“A budget?” As she repeated the words, Delia thought of Escoffier and Mrs. Bates, and began to get an inkling of what was making everyone so cross today. But what had prompted this notion of budgets? Surely not Ritz. Extravagance was that man’s middle name. Michel spoke again, however, before she could inquire.
“Since you were not here, I was asked to make a budget for the flowers. I did, based on what you and I had discussed, and I was immediately told to reduce it by 20 percent.” He tossed down the pruning shears with a thud. “Twenty percent? What am I? A worker of miracles?”
“But who would—”
“I explained that the only way I could do what he asked was to buy whatever late blooms the flower sellers had left from their winter inventory.”
“And Ritz found that acceptable? I don’t believe it. He knows better than anyone the importance of seasonal flowers to the hotel’s ambience. He would never expect you to settle for last season’s leftovers. Never.”
Michel waved his hand impatiently in the air. “It is not Ritz of whom I speak. Ritz has gone to Italy.”
“Italy? But when he was leaving Paris, he told me he was coming back to London.”
“And he did, but then he left again. Some catastrophe has arisen at the new hotel in Rome. If he were here, perhaps none of this would be happening.”
“But what of Echenard? He would never make such a decision, either.”
“Echenard does not matter. He has been overruled; you comprehend?”
Delia did not comprehend anything. At this point, she was completely at sea. “But Echenard is Ritz’s second-in-command, and I am third. Who could possibly—”
The bell over the front entrance of the shop jangled, interrupting her, and Michel glanced past her, looking through the open doorway of the workroom to see who had entered his domain.
Delia, however, had no intention of allowing him to be diverted from the crisis at hand. “Michel, I don’t understand any of this. No one but Ritz or Echenard has the authority to countermand my instructions.”
“Someone does,Madame,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he looked at her again. “Now, someone does.”
All this ambiguity was beginning to make her as frustrated as everyone else. “Michel, for heaven’s sake, stop talking in riddles and tell me what’s going on! What prize idiot decided it was a good idea to turn our lovely spring bouquets into winter’s last gasp?”
“The prize idiot in question,” a deep male voice behind her replied in carefully enunciated, painfully bad French, “would be me.”
Delia turned to find a man standing in the doorway of the florist’s workroom—a man so attractive, she knew she’d never seen him before. From the moment she had first put on a party dress, pinned up her hair, and danced a waltz with a boy, Delia had noticed and appreciated the members of the sterner sex, especially the attractiveones. Had she ever met this man before, or even met his eyes across a room, she’d have remembered the encounter.
He was exceptionally tall, for one thing—tall enough that he topped her five-foot, eight-inch frame by a good six inches. His wide shoulders filled the doorway, tapering to narrow hips and long legs, making him such an ideal example of the male physique that her thoroughly feminine heart skipped a beat.
Her gaze skimmed back up, past his expensive, well-cut morning coat and precisely knotted necktie to his face, noting a splendid square jaw, a pair of chiseled cheekbones, and a perfect Roman nose—strong features well suited to his athletic body. His eyes were green, the gray green of hoarfrost on a winter’s day, but his hair was the warm, tawny gold of a wheat field in summer.
Delia stirred, turning completely around to face him. “My, my,” she murmured, her natural feminine instincts stirring in the face of such splendid masculinity. “And just who are you?”
He bowed. “Simon Hayden, Viscount Calderon, at your service. You, I can only assume,” he added as he straightened, “are the notorious Lady Stratham I’ve been hearing so much about.”
Given that rather unflattering description, Delia wondered what exactly he might have heard about her. “Heavens,” she said, working to keep her voice light, “my reputation precedes me.”
“It does, indeed.”
At this incisive reply, his attractiveness fell a notch in Delia’s estimation. He seemed quite a cold fish.
What a waste, she thought, repressing a sigh as she cast a quick, wistful glance over his splendid body.
When she returned her gaze to his face, she saw that he was studying her as well, though his eyes were devoid of any discernible emotion. He said nothing, and as the silence lengthened, Deliabegan to feel like a butterfly on a pin under his unwavering stare. She refused to show any discomfiture, however. A woman had her pride.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said at last, using English in hope that he would do the same, thereby sparing him any need to continue in French, a language he was clearly uncomfortable with. “You’ve met Michel already, it seems, so now that we all know each other, Lord Calderon, do tell me what has inspired your interest in the affairs of the Savoy Hotel, particularly those that come under my purview?”
One corner of his mouth curved upward a notch, though it could hardly be called a smile. “You think I’m pushing in where I have no business?”
She smiled sweetly. “The thought did cross my mind.”
“Then allow me to reassure you. I have an interest in the affairs of the Savoy because I am a member of the hotel’s board of directors.”
