Lady Scandal

     Delia Stratham is an unconventional woman. While other ladies learned proper decorum at finishing school, she composed naughty limericks and admired the gardener’s muscular legs. So naturally when she’s widowed for the third time, she does the unthinkable: she gets a job.  Planning events for the Savoy Hotel is perfect for someone with her skills. But her dream career turns into a nightmare when she’s forced to work with the most annoying—and gorgeous—man she’s ever met.

     Hotel magnate Simon Hayden knows something fishy is going on at the Savoy: the hotel is constantly busy, yet the books say it’s in the red. He’s determined to root out the fraud and its perpetrators, and that means spending time with one of the most likely suspects: the delectable, infuriating Lady Stratham. She’s definitely getting in his way and under his skin, and he can’t decide whether to fire her or kiss her until she stops arguing. But when the sparks between them flare into flame, Simon must choose between his love for Delia and his duty to the hotel. Will his choice bring them together or tear them apart?

CHAPTER TWO

She wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting.

In his interactions with the hotel staff during the past few weeks, Simon had heard the name of Lady Stratham with tiresome regularity, usually during apologetic explanations as to why his ideas would be difficult to implement. In addition, Helen Carte, the wife of the Savoy Hotel’s founder, had already told him quite a bit about the countess—that Ritz adored her; that she was a cousin of the Duke of Westbourne; that upon her launch into society many years ago, she’d been deemed one of the most outrageous and fascinating debutantes of the season; and that in the years since then, she had managed to make three most advantageous marriages, first to the son of a marquess, then to a French count, and, lastly, to a Scottish earl.

Helen suspected her of far worse sins than marrying well, and though Simon’s first cursory examination of her expense accounts had revealed nothing definite to confirm those suspicions, the carelessness he had found in the countess’s bookkeeping certainly made any fraud she might be committing easier to obscure. And even if she was innocent of any wrongdoing, the heedlessness with which she dispensed Savoy funds had taken Simon’s breath away. No wonder Ritz adored her. She was his perfect protégé.

As a result of all this, the image formed in Simon’s mind was of an outrageously flamboyant creature swathed in jewels and furs, whose once-captivating beauty had surely faded with time, whose cheeks now needed a touch of rouge to maintain their youthful blush, whose hair was streaked with gray, and whose figure required sturdy corsetry to overcome the inevitable weight gain of midlife.

Never had he imagined a slim, youthful woman with creamy skin, raven-black hair, and a piquant, heart-shaped face that made her seem more like an ingenue than a widow who’d buried three husbands.

How, he wondered, staring into a pair of enormous, indigo-blue eyes fringed by thick black lashes, had a woman so young managed to marry three times? He could only conclude she’d wasted little time mourning the demise of each husband before moving on to the next one.

It was also obvious, from this conversation with her and from those he’d had with other members of the hotel staff, that the countess was unaccustomed to being gainsaid—indulged and pampered her entire life, he’d wager, with not a single person to check her.

Until now.

She seemed to read the thoughts passing through his mind, and as he watched that pointed chin of hers lift a notch, he knew he’d have his work cut out for him in the days to come.

“As I already explained,” she said, her voice bringing him back to the discussion at hand, “I am engaged all afternoon, and I am not in the habit of breaking engagements.”

Her title and position aside, she was his subordinate, and he could not allow her to dictate the terms under which she would work, especially not in front of another employee. Best to make that clear straightaway, he decided. “One broken engagement is hardly a habit,” he said, “so I suggest you notify the other party as soon as possible that something has arisen requiring you to reschedule.”

“The ‘something’ in this case being you?”

“Just so. Unless,” he added, offering the opportunity for compromise, “you would prefer to meet with me now? If Monsieur DuPont does not mind, of course.” He leaned around her to give the florist an inquiring glance. “Would postponing our consultation until two o’clock be acceptable to you, Monsieur?”

