Lady Scandal

Book 0: Scandal at the Savoy

by Laura Lee Guhrke

Genres: Sagas; Women's Fiction; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

Grumpy meets sunshine in this charming tale featuring a haughty businessman and the headstrong event planner who steals his heart.

Delia Stratham is a sophisticated, thoroughly modern woman who often flouts convention. Despite being well-born with plenty of money, she loves working at London's luxurious Savoy Hotel, coming up with ideas for the venue's lavish entertainments and then procuring whatever is needed to transform them into reality. Earning her own living planning the lavish banquets, balls, and parties for which the Savoy is famous gives her a satisfaction that none of her three marriages could—and she has no intention of giving it up.

But when fraud is uncovered at the Savoy, ruthless hotel magnate Simon Hayden becomes a major investor and vows to clean up the corruption and fire anyone responsible for the thefts. But is the beautiful, beguiling Delia stealing from the hotel, or is it just Simon’s heart she's running off with?

Release date: June 30, 2020

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

London, 1898

I cannot, Madame Comtesse. You ask the impossible.”

Declarations of that sort had never bothered Lady Delia Stratham. They rolled off of her like water off a duck’s back. “And that surprises you?” she replied, giving the man opposite her a wink. “But, Michel, you know the impossible is my favorite thing.”

The lithe young Frenchman on the other side of the worktable did not respond to that bit of raillery the way she’d hoped. Instead of a good-natured laugh, he heaved a sigh. “I tell you it cannot be done.”

Despite having heard those exact words from two other members of the hotel staff already this morning with similar results, Delia refused to be deterred. She gave the Savoy’s head florist her most winning smile, one that usually disarmed even the most intransigent opponent. “But, darling,” she began.

Michel cut her off with an outburst of French so rapid that even Delia, fluent in that language since the age of seven, had a hard time following it. Something about how he was not a miracle worker, nor was he a tennis ball to be batted about, and how he wished that the managers of the Savoy would make up their minds what they wanted. Concluding his tirade with a few choice curses, he seized a pair of pruning shears and a handful of red dogwood twigs from the worktable between them and began lopping off the ends with alarming savagery.

Delia studied him, at a loss on how to proceed. Charm and wit had always been her two greatest talents. They had not only captivated three husbands and garnered Delia an abundance of loyal friends, but had also inspired César Ritz, manager of London’s Savoy Hotel, to offer her a job. The famous hotelier’s unconventional decision had shocked society, but it had proven to be a godsend for Delia in the wake of her third husband’s death, and in the five years since, it had also been a shining success for the hotel.

Today, however, Delia wasn’t feeling like much of a success.

First, Escoffier, the hotel’s famous head chef, had gone into a flaming rage at her simple inquiry as to why the napkins in the restaurant were no longer being folded into swan shapes. He, too, had unleashed a torrent of angry French at her, rattling off a diatribe against the new regime and their spies—whatever that meant—and declared he could not work amid these constant interrogations. She should, Delia was told, talk to Ritz, and he had nothing more to say. He had then marched off to take the remainder of his anger out on his sous-chef, and a bewildered Delia had tactfully retreated, tabling any questions about the swans for another day.

Then had come Mrs. Bates. Having lost her lady’s maid to one of Paris’s most renowned houses of haute couture during her recent visit to that city, Delia had asked Mrs. Bates if the hotel could provide her with a maid from the hotel staff until she could hire a new one of her own. The Savoy’s head of housekeeping had responded to this seemingly innocuous inquiry by bursting into tears and declaring the “new way” (whatever that was) impossible. Then she had ducked into the nearest washroom and slammed the door in Delia’s bewildered face.

And now, here she was again, with another resentful employee on her hands. This time, however, was the most surprising of all. Escoffier, though cerebral and methodical by nature, had sometimes been known to fly off the handle, and Mrs. Bates had always been a dear old curmudgeon who often required a generous amount of buttering up to soothe her injured feelings. But Michel?

She stared at the lithe, mustachioed young man on the other side of the worktable, at a loss how to reply, wondering what on earth had happened during her month in Paris. Like Escoffier, Michel DuPont was brilliantly artistic and usually eager to embrace even Delia’s wildest flights of fancy. But also like his fellow Frenchman, Michel was proving uncharacteristically intractable this morning.

Delia took a deep breath and tried again.

“Dearest Michel, I don’t understand,” she said, also speaking in French, hoping that conversing in his native language would help calm him down a bit. “We went over our designs for the new bouquets before I left town. Early tulips, narcissi, and hyacinths from January to March, lilacs and peonies for April and May, and roses and hydrangeas through the summer. It was all quite fixed, I thought.”

The florist stopped attacking the dogwood stems and looked up with a scowl. “Oh, what a difference a few weeks can make.”

Delia repressed a sigh at this unhelpful response. “So I’m discovering,” she muttered. “But why? What’s happened in my absence that has you making the new arrangements with all the same blooms we’ve been seeing since October?”

“They aren’t all the same,” he muttered, gesturing to the bouquets currently under discussion that were lined up on a shelf behind him, ready to be placed throughout the Savoy’s long, elegant foyer. “I put mahonia in with the bay leaves and dogwood. The yellow does make a difference, no?”

