“Max’s ducal estate in the Cotswolds.”
“You brought servants all the way from Gloucestershire?” He laughed, a little confounded. “Just to serve us dinner?”
“Wanton extravagance, I know, but I believe in creating the proper atmosphere.”
“The proper atmosphere for what?”
She didn’t answer that question. Instead, she turned, putting a hand on his arm.
“Come with me.”
Tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, she led him out of the drawing room. He took it for granted that she was leading him into the dining room across the corridor, but unexpectedly, she turned, propelling him away from that room and back toward the stairs.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“You’ll see.”
“You’re being very mysterious.”
“Am I?” She looked at him as they started up the stairs, a tiny Mona Lisa smile on her lips. “Good.”
It was clear she wasn’t going to tell him anything, but as they ascended to the second floor, then the third, his curiosity grew. When they reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto a wide landing flanked by corridors leading to what were clearly servants’ rooms, he couldn’t resist trying again. “We’re having dinner in the attics?”
“Of course not. That would be silly.”
“What’s left, then?” he asked jokingly as they crossed the landing to a set of double doors. “The roof?”
“As a matter of fact…” She paused, opening one of the doors. “Yes.”
With that singular remark, she pulled him through the doorway into what seemed at first to be a grove of trees. When he looked up, he saw branches strung with fairy lights, but despite it being early February, the branches were thickly covered in leaves, and the air was balmy and warm, and he realized the place she had brought him was actually a hothouse.
All around him were potted trees and ferns, and the mingled scents of flowers, peat, and boxwood hung in the air. Faintly, in the distance, he could hear music, a soft, delicate melody.
“I feel as if you are Hermia and I am Lysander,” he commented as Delia led him along a path among the trees lit by more fairy lights. “And we’ve just entered the forest of Shakespeare’sA Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“An apt analogy,” she replied, “except that, unlike Hermia and Lysander, we are not lovers.”
With those words, his mind started conjuring carnal images again, and he could not for the life of him think of a reply. Fortunately, they emerged into a clearing at that moment, and Hardwicke stepped forward, a tray with two filled glasses in his hands.
“Sherry, my lord?”
“Yes, thank you,” he replied with fervent gratitude, and as heplucked a glass off the tray, it occurred to him that if he remained in charge of Delia much longer, he might well become a dipsomaniac.
Taking a much-needed swallow of sherry, he followed Delia as she led him to a round table by a fountain that had been set for two, its white tablecloth, silver, and crystal gleaming in the soft light. To his left, a footman stood beside an enormous rosewood sideboard laden with covered dishes. To his right stood a gramophone, its turntable spinning and the notes of a Mendelssohn concerto drifting from its horn into the languid air. All around them were more trees strung with fairy lights, and above his head, a framework of glass and iron formed a domed ceiling. Beyond it was the inky blackness of the night sky.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“Evie’s garden. Evie is my cousin’s wife,” she added as he looked at her in puzzlement at the unfamiliar name. “Evie grew up in London, but after marrying Max, she developed a passion for country life, especially gardening. So Max built this for her as a present on their first wedding anniversary so that she could always have a garden, even here in town—though they’re usually here only during the season. The rest of the year, the house is closed up and empty. Except for Hardwicke, of course. He’s here all year round—he takes care of Evie’s garden and generally keeps an eye on things when the family’s not in residence.”
“And you brought me here because…?”
“Welcome to the Savoy’s newest banqueting room,” she said, gesturing to their surroundings with her glass. “Well, a facsimile of it, at any rate.”
“You want to build a structure like this on the roof of the Savoy?”
“Yes.” She laughed at his dubious expression. “You’re looking at me as if you think I’m crazy.”
“Well,” he began.