Lady Stratham made a smothered sound at his address to the florist, and Simon—aware the word had come out sounding like mon-sewer—cursed himself for not having practiced his French more often as a boy.

Much to Simon’s relief, however, Monsieur DuPont merely shrugged in the wake of this butchery of his native language and spread his hands in an expansive Gallic gesture, which Simon took to be an affirmative answer to his question.

“Excellent. I will return at that time.” Turning his attention back to the woman before him, Simon gestured to the door. “It seems a space has opened in my schedule, Lady Stratham. And since you are clearly free as well, shall we take advantage of the moment and adjourn to my office?”

She looked as if she’d rather be tortured on the rack, but thankfully, she made no further objections and preceded him through the doorway of the florist’s workroom. They did not converse as they crossed the long expanse of the hotel foyer to the other end and traveled the corridor where offices for the heads of staff were located. Passing hers, he entered his, expecting her to follow, but instead, she paused in the doorway, looking shocked.

“What happened to Madelaine?” she demanded, halting in the doorway. “This is her office, not yours.”

Another thing for her to resent him for, he thought wryly as he circled his desk. “If you are referring to Mrs. Alverson,” he replied, turning to face her, “she was let go.”

“Let go?” the countess echoed, her elegantly arched brows drawing together in a frown. “Let go by whom?”

“By me, I’m afraid. You see—”

“You sacked my secretary,” she interrupted through clenched teeth, “and took over her office?”

Simon met her resentful gaze with an imperturbable one of his own. “My obligation is to the Savoy shareholders, and that obligation requires responsible fiscal management. Eliminating unneeded staff is one of the best ways to increase efficiency, which is my primary task. And since this office became empty with Mrs. Alverson’s departure, yes; my secretary and I have moved into it.”

She glanced at the second desk in the crowded room, empty at the present moment, then looked at him again, a smile on her lips that did not reach her eyes. “How delightful to know that one of us, at least, still has a secretary,” she murmured, her voice a purr. “But tell me,” she added before he could reply, “just how does it increase efficiency to not consult me before deciding my secretary was one of the unneeded?”

Her voice trembled as she asked the question, revealing the anger behind it.

He couldn’t blame her for that; he’d feel the same. No one liked being undermined, but it had been unavoidable under the circumstances. Still, given Helen’s suspicions and his own observations thus far, he could not allow himself to be swayed by anyone’s hurt feelings. “Had you been here, I would have informed you of my decision and why it was made,” he began. “But—”

“You couldn’t have had the courtesy to wait for my return?”

Interrupted for the third time since making her acquaintance, he could have pointed out that courtesy went both ways, but he refrained. “Obviously not,” he said instead.

The hostility she displayed had become familiar to Simon these past three weeks. During that time, the other heads of staff had made it quite plain that their loyalty was to Ritz, Escoffier, Echenard, and Lady Stratham, and that he was an interloper. Some resentment was inevitable, but in this case, he was hampered by the staff’s loyalty to Ritz, and also, oddly enough, by his title.

Because of his low birth and recent elevation to the peerage, many of the staff here considered him not as a lord, but as a poseur, his title nothing more than a bad joke. While he might secretly agree with them about that, he could not afford to show it. And respect, he well knew, had to be earned. But as he studied the resentment in the face of the woman before him, he also appreciated that earning that respect and straightening out the mess the Savoy had become were going to be far more difficult than he’d originally anticipated. He was beginning to feel like Hercules cleaning the Augean Stables.

Still, the difficulties did not matter.

Helen and Richard Carte had asked for his help, and he would have cut off his right arm rather than refuse to give it. He owed them more than he could ever repay. His own father’s petty thefts and subsequent suicide fifteen years ago had devastated his mother, cost her her job, and tainted her good name. In the army and stationed in Africa, he’d been unable to be of much help, and if it hadn’t been for Richard Carte, there was no telling what might have happened to his mother and his sister, Cassandra. Few people knew about his father’s disgrace, and most of those who did had long ago forgotten, but Simon would never forget. His father’s legacy of dishonesty and cowardice was one he was determined to destroy, not only for himself, but also for his sister’s sake. Richard and the other members of the board had put their trust in him despite his father’s criminal history, and he could not fail them.

