“Nothing.”
That completely truthful reply didn’t seem to impress him. “You really are a devil, Cousin.”
“Max!” she chided. “What an odious thing to say.”
“But accurate. I know you.” He nodded to the entrance doors nearby, where the cab Stowell had ordered was waiting for him. “Can I drop you somewhere?”
“No, no.” She gestured to the nearby dining room. “I have a lunch appointment here. Lord Synby wants a dinner for his club in February, and we’re meeting to discuss the details. He’ll adore it when I tell him we now require a 20 percent deposit in advance for banqueting services.”
“I’m sure you’ll handle the situation beautifully.”
Synby was the sort of peer with whom one did not discuss such tiresome matters as money. He’d be heartily offended, she had no doubt, but if he were so put out that he canceled the affair or the members of his club went elsewhere, the consequences would be on Calderon’s head, not hers. He’d be hoisted with his own petard.
The thought made her smile.
“Why are you looking like the Cheshire cat all of a sudden?” Max asked, frowning.
“No reason,” she lied, even as her smile widened. “Goodbye, darling. Give Evie my best. I hope while the two of you are idling away your time, enjoying country life, you’ll think of me down here slaving away.”
“Delia,” he began, giving her a look of warning. “I hope you’re not going to make trouble.”
She laughed. “I shan’t dream of it. I mean what I say,” she insisted,crossing a hand over her heart and looking as innocent as possible. “I will not do anything to cause trouble. Not a single thing. I promise.”
She turned away, but Max’s voice echoed back to her as she started toward the restaurant. “Poor Calderon. I almost feel sorry for the fellow.”
“Me too,” she murmured under her breath and laughed again. “Me too.”
4
This is outrageous!” Lord Synby flung down his napkin. “Deposits in advance? Simply outrageous!”
“I know, I know,” Delia murmured with the appropriate show of sympathy, spreading her hands in a helpless gesture. “But what can one do?”
“The members shall take our business elsewhere. The Bristol,” he added with injured dignity, “will be delighted to host the banquet for one of London’s most distinguished clubs without any nonsense.”
His reaction wasn’t a surprise to Delia, but she put on an expression of shock and dismay. “Oh, no! Dear Lord Synby, please don’t go to the Bristol. Surely we can work around this bagatelle.”
“Good woman, this is not a trifling matter. It’s an insult. I shall tell Ritz so.”
She bit her lip in apology. “I’m afraid Ritz is in Rome. And dear Mr. Echenard is on holiday. Lord Calderon is in charge while the two men are away.”
“Calderon? Lord Calderon, you say? Don’t know him.”
“No? Viscount Calderon. Fought in the Boer War, I understand, and saved a general.”
“Oh, that fellow.” Synby, the twelfth of the Synby earls and adescendent of Tudors, gave a disparaging snort. “And he’s running things?”
“For the moment. The Savoy has been so successful, and Ritz and Echenard so inundated—poor fellows—that the members of the board decided the two men needed help, so they have brought in Lord Calderon to assist.”
“A peer managing a hotel?” Synby sounded scandalized.
“Calderon is a member of the Savoy’s board of directors, you see, and the other members felt he could be of some assistance.”
“And he made this decision about the deposits? Well, what can you expect from a man whose title is as shiny as a new penny? It’s clear he doesn’t know the ropes.”
Delia took a bite of her baba au rhum and made a vague sound that might have been agreement with the earl’s point of view or merely a sigh of appreciation for Escoffier’s wonderful dessert.
“The Queen’s handing out titles like candy these days,” the earl went on, shaking his head. “It won’t do, Lady Stratham. Won’t do.”
