“Let’s not allow ourselves to be distracted from the matter at hand,” he said, reminding himself sternly that discretion was the order of the day. “This meeting is not to discuss Ritz or the quality of his management. We are here to talk about you.”
“My favorite subject.” Her voice was light, her dimpled smile careless as she leaned back in her chair, but he could tell her ease of manner was a pose. There was unmistakable tensity in the set of her shoulders and in the tendons along her slender throat that told him she was nervous.
She should be.
She had not been mentioned in the anonymous letter, and no actual evidence had been uncovered against her yet, but the investigation was far from complete. Helen, however, was convinced of her guilt, and though that opinion seemed to stem mainly from the countess’s long-standing friendship with Ritz, it could be enough to see her dismissed. Simon, however, knew better than anyone the damage that could be done from guilt by association, and until actual malfeasance was uncovered against the countess, he was prepared to keep an open mind.
“During the fourth-quarter shareholders’ meeting a few weeksago,” he said, giving her the same speech he’d already given the other hotel managers and staff, “the investors in the Savoy were informed that they would not be receiving a dividend because the hotel’s profits had plummeted again, falling 25 percent during the past year alone. Some areas have fallen even further and are barely paying expenses. The restaurant is currently operating at a loss.”
“What?” She stared at him in astonishment. “But that can’t be. We’re busier than we’ve ever been. The restaurant is packed every night of the week. Even though it’s only mid-January, the hotel is nearly full. I’ve got a dozen banquets and luncheons scheduled during the coming three months, and at least three dozen more over the course of the season.” She shook her head, laughing a little. “How could hotel profits be declining?”
She seemed so confounded that Simon was taken aback. The letter had detailed a culture of corruption from top to bottom, one bolstered at every turn by the investigations of the private detectives. Even Lady Stratham’s own secretary had been caught with her hand in the till. Even if the countess was innocent, Simon was hard-pressed to believe she was unaware of what the others were doing. As Michel DuPont had said, she seemed to know everything that went on here.
“Are you sure,” she said, the sound of her voice bringing him back to the business at hand, “the hotel’s accountants haven’t made some sort of mistake?”
“Deloitte, Dever, Griffiths & Co. is a sound and reputable accounting firm. They are not in the habit of making mistakes. But on the infinitesimal chance that such a thing might have occurred, my first action has been to order a full forensic audit, which Mr. Dever is now conducting under my supervision.”
“But why you? You’re a peer, not an accountant.”
“True, but I am a peer with a great deal of experience in matters of business.”
“A peer with a head for business?” Her mouth curved, showing a glimmer of humor. “That’s a bit of a unicorn.”
More than a bit, he thought with a grimace. Since his elevation to the peerage a few months ago, he’d spent most of his time feeling like some sort of bizarre curiosity. He was the son of a hotel maid and a dishonest hotel cashier. His Harrow education had been obtained by scholarship, not by the privilege of a rich, titled family. His wealth had come by hard work and sound investments, not by inheritance. She, on the other hand, had been born into privilege and wealth, and possessed an aristocratic lineage that dated back to William the Conqueror.
“Perhaps it is out of the common way,” he allowed, “but it is not unheard of for a man with a title to have an understanding of finance.”
For some reason, that made her laugh. “Most of the boys I grew up with weren’t taught anything as useful as accounting at school, but maybe your school was different?”
He knew what she was really asking, and it nettled him. “Harrow,” he supplied. “That’s what you wanted to know, wasn’t it? After all, knowing where a man went to school is the easiest way to determine if he’s the right sort or the wrong sort.”
“That has nothing to do with my question,” she said with an air of offended dignity he found highly suspect. “I was merely curious. But if you were at Harrow, perhaps you know my cousin, the Duke of Westbourne?”
“No,” he answered, thinking of those long-ago days at school. “I have met your cousin, yes, but that was only a few weeks ago. We never met at school. He was two years behind me, I believe.”
He didn’t add that even if he and Westbourne had met, it probably wouldn’t have mattered, since the sons of the wealthy peers had avoided scholarship students as if they had the plague. “As for my knowledge of finance,” he said instead, “I acquired that by experience,along with my knowledge of hotels. I own three of my own and have substantial shares in five others, in addition to my stake in the Savoy.”
“Oh.”
She blinked, seeming disconcerted by this information, and Simon was human enough to take a bit of satisfaction in that. “To return to the point, the hotel is bleeding money,” he said. “My task is to make any changes necessary to reverse this downward spiral. The investors fully expect a dividend at the end of the first quarter, and I intend to see that they get it.”
He didn’t tell her all that was also a very effective cover for the fraud investigation.
“And paying dividends to already wealthy investors is worth eliminating people’s livelihoods?” she countered. “It’s worth turning everything upside down and setting the staff’s collective teeth on edge as they wait to learn if they are among the unneeded?”
“If the hotel cannot become profitable, it will go out of business and put every person here out of a job. If the Savoy is to survive, there must be proper resource allocation in every department.” He reached for a file on his desk and opened it. “Which brings us, Lady Stratham, to you.”
“All right, then.” She straightened in her chair, assuming an impudent expression. “What’s it to be? From the merciless look on your face, my guess is a firing squad at sunset. Or perhaps the gallows at dawn. I just hope I’m allowed a cigarette first.”
Giving her a wry look in response, he pulled a sheet from the file. “The first thing we need to discuss is your operating budget.”
She looked at him as if he had suddenly started speaking an unknown language. “My what?”
He found her bewilderment—not the first such response he’d seen during the past few weeks—aggravating as hell. For God’s sake, he thought, did no one employed here understand the concept of profitand loss? “Your budget, Lady Stratham,” he said, striving for patience. “Even a lady such as yourself must surely know what a budget is?”
“Why, yes,” she drawled, but the dangerous narrowing of her eyes belied the careless lightness of her reply. “Even my poor, muddled feminine mind can comprehend the concept of a budget.”
Simon, recalling the outrageous amounts billed to her expense account, was doubtful. “My question was not a belittling of your sex nor an indictment of your brain’s ability. Rather, it stems from your profligate spending habits.” He looked down, scanning the column of figures he’d jotted down in preparation for this discussion, then looked up again. “According to your expense diaries—”