“It’s a complicated situation, Lady Stratham,” he said at last, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. “Please come in and sit down, and I will explain it as best I can. You can stand if you like, of course,” he added pleasantly when she didn’t move, “but with the full and fatiguing day you’ve indicated you have ahead of you, I’d have thought you would wish to sit while you can.”

When she continued to hesitate, he pulled out his own chair and sat down, defying the protocol of always waiting for a lady to sit first, and reached for the manila folder containing his notes about her. He paused, opened the folder, and looked up at her again. “It’s up to you.”

She seemed to perceive the challenge behind his mild words. With a toss of her head, she came into his office and crossed to his desk. “I fear the most fatiguing aspect of my day shall prove to be you,” she said making a rueful face as she sank into the offered chair opposite him.

“Whether that proves true rather depends on you.”

“Does it?” she countered. “I seem to have little control over things within my purview, including my own staff, since you appeared on the scene.”

“If you are referring to Mrs. Alverson,” he began, but she shook her head.

“Not only her. I was also thinking of Michel, whose artistic sensibilities you’ve offended with your notions about his floral arrangements.”

“I expect he’ll recover.”

If she perceived the dryness of that reply, she didn’t show it. “And Mrs. Bates? The poor woman is cranky as a bear this morning, and I can only assume that is also because of you and your interference.”

“Change is always upsetting.”

“Especially when that change is not done through the proper channels. I can appreciate that you have a job to do—though what has precipitated it, I can’t imagine. Nonetheless, protocol would dictate that you take your findings and recommendations to Ritz or Echenard. They would then discuss them with me or with Escoffier, and we would discuss them with our own members of staff, deciding what to do with their help and cooperation. That’s how things are handled here at the Savoy.”

Simon rubbed a hand over his forehead, repressing the sound of exasperation that hovered on his lips, fearing that if he heard the prim, stonewalling little phrase, “That’s not quite how we do it here,” one more time, he was going to put his head through a wall.

“Given that you now report to me, not to Ritz,” he said aloud, “the protocol you describe is no longer relevant. And,” he added before she could reply, “we can sit here all morning debating how the Savoy used to do things, but that would be a waste of time, since many of those procedures will be changing in the weeks ahead.”

“Seems they’ve been changing quite a bit already.”

“And will continue to do so. I suggest you accept the situation with as much grace as you can muster.”

“Ritz has been a successful hotel manager for many years. Isn’t it rather arrogant to assume you’ve got a better way than he does?”

“Hardly,” he shot back, “given the abysmal lack of proper management I’ve been seeing here ever since my arrival.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Ritz, though he didn’t know it, was in a precarious position, as were many other members of the hotel staff, including the woman before him. Profits had been eroding steadily during the past year, and when a detailed, damning anonymous letter had reached the board’s attention last autumn—accusing Ritz, Echenard, and Escoffier of a slew of abuses—the members had voted to launch a secret investigation.

For months, private detectives had been secretly following those named in the letter and delving into the accusations mentioned by the author. The results so far had borne out the truth of those accusations, uncovering improprieties, foolish extravagance, and questionable decisions at every level. Worse, there were clear indications of fraud on a massive scale. As a result, the board had brought in Simon to supervise an audit of the finances, clear out the corruption, and put the hotel back on a profitable track.

As the owner of several hotels himself, hotels he’d salvaged from the wreckage of bankruptcy, he was uniquely qualified to handle this assignment. But, although he had gladly agreed to help the Cartes and he welcomed the challenge and opportunities this project afforded him, he could not say he relished the secrecy required here. He loathed subterfuge. It went against his nature.

