn’t sure he found that particularly reassuring.
“In addition to the recipes,” Delia continued, “she’s also promised me a list of merchants who can provide the ingredients, and ideas for the table decorations and flowers. But she’s late with the information, which isn’t at all like her, and I’m growing concerned. I had thought to pop by and see her this afternoon, but now that I’m off to Rome, I can’t manage it. So, I’m hoping I can persuade you to call on her, pick up the information she’s compiled, and take it to Auguste.”
Max felt a bit let down. Delia’s requests weren’t usually so mundane. “I’m a duke, Delia, not a footman.”
“A good thing, since a footman would be of no use at all. I don’t need someone merely to fetch and carry. I need someone who can work with a great chef like Escoffier, who can take the information Evie’s compiled and use it to help him craft the perfect menu. That requires someone with a vast knowledge and appreciation of fine cuisine, someone of taste and discernment—”
“Stop trying to butter me up, Cousin,” he interrupted. “It never works.”
“It always works,” she corrected, laughing. “But in this case, I’m not buttering you up. You truly are the perfect person to act in my stead. You’re a member of that club, and you’ve attended many affairs of this kind.”
Despite his membership, Max didn’t see how he was the least bit suited to judge the epicurean quality of chicken feet, birds’ nests, and shark fins, but he had no chance to say so.
“César, darling!” Delia exclaimed, looking past him, and when Max turned in his seat, he saw Ritz himself coming toward them.
A dapper little man with an enormous mustache, a receding hairline, and a bit of a limp due to his habit of wearing shoes a half size too small, Ritz also had deep lines of exhaustion in his face that bore out Delia’s assessment. Running four large hotels in four different countries was clearly wearing the man to a nub.
“You’ve met my cousin, of course?” Delia went on as Ritz paused beside where they sat. “The Duke of Westbourne?”
“I have had that honor, yes.” Ritz bowed. “Your Grace, we are delighted you have come to stay with us for the London season.”
Max almost groaned aloud as this bit of information slipped from Ritz’s lips. Given that Delia worked for the hotel, it was inevitable that she would learn of his plans, but he’d hoped to at least have the chance to unpack before she pounced on him with questions. Still, the damage was done, and as Ritz bid his farewells and departed, he faced the avid gleam of curiosity in his cousin’s eyes with a resigned sigh.
“You’re in town for the entire season?” she asked. “This isn’t just a quick trip to vote on something important in the Lords, attend the banquet, and see a few old friends? Goodness,” she added as he shook his head, “I believe the planets have just stilled in their courses.”
“Really, Delia,” he said with good-humored exasperation, “you needn’t sound so shocked. I have been known to attend the season once or twice.”
“Not since your youngest sister came out, and that was half a dozen years ago, at least. Still, it makes sense now, I suppose, since you just had a birthday. Your...thirty-second, isn’t it?” She leaned closer, studying him with disconcerting thoroughness. “I do believe I see a tiny hint of gray in your hair.”
Instinctively, Max touched a hand to the few—very few—silvery strands at his temple. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”
“A good thing, if it’s made you see sense after so long,” she said, blithely ignoring his reply. “But why stay at the Savoy? You’ve a splendid London residence. Why not reside there for the season?”
“Rattle around in that enormous house on my own? How absurd.”
“Is it absurd, given why you’re here?”
Though it was probably a futile exercise, Max donned an air of bewilderment. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“Don’t be coy. It’s clear you’ve decided to remarry at last. The family will be relieved not to see the dukedom go back to the crown. And what better place than London in May to choose the perfect duchess?”
Max didn’t tell her his choice had already been made. Instead, he attempted to dissemble. “You really do adore jumping to conclusions, dear Cousin.”
If he’d hoped this tactic would veer Delia off the topic, he was disappointed. “Well, it’s the same conclusion your sisters will jump to, if you stay more than a few weeks. And once they figure out what you’re really up to, they’ll be down like a shot.”
