Stars exploded in his head, and the last thing he remembered was the shrill sound of a constable’s whistle before everything went black.
When he woke up, he was in jail.
Rising early had never been Delia’s strong suit. And having had almost no sleep the past few nights, she was in no frame of mind to be shaken awake by a maid for the second time in three days. “Oh, leave off, Molly, for heaven’s sake,” she mumbled, shrugging away the hand on her shoulder and burying her face in the pillow. “Go away.”
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I’ve been ordered to wake you at half past nine.”
“Ordered by whom?” she asked, even as she began drifting back into sleep. “Whoever it is needs to die.”
“It was Lord Calderon, my lady. He ordered me to wake you and give you this. It was urgent, he said.”
Delia opened one eye to find the maid holding out a note, and her sleep-fogged senses began to clear. She loved Simon, she really did, but if he was going to expect the same sort of strenuousdemonstrations of her affection in the future as he had enjoyed last night, he was going to have to give her time to recover.
She smiled at the thought, gave up on sleep, and pulled the note from Molly’s fingers. Still smiling, she sat up and began to read. Three seconds later, however, her smile vanished, and she gave an exclamation of dismay.
“Breakfast at ten?” she cried. “And it’s—what?” She looked up at the maid. “Half past nine?”
“A few minutes after, my lady. It’s taken me a bit of time to wake you.”
“The man’s mad,” Delia declared, glanced at the penned lines again, noted that the word urgent was underlined three times, and capitulated with a sigh.
“Men!” she muttered, tossing aside the note and the sheets and moving to get out of bed. “Don’t they know a woman can’t be ready to go anywhere in half an hour? Pull the slate-blue wool dress out of the armoire, Molly, and fetch some hot water. Quickly, now. I’ve got to be downstairs by ten o’clock, it seems.”
By some miracle, she arrived in the restaurant breathless, a bit untidy, and only five minutes late.
Lord Calderon, she was told as she was led to a table, had not arrived yet. Euphoric, excited, and also a bit aggrieved that he’d rushed her down here only to be late himself, Delia ordered a pot of hot coffee, but she’d barely taken her first sip before a man appeared beside her table.
It was not Simon, however. Much to her surprise, it was Sir Charles Russell, the Savoy’s solicitor.
“Sir Charles,” she greeted. “What brings you here today?”
“I came to see you, actually.” He put his hand on the chair opposite hers. “May I join you for a few moments?”
“Any other time, I’d happily allow it, but I’m expecting someone, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, I know, but Lord Calderon will not be joining you this morning. He’s been… detained, I understand.”
Delia felt a stab of disappointment. “He said he had something important to discuss with me.”
“Does he?” The solicitor reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “It may have something to do with this.”
As the solicitor slid the folded sheet to her across the white tablecloth, Delia’s disappointment shifted and deepened, transforming into the same odd sense of foreboding that had hung over her all day yesterday. “What’s this?” she asked, taking the sheet.
“Your official letter of termination.”
She froze in the act of unfolding the slip of paper. “What?”
“I regret to inform you, Lady Stratham, that you have been fired.”
18
Better late than never might be true in most instances, but Simon doubted that trite little phrase applied in his case. Not today, anyway.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon before he was released from the local police station. Lord Astonby, the constable told him, was willing to let the matter drop, and he was free to go. He supposed he ought to be grateful for that fact, but given that Delia had surely been fired by now, he couldn’t summon up much gratitude. The news, no doubt, had hit her like a ton of bricks.
He arrived at the Savoy to find things in chaos. There were journalists loitering in the lobby. The concierge was familiar to him only because the man had been the concierge at Claridge’s. A glance in the restaurant showed rushed, unhappy waiters, even more unhappy customers, and a harassed-looking maître d’hôtel who’d also been brought over from Claridge’s, causing Simon to wonder in grim amusement how many Savoy employees had quit or been fired today. When he walked down the corridor to his office, he found a pair of policemen by the door, and Ross and Morgan inside waiting for him, surrounded by crates, trunks, and suitcases.
“My lord,” the two men said in unison as they stood up, clearly relieved by his arrival.