“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 weeks ago,” 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 genuinely confounded that Simon was taken aback. The letter had detailed a culture of corruption from top to bottom, one confirmed 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 earlier, 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 profit and 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—”

“You went through my expense diaries?” she cut in, her voice rising. “The ones I keep in my desk? My locked desk?”

“Well, yes.” He assumed an expression of mock regret. “Your desk will need a new lock, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t suppose you could have bothered to cable me in Paris and ask my permission before destroying my desk and going through my things?”

That would have put her on her guard were she guilty of any wrongdoing. “Not really,” he said with a shrug. “Why?” Tensing, he leaned forward, watching her closely. “Was there something in your desk that wouldn’t bear public scrutiny?”

“Of course not,” she answered at once, “since I keep the letters from all my lovers in my suite upstairs.”

If she was hoping to shock him, she was disappointed. Married three times, she was no innocent miss, after all. And even Simon could not deny that she was remarkably beautiful. Scanning her face, with its delicate features and thickly lashed dark blue eyes, he could well believe she had dozens of lovers.

“A very wise proceeding,” he said gravely. “But while we are on the subject of your suite upstairs, it’s paid for by the hotel, I understand?”

“Yes.” Her face took on a wary expression. “The hotel allots me a room as part of my compensation. Why?”

“Your employment contract specifies a room, but not a suite. You’ll have to move.”

“You’re such a harbinger of joy, aren’t you, Calderon? Rather like cholera.”

“Suites are a valuable commodity to the hotel,” he went on, ignoring her comparison of him to a fatal disease. “We can’t have a member of staff staying for free in one of the hotel’s most desired rooms when those rooms can be let to the public for profit.”

“Then I’ll have the difference subtracted from my salary. With your permission, of course?” she added, her voice dripping with sweetness.

“That would be an acceptable alternative,” he said. “By the way, I understand from Mrs. Bates that you have requested a hotel maid to act as your lady’s maid? If so,” he added as she nodded, “the hotel will be required to bill you for that service.”

“I’m now paying to have a suite, but I don’t suppose it would do me any good to remind you that suite guests are allowed maid and valet services at no charge?”

“No good whatsoever,” he agreed with cheer, “since we don’t do that anymore. All hotel maids and footmen are now required to report any and all tasks they do for suite guests to bookkeeping, just as they do for all the other guests who stay here. All tips, of course, will remain in place.”

“How generous.”

He ignored the sarcasm and returned his attention to his notes. “We’ve been far too generous, to my mind. Free valets, free maids, complimentary bottles of champagne to suite guests upon checking in, more free champagne to the tables—” He broke off, biting back any disparagement of Ritz’s generosity in dispensing free wine from the Savoy’s cellars to the hotel’s aristocratic clientele and began again. “As I was saying, the expenses for your department have been…lavish, to say the least. Thousands of pounds on flowers alone.”

“I take it you are not one of those who believes in the axiom about flowers being as important to one’s table as the bread?”

“Anyone who subscribes to that particular axiom has never been hungry,” he countered without looking up. “Now—”

“Have you?” she interrupted. “Ever been hungry, I mean?”

He tensed, casting his mind back to the days of his childhood when his parents’ meager wages had not stretched far enough, the periods when he had been pulled out of school to run errands for wealthy hotel guests in exchange for tips so his parents could make the rent on their lodgings. “Yes,” he said brusquely. “I have. Now, might we return to the subject at hand?”

She made an exaggerated gesture of acquiescence in reply, and he continued: “I see that last year you acquired new paintings for the foyer, ordered new livery for the bellboys, and redecorated all the suites?”

“My dear man, those things had to be done. Bellboys grow you know. Do you want them walking around in trousers that make them look like powder monkeys in the British navy? Or perhaps we should just sack them when they outgrow their uniforms and hire a fresh lot of smaller boys? As for the suites, the drapes were silk, which rots in the sunlight. They had to be replaced. The sheets were beginning to yellow, the mattresses were lumpy, and some of the settees still had the same hideously ugly upholstery from the hotel’s opening. And the paintings?” She shuddered. “Ghastly.”

