And if things kept on this way and Calderon did not change course, Kay wasn’t the only one who would suffer. Half a dozen employees had already been dismissed, and they might not be the only ones. As James had said, many of the staff lived hand to mouth and could not afford to be without employment. Having grown up in the aristocracy, Delia had been raised with a strong sense of responsibility for one’s staff. It was the duty of people like her to provide employment for others whenever and wherever possible, not to stand by silently as they were dismissed without cause. And with Ritz and Echenard away, she felt that sense of duty and responsibility even more keenly.
There was also the matter of the hotel’s image as London’s finest hotel, an image Ritz had worked hard for years to cultivate. How could she continue to watch helplessly as that image and Ritz’s legacy were tarnished? But damn it all, how could she stop it?
Delia stopped in the corridor. Taking deep breaths, she tried to cool her temper and think logically of a solution.
Can’t you talk to him, my lady?
James’s words echoed back to her, a repeat of Escoffier’s plea fromlast night, but she didn’t see how talking to Calderon would make a difference. Unless…
Just be your usual charming self, and you’ll have him eating out of your hand.
The memory of Max’s solution to the problem made Delia groan.
“Not that,” she muttered. “Anything but that.”
She rubbed a hand over her forehead, her mind working desperately to come up with a less nauseating prospect. But there was no other course she could think of that had a prayer of succeeding, and at last, resigned to her fate, she turned around.
“I hope everyone appreciates the enormous sacrifice I’m about to make on their behalf,” she grumbled as she headed for the kitchens. “My pride may never recover.”
6
The first time Simon awakened, it was due to the customary clink of drapery rings sliding back and the scent of early tea. But upon opening his eyes, he’d been hit with a shaft of bright morning sunlight that felt like a spike piercing his skull, a painful reminder of why he didn’t drink. Closing his eyes again, he’d ordered his valet to shut the damn drapes, take away the tea, and send word to Ross that he was ill.
He had then drifted back into blessed sleep, only to be awakened again sometime later by the sound of a knock on his door and the low murmur of voices.
This time, he opened his eyes gingerly, but though the light in the room was now much dimmer than before, his head was still aching fit to split, his eyes felt as if they had sand in them, and he could only wonder how someone had managed to stuff cotton wool into his mouth while he slept. With a groan, Simon pulled the covers over his head.
“My lord?”
His valet’s voice was a soft murmur, but to Simon, it sounded like a gunshot, making him wonder why he’d ever thought becoming a viscount required a valet. He pulled the counterpane down, bestowinga malevolent glare on the unflappable man standing there with a tray in his hands. “Morgan, if you don’t go away and leave me in peace, I swear to God, I will sack you.”
Even as he spoke, the smell of coffee and bacon, neither of which he had asked for, hit his nostrils. His stomach rumbled. “And I thought I already told you I don’t want any breakfast.”
“I didn’t order it, my lord. The waiter who brought it said it was sent up by Lady Stratham.”
“Lady Stratham?” That information was so astonishing that Simon abandoned any thought of firing Morgan and sat up. “You must have heard wrong. Or you’re going daft.”
Morgan gave a cough and nodded to the tray he carried. “If you’ll notice, my lord, there is a note.”
Simon pulled the folded slip of paper off the tray, broke its wax seal, and opened it.
You’ll feel better if you eat. And drink the tomato juice. You won’t like it, but it will help. Trust me on this.
—Delia
“Trust her?” he muttered as Morgan shifted the tray to one arm and lifted the lid off the plate for his inspection. “God help me if I ever become that big a fool.”
He leaned closer, eyeing with suspicion the heaping plate of eggs, bacon, potatoes, and baked beans, the glass of tomato juice, the pot of coffee, and the stack of buttered toast. “Where do you suppose she’s put the arsenic?”
Morgan deigned to smile. “If you’ll notice the vase, my lord, it’s clear Lady Stratham bears you no ill will.”
“It’s not clear to me.” Still skeptical, he glanced at the bud vase onthe tray, unable to fathom what a few flowers had to do with anything. “But even if you’re right, she’s probably sucking up because she’s afraid I’m about to fire her.”
“A countess would never do anything like that,” Morgan murmured, looking shocked; bless his trusting soul. “She’s probably just being kind,” he added before Simon could reply. “She’s ever so nice, her ladyship is.”
At once, an image of her came into Simon’s mind. Her sooty-lashed blue eyes sparkling with amusement, her full pink mouth curved in a mischievous smile, the smothered laughter in her voice—all at his expense. “Nice?” he echoed, chagrined to realize that he might have found her quite nice indeed if she weren’t so damned aggravating. “Who says so?”
“A great many people.”
