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 theair. “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.