The question of her honesty aside, he began to appreciate other reasons why Helen—who had chosen the upholstery, drapes, and paintings in question—didn’t like her.

“Surely,” she went on, her enormous eyes widening even further, “you wouldn’t want the guests who stay in those precious suites of ours to sleep on lumpy mattresses with yellowing sheets and rotting drapes, would you?”

“Of course not. But expenses such as the ones you mention cannot be made on the spur of the moment. They need to be projected before the fiscal year begins. That is why a budget is necessary, particularly for you, since your department is not bringing in enough revenue to offset what you’ve been spending.”

“That’s not true!” she cried, bounding in her chair. “I bring in heaps of revenue. I am responsible for planning the banquets, the parties, and all the other events we hold here. People pay 25 percent above cost for those events, you know.”

“Do they pay?” he countered, referring again to his notes. “The Marquess of Ravenlea held a dinner party last autumn for forty guests. The bill came to nearly six hundred pounds, a bill that—if the accountant’s audits can be trusted—the good marquess never paid.”

She grimaced. “Well, yes, that does sometimes happen, I’m afraid.”

“It happens with nauseating regularity—so often, in fact, that because of it, your department has not made a profit in over two years. But,” he added, attempting to soften the blow, “if it makes you feel better, you are not alone. Every department brings in too little and spends too much, hence my request for a budget from every member of management. I realize that you were not here to comply with my request, but time is of the essence if we are to pay a dividend at the end of March. So…”

He paused to pull a second sheet out of the file before him. “I took the liberty of drawing up a budget for you,” he said, handing it to her across the desk.

“How thoughtful,” she murmured with a smile that could have melted stone, but only a fool would have thought it genuine. “Your experience with hotel management must be vast indeed for you to predict how many parties I shall be arranging over the course of the year.”

“My calculations are based on the reservations already made as well as your figures from last year.”

She glanced down at the sheet in her hand. “Our revenue is likely to be much higher than this,” she objected, looking up. “Your estimates are far too low.”

His estimates were low for a reason. Within weeks, the investigation should be finished, and it was likely that Ritz would be gone, along with Escoffier, Echenard, and many others. Though in the long term, everything at the Savoy would come right, he could not predict what the result of their departure would be in the short term. Ritz and Escoffier were widely revered, not only by the staff, but also by the Savoy’s wealthy clientele. Firing them would upset a great many people.

“Possibly,” he conceded. “But I’d rather err on the side of caution. To that end, you and I will be meeting each month to discuss the expenses and revenue for your department.”

“Yes, without you to rein me in, who knows what I’ll do?” She leaned forward, adopting a confidential manner. “Why, without your guidance and sage wisdom, I might go completely off the rails and do something wild. Like buy new stair carpets or something.”

Her past spending made her going off the rails quite likely without a firm hand to check her, but pointing that out would only increase her animosity, so he refrained.

“Speaking of my guidance and sage wisdom,” he said instead, as he pulled another sheet from the folder on his desk, “I have compiled a list of procedures and practices that might help you in running your department more efficiently.”

“Goodness,” she replied, taking the offered sheet. “Keep doing this, Lord Calderon, and I shall become so efficient, I shall have nothing to do all day but put my feet up and eat bonbons.” She glanced at the list, then set it on the desk, along with the budget he’d made for her. “You’re remarkably sure of yourself for someone who’s only been here three weeks. Perhaps it’s a bit premature to be offering me recommendations?”

“I’ve been here quite long enough to note the wanton extravagance displayed by every department of this hotel, especially yours.”

His accusation merely seemed to amuse her. “But my dear man,” she said, laughing, “this is the Savoy. Wanton extravagance is how we do it.”

“You mean that’s how you used to do it,” he countered, thinking that if he had a pound for every time he’d uttered that phrase during the past few weeks, paying a dividend to the investors would be easy. “Believe me or not, Lady Stratham, I fully realize the philosophy here has always been that one must spend more to make more.”

