“I’ve no idea what tornadoes have to do with anything, but either way, that drink looks absolutely vile.”
“It is rather,” Simon agreed, and in a contradictory spirit, he downed the contents of his glass and signaled for Mr. Wells to bring him another. “But the taste seems to improve as one goes on.”
“That’s both the delight of cocktails and their danger.”
“Indeed? I don’t imbibe often enough to know. I dislike the effect strong drink has on me. That’s probably because,” he added as he remembered Lady Stratham’s words from their first meeting, “of my obsessive need for control.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Or,” he mused, ignoring the question, “it might be my need for efficiency. After all, cocktails are a much faster way for a man to get sodding drunk than port, claret, or beer. And efficiency, so I’ve been told, is the god I worship. Or it might be profit. I can’t quite remember which.”
The duke shook his head, laughing in obvious bafflement. “You seem determined to speak in riddles, Calderon.”
Simon did not enlighten him. “It’s all your fault, really,” he said instead. “If you hadn’t spoken in my favor at the shareholders’ meeting, I doubt I’d be here now.”
“It’s the least I can do for a fellow Old Harrovian.”
“I’m not sure how much good my public-school education has done me so far. I’ve got members of the nobility dressing me down and hotel staff loathing the sight of me. Nothing at Harrow prepared me for that.”
“Minor problems to a man of your abilities,” Westbourne countered lightly.
“Perhaps,” he acknowledged as the barkeep whisked away his empty glass and set a fresh cocktail on the table. “But as a fellow Old Harrovian, couldn’t you have at least warned me what I’d be in for?”
“If you mean the Duchess of Moreland—”
“I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about that black-haired tornado you are forced by familial obligation to acknowledge as a cousin.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “My condolences on that, by the way.”
“My cousin?” he echoed, still clearly puzzled, but after a moment,his brow cleared. “Ah, now I understand your references to tornadoes,” he said and grinned. “Delia is lovely, isn’t she?”
“In appearance or temperament? If you mean the former, I am forced to grant it. But if you mean the latter, I must disagree. Never have I met a more exasperating female—”
He broke off, for even in his own decidedly middle-class upbringing, one didn’t disparage another man’s relations to his face. “Sorry. I don’t mean to insult a member of your family.”
“Please, don’t apologize. I’ve gotten crosswise with my cousin a time or two, so I know how you feel. And truth be told, I’m rather amused to discover that there is at least one man in the world who refuses to fall immediately at Delia’s feet.”
Simon found such a prospect so appalling that he emptied his glass in one hefty swallow, making the duke laugh.
“She seems to have gotten under your skin,” Westbourne commented.
“It would be more accurate to say I got under hers,” Simon clarified and once again signaled for Mr. Wells.
“So, what’s Delia been up to? You needn’t mind telling me,” the duke went on as Simon hesitated to reply. “I won’t take offense, and I might be able to offer you some insight you’ll find useful, so feel free to be frank.”
Frankness in this place was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Westbourne was one of the Savoy’s major investors, but he was not a member of the board. He was not privy to the infamous letter, the hiring of private detectives, or Helen’s suspicions about the duke’s beautiful and exasperating relation. And if Westbourne got any inkling of how deep the rot within the Savoy had gone before proper measures could be taken, he’d surely tell the other investors, they’d all run to dump their shares, the value of the Savoy’s stock would plummet, and the fat would be in the fire.
It wasn’t quite fair, he supposed, to pump Westbourne for information about his cousin when she was one of those under suspicion. On the other hand, the duke had freely offered some insight regarding her, and Simon could certainly use it.
“I had my first meeting with her last week,” he said, choosing his words with care. “Just as I have with every other member of hotel management.”
“Yes, so I heard.”
“Went running to cry on your shoulder afterward, did she?”
“Delia? God, no. She’s not the crying sort. There was some gnashing of teeth and cursing your name, however. Along with some dire predictions about the hotel’s future if the things you want to do are implemented.”
“The things I want?” Simon echoed with some heat. “As if what I want has anything to do with it. I’m doing what’s necessary.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. I supported your nomination because I’m sure you have the experience and skill to turn things around.”
