When it’s over, when it’s behind us…
What on earth didthatmean? When what was over?
Suddenly, Delia felt a shiver of foreboding that dampened her desire, a far less delightful feeling. It was like the stirring of wind and the darkening of the sky that preceded a thunderstorm. Clearly,something was coming, something that he thought would make her hate him, but what was it?
Maybe he intended to fire her. The moment that thought entered her head, every instinct she possessed rejected it. Granted, she wasn’t always the best judge, but she just couldn’t believe Simon, of all men, would kiss her within an inch of her life, touch her the way he had, if he intended to fire her.
There were men, of course, who would have no pangs of conscience about that sort of thing, but Simon wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t that type of man at all, and despite her epically bad judgment in the past, there was nothing in the world that would make her believe him capable of such duplicity.
He might be intending to fire Ritz. Given that the two men didn’t get along, that might be a much more likely prospect, except that it seemed so unfair, and as aggravating as Simon could be sometimes, he was scrupulously fair. And even if he wanted to fire Ritz, he alone didn’t have the power to do it. Ritz had an ironclad contract. Only the board could revoke that contract with a vote, and even then, only for cause. What cause could they possibly have? A few unprofitable quarters? It seemed absurd.
Simon’s stringent fiscal management was all very well, and obviously necessary in the present circumstances, but Ritzwasthe Savoy. It was his imagination, his vision, that had created the most extraordinary hotel in the world. Firing him would be madness.
Throughout the night, Delia’s mind spun round and round in these futile circles. It was nearly dawn when she finally fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, and she only awakened when Susan, the housemaid, shook her shoulder with the urgent whisper that if she didn’t wake up soon, she could miss her train.
An hour later, she and Cassandra stood by the carriage saying their farewells as footmen loaded her luggage onto the boot.
“I am so grateful, Lady Stratham,” Cassandra said for the second time in as many minutes. “I really couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Nonsense. My contributions were quite minor. Never sell yourself short, my dear,” Delia added as Cassie started to protest. “Maidenly modesty is all very well, but be aware enough of your talents to have some self-confidence. You were an excellent hostess last night, and that’s what made the party go. Whenever your confidence starts to flag in the future, remember that.”
“I’ll try, but I still shudder to think how things could have gone—collapsing overcooked soufflés, or poor Lord Nasby being carried out on a stretcher with his gouty foot all wrapped up. So I can’t thank you enough.”
“The luggage is loaded, my lady,” the footman said, coming around to open the carriage door for her and roll out the steps.
“Thank you, Thomas,” Delia called over her shoulder, then reached out to give Cassandra’s shoulder an affectionate pat. “I shall see you in London when the season starts.”
“If Simon lets me come,” Cassie replied as Delia stepped into the carriage and settled herself on the tuck-and-roll leather seat. “He hasn’t agreed to allow it, you know.”
“He will once he is assured by me of how well you’ll do. I shall be giving him a full report of last night’s triumph, I promise you.”
But keeping that promise, Delia found upon her return, wasn’t going to be easy, for Simon proved as elusive as the wind. Ross could give her no clue as to his whereabouts, other than to say he was away. And when she tried to probe for more information, the secretary mumbled something about an errand he simply had to run before he went beetling off.
Monsieur Echenard, who had only just returned from his holiday in the south of France, assured Delia that he knew nothing of Lord Calderon, his whereabouts, or his schedule. And Ritz, when sheasked him where his fellow manager might be, flew into a rage and suggested she stop sucking up to Calderon and tend to her own job.
Delia, though a bit stung by the implication that she wasn’t paying attention to her duties, tactfully retreated and didn’t pursue the matter any further, but during the next twenty-four hours, Simon’s ominous words continued to echo in her head, causing her apprehension to deepen.
She got even less sleep that night than she had the night before, and by Sunday evening, she was exhausted. She wished she could just fall into bed, but unfortunately, she had already made plans that evening to attend a dinner party at the home of Lord and Lady Malvers.
Returning to the Savoy afterward and hoping for a good night’s sleep, she ordered a hot-water bottle and a cup of warm milk and retired to her room, but she’d barely gotten settled beneath the sheets with the water bottle at her feet before a careless remark from her maid sent Delia’s plans skidding sideways.
“You were wondering this morning where Lord Calderon’s been, my lady? Well, I think I know.”
The girl’s expression contained such a degree of suppressed excitement that Delia was surprised. “Really? Do tell.”
“His valet was in the laundry not an hour ago,” she said, offering Delia the cup of warm milk. “And Lizzie heard him say something about a house in…” She paused, leaning closer in a confidential manner, and whispered, “St. John’s Wood.”
“St. John’s Wood?” Delia blinked, even more surprised. “What was he doing all the way up there?”
“Talk is that his lordship’s got a mistress there and he stayed the night with her.”
“What?” A pang of raw, outraged feminine jealousy radiated through her, and Simon’s last words at Ivywild once again whispered insidiously into her ear.
Don’t hate me, Delia.
Delia recovered her poise with an effort and worked to scuttle such unfounded gossip. “Nonsense. It’s not,” she added firmly, “the least bit like him.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have thought so, either, my lady. He’s never chatted up any of the maids. Never flirts with us or nothing. He’s ever so polite, always, just like a proper gentleman. Never loses his temper. And he’s a fair man; no one can deny that. Though I don’t much like the new way of having to keep count of every single thing I do every minute so Mrs. Bates can write charge tickets for it, and so I told her—”