“Quite rightly.”

“Hardly, or there would be no need for me.”

“Ritz knows what he’s doing.”

“Perhaps, but the fact remains that things can’t go on this way. And if you wish to remain in your present position, you must understand that the lavish spending you’re accustomed to will not be happening in the future. I hope—”

“But as I’m trying to tell you, that lavishness is precisely what we’re known for. It’s the very reason people come here. You can’t expect—”

“It is not only what I expect, Countess,” he cut in, feeling he was more than justified in an interruption of his own at this stage of their conversation, “it is also what I demand.”

“So it’s to be dogwood twigs in the flower arrangements even in the springtime? No more elegantly folded napkins in London’s most elegant restaurant? No more valet service for the peers down for a quick vote in the Lords? No complimentary champagne for the Duchess of Moreland’s table?”

“When the Duchess stayed here last season, she failed to pay her bill,” he answered at once, “so forgive me if I can’t dredge up any regret that she’ll no longer be enjoying our champagne free of charge.”

“She’ll pay her bill eventually,” Lady Stratham countered with a breezy acceptance of the duchess’s behavior that only heightened Simon’s aggravation. It must have shown in his face, for she went on, “I realize it’s frustrating, but surely you know as well as I do that most members of the ton don’t have the same sense of urgency about these things that you seem to possess.”

“A facet of the aristocratic lifestyle I find utterly reprehensible,” he said crisply. “It will not continue. From now on, anyone who has made a habit of refusing to pay their bill promptly in the past will be required to submit a deposit of 50 percent on their rooms when checking in.”

“Make a duchess pay half in advance?” she breathed, clearly scandalized. “You cannot be serious.”

“But I am. And while we are on this subject, by the way, anyone who chooses to avail themselves of our banqueting facilities and your services will be required to pay a cash deposit of 20 percent up front. You’re shocked, I see,” he added, noting her expression.

“But…but surely…you realize…you must…” She paused, clearly finding it hard to come up with a reply. “But you’re a viscount,” she said at last. “Surely you know how these things work.”

He didn’t, of course, having been a peer for less than half a year, but he wasn’t about to lose face by admitting it, especially not to someone like her. “That fact, funnily enough, does not prevent me from paying my bills on time. I intend to make sure others do the same.”

“You don’t understand,” she murmured, giving him a look of pity that brought all his middle-class defenses to the fore. “You really don’t understand. How is that possible?”

“What is it you think I am missing?” He clasped his hands atop the open file before him, striving to keep an open mind. “Explain it to me.”

She lifted her hands, then let them fall in a gesture of surrender. “Very well, since you seem to need it spelled out. Allowing aristocratic guests leeway in regard to payment is part of a…a tacit understanding. Aristocrats bring a certain je ne sais quoi, an air of nobility and elegance that is necessary to a hotel of this quality. Your requirements will be regarded as an insult, and peers will go elsewhere. Without their presence, the Savoy will become just another comfortable, ordinary London hotel.”

“Since a comfortable hotel in London is as rare as hen’s teeth and therefore not the least bit ordinary, the Savoy will hardly lose money by following that example. In fact, if we don’t make a far greater profit as a result of my efforts, I will be quite disappointed. The board will remove me from my position for it, and deservedly so.”

“Profit, profit, the almighty profit,” she muttered. “Is that the god you worship, Lord Calderon?”

“I save worship for church, Lady Stratham,” he shot back, his patience at an end. “As for the Savoy, I’m not instituting these policies so the shareholders can lose money, that’s certain. So I suggest you find a way to work within the budget constraints I’ve outlined or find ways to bring in additional revenue. It is that simple.”

“It’s not simple at all! As I’ve already tried to explain, your policies will cause us to lose the aristocratic clientele, and without that, the Savoy will cease to have that air of refinement that has always made it so extraordinary.”