“Does it?” She studied the line of bouquets in last season’s milk glass vases without enthusiasm. “I’m inclined to doubt. Dearest, you know it’s important at this time of year to show our guests that spring is just around the corner, but when I look at these arrangements, I have the impulse to wrap myself in a blanket, sit by a fire, and roast some chestnuts. I know your creative mind, Michel,” she added as he groaned. “I know you would never do this if you didn’t have a good reason. What’s happened while I’ve been away? It must be something catastrophic,” she went on when he didn’t reply, “for you are not the only one out of sorts today. So tell me what is going on?”

He paused in his task, looking up. “I’m surprised you don’t already know. You usually know everything, Madame.”

Apparently not. “I arrived back from Paris very late last night,” she reminded. “Just what am I supposed to know?”

“No, no,” Michel replied at once, shaking his head. “If you do not know, I shall not be the one to inform you. Go to your office and read your correspondence, then you will see.”

“And have Madelaine herald my return with a stack of letters that need answering in one hand and her shorthand notebook in the other? I can’t, Michel,” she added as he opened his mouth to respond. “Truly, I can’t. Not before luncheon. And since I’m right here in front of you, why don’t you simply tell me why you’ve changed your mind about the flowers we chose?”

“Very well, if you must know.” He flung up his head, shaking back his hair like an angry young thoroughbred. “It is the expense.”

Delia blinked, so astonished she couldn’t think how to reply. In the five years since Ritz had hired her to work for him at the Savoy, never had she been expected to consider expenses. “I don’t understand.”

“Forced bulbs are very costly. And the new vases of cut crystal you wanted—they are expensive, too, Madame.”

Delia couldn’t help a laugh. “Well, of course they’re expensive, darling! This is the Savoy, after all. We don’t do anything on the cheap.”

“Not until now.”

Delia frowned, growing more confounded by the moment. “What on earth does that mean?”

“During your absence, every department was ordered to submit a budget for the year.”

“A budget?” As she repeated the words, Delia thought of Escoffier and Mrs. Bates, and began to get an inkling of what was making everyone so cross today. But what had prompted this notion of budgets? Surely not Ritz. Extravagance was that man’s middle name. Michel spoke again, however, before she could inquire.

“Since you were not here, I was asked to make a budget for the flowers. I did, based on what you and I had discussed, and I was immediately told to reduce it by 20 percent.” He tossed down the pruning shears with a thud. “Twenty percent? What am I? A worker of miracles?”

“But who would—”

“I explained that the only way I could do what he asked was to buy whatever late blooms the flower sellers had left from their winter inventory.”

“And Ritz found that acceptable? I don’t believe it. He knows better than anyone the importance of seasonal flowers to the hotel’s ambience. He would never expect you to settle for last season’s leftovers. Never.”

Michel waved his hand impatiently in the air. “It is not Ritz of whom I speak. Ritz has gone to Italy.”

“Italy? But when he was leaving Paris, he told me he was coming back to London.”

“And he did, but then he left again. Some catastrophe has arisen at the new hotel in Rome. If he were here, perhaps none of this would be happening.”

“But what of Echenard? He would never make such a decision, either.”

“Echenard does not matter. He has been overruled; you comprehend?”

Delia did not comprehend anything. At this point, she was completely at sea. “But Echenard is Ritz’s second-in-command, and I am third. Who could possibly—”

The bell over the front entrance of the shop jangled, interrupting her, and Michel glanced past her, looking through the open doorway of the workroom to see who had entered his domain.

Delia, however, had no intention of allowing him to be diverted from the crisis at hand. “Michel, I don’t understand any of this. No one but Ritz or Echenard has the authority to countermand my instructions.”

“Someone does, Madame,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he looked at her again. “Now, someone does.”

All this ambiguity was beginning to make her as frustrated as everyone else. “Michel, for heaven’s sake, stop talking in riddles and tell me what’s going on! What prize idiot decided it was a good idea to turn our lovely spring bouquets into winter’s last gasp?”

“The prize idiot in question,” a deep male voice behind her replied in carefully enunciated, painfully bad French, “would be me.”

Delia turned to find a man standing in the doorway of the florist’s workroom—a man so attractive, she knew she’d never seen him before. From the moment she had first put on a party dress, pinned up her hair, and danced a waltz with a boy, Delia had noticed and appreciated the members of the sterner sex, especially the attractive ones. Had she ever met this man before, or even met his eyes across a room, she’d have remembered the encounter.

He was exceptionally tall, for one thing—tall enough that he topped her five-foot, eight-inch frame by a good six inches. His wide shoulders filled the doorway, tapering to narrow hips and long legs, making him such an ideal example of the male physique that her thoroughly feminine heart skipped a beat.

Her gaze skimmed back up, past his expensive, well-cut morning coat and precisely knotted necktie to his face, noting a splendid square jaw, a pair of chiseled cheekbones, and a perfect Roman nose—strong features well suited to his athletic body. His eyes were green, the gray green of hoarfrost on a winter’s day, but his hair was the warm, tawny gold of a wheat field in summer.

Delia stirred, turning completely around to face him. “My, my,” she murmured, her natural feminine instincts stirring in the face of such splendid masculinity. “And just who are you?”

He bowed. “Simon Hayden, Viