It was, she knew, a rather craven thing to do, but she couldn’t bear the idea of seeing Simon, being near him, deceiving herself into thinking she could trust him. And anyway, she was moving to Paris when Ritz opened the new hotel in June. Wasn’t she?
Feeling the need to move, she stood up and walked to the window. From here, she could see the tip of the spire decorating the roof of the Savoy. There would be no hothouse banquet room up there now, she realized.
Stupid tears stung her eyes, and Delia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep them at bay.
“Everything’s packed, my lady.”
With relief, Delia turned from the window. “Excellent. Thank you, Bartlett.”
“Of course, my lady. If you’d just look things over, and make sure I’ve got everything you’ll need, I’ll go down to fetch a footman and order a cab. We’ve got only an hour before we catch the train for Dover.”
The maid went out, and Delia went to the bedroom, where trunks, valises, and hatboxes lay open on the floor. She glanced through them, noting that Bartlett was proving to be an excellent lady’s maid. Not a thing had been forgotten.
She straightened, staring down at the clothes and hats without a speck of enthusiasm. Her heart felt like a ten-ton weight in her chest, and the idea that she might soon be leaving England for good was like a hard, tight knot in her stomach.
She didn’t want to go. But would staying in London be better? Cassie would be coming out, which meant even if she didn’t launch the girl herself, she’d surely see Simon if she remained here. How could she bear that?
A knock on the door of her suite roused Delia from these depressing contemplations. Relieved by the distraction, she returned to the sitting room and opened the door to find a boy of perhaps twelve standing in the corridor.
“Delivery for Lady Stratham,” the boy said.
“I’m Lady Stratham.”
“Here you are, my lady.” The boy held out a large envelope containing a thick sheaf of papers. “From Lord Calderon.”
At the mention of Simon, Delia’s heart gave a leap, but she quelled any foolish excitement. Why should she want to read a letter from him?
She took the packet anyway. “Thank you. What’s your name?” she asked as she tucked the envelope under her arm and reached for her handbag from the table by the door.
“Joseph, my lady.”
“And do you work for the hotel, Joseph?” she asked as she opened her bag and extracted a half crown from the coin pocket.
“What, the Bristol? No, my lady. I’m at the Clarendon.”
The Clarendon. So that was where Simon was staying. Not that she cared, of course. She was going to Paris. And it wasn’t likely she’d care when she got back, either, she reminded herself firmly.
The boy tipped his cap and started to turn away, making her remember her manners. “Thank you, Joseph,” she said, holding out the coin.
The boy took it, tipped his cap again, and departed. Shutting the door behind him, Delia stared at the envelope in her hands, studying the direction written in Simon’s precise copperplate script. She had no idea what had inspired him to write her pages and pages, but she couldn’t bear to read justifications and explanations and declarations of love. Not now. The pain was still too fresh.
She tossed the envelope onto the table, but then, on impulse, she picked it up. She returned to the bedroom and shoved the letter into the side pocket of her valise. She’d read it later. Maybe.
“Well, gentlemen?” Simon leaned back on the settee of his hotel sitting room, lifting his glass of whisky as he glanced back and forth between the other two men in his suite at the Clarendon. “Shall I have my solicitors draw up a partnership agreement? Or do you wish to take more time to consider?”
“No need for more time as far as I’m concerned,” the Duke of Westbourne said at once and lifted his whisky glass. “I’m in.”
Simon turned to the man seated beside him. “Well, Devlin?”
His best friend frowned, gesturing to the man across from him with his whisky glass. “I’d feel better about this whole venture if I had more shares than he does.”
“There are other investors,” Simon reminded. “Wilson Rycroft, Lord Hever… And anyway, I own the controlling interest, so I have final say when you two get quarrelsome.”
“You’ll have no quarrels from me,” the duke assured him. “As long as he doesn’t spirit another underage friend of my sisters off to Gretna Green in the dead of night.”
“If you’re implying,” Devlin began, but Simon cut him off.
“Gentlemen, enough,” he said, his incisive voice making it clear to both men there would be no quarrels, at least not today. “Well, Devlin, are you in or out?”