“Refinement?” he echoed, unable to hide his scorn for that concept. “So we should give things for free to people who can well afford to pay for them merely for the sake of noblesse oblige? I suppose it’s not surprising that you feel that way. You’re a countess, after all. I can see why you think the titled deserve special privileges because of the fortunate happenstance of their birth.”

“Are you…” She paused, her voice failing as her eyes narrowed with anger. “Are you calling me a snob, Lord Calderon?”

He shrugged. “Are you?”

“How dare you?” She jumped to her feet, glaring at him. “I am not a snob, and no one, by God, has ever accused me of being one.”

“Perhaps I dare because no one ever has? Not that I blame them, of course,” he went on, ignoring her splutter of outrage as he also stood up. “Given your upbringing and powerful position, who would say it to your face?”

“You would, apparently, since tact seems to be an alien concept for you. If you converse with our aristocratic clients in the same odious way you speak to me, they’ll all take their business to Brown’s or the Bristol and we’ll be broke in six months. And,” she added as he opened his mouth to reply, “your conclusions about me are without any basis in fact. You do not know me, nor anything about me, nor have you bothered to ask the opinions of others about my character. If you had done so, you would never have made such an accusation. Your opinion of me—and, in fact, this entire conversation—demonstrates with painful clarity that I cannot possibly work under you.”

Simon couldn’t help feeling relieved. The last thing he needed was an uncooperative termagant under his supervision, however lovely she might be to look at. “Very well,” he said imperturbably. “As I’ve said, you can no longer be under Ritz’s supervision, but if you can’t work for me, I’d be quite happy to put Helen in charge of you.”

“Helen?” She stared at him, the anger in her countenance turning to horror at the mention of the Savoy founder’s wife. “You don’t mean Helen Carte?”

“The very same. Her husband is ill, and she has been taking on many of his tasks. She is the perfect person to be in charge of you, if you don’t wish to work for me.”

“But the woman loathes me.”

“Really?” he drawled in pretended surprise. “I can’t imagine why.”

The sarcasm was not lost on her. “Helen is arrogant, judgmental, and impossible to work with. A lot like you, in fact.”

“If by that you mean she is sensible, frugal, and understands the importance of solvency to an enterprise’s success, then yes, she and I are alike.”

“Frugal? Helen’s so tight with money, if she dropped a shilling down a rabbit hole, she’d dig up the field to find it. But in making the comparison, I was thinking of her obsessive pettifogging, desperate need for control, and lack of trust in the staff to know best how to do their jobs.”

That description flicked Simon on the raw, but he refused to be sidetracked by it. “Then it seems your only other choice is to resign.”

At the throwing down of that particular gauntlet, her shoulders went back and her eyes narrowed. “If you think you shall rid yourself of me that easily, Lord Calderon, you’d best think again.”

“Indeed? Then I expect you to comply fully with the conditions I have laid down. If you cannot, I shall expect your resignation. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite clear, thank you.” Snatching the sheets off his desk, she turned away, heading for the door between their offices without a backward glance, her hips swaying, the pleated silk hem of her blue skirt and the frothy white lace of the petticoat beneath it churning behind her heels with the force of her strides.

She reached the door and opened it, but if Simon thought their conversation was over, he was mistaken.

“By the way,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him as she paused with her hand on the knob, “since I am to be working for you for the foreseeable future, there’s something you should know about me, something you might not yet have observed.”

“What’s that?”

Steel glinted in her eyes, like a duelist’s sword in the sun. “I don’t respond well to being lectured. I’m a woman, you autocratic bastard, not a naughty child.”

Before he could reply, she had walked out, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the painting on the wall.

“Woman?” he muttered in the wake of her departure. “Tornado is more like it.”

But even as he spoke, the flaunting swing of her hips as she’d stalked away went through his mind, reminding him that woman and tornado were not, at least in this case, mutually exclusive concepts.

Simon eased back in his chair, letting out his breath in a slow sigh as he appreciated the inevitable storms that lay ahead.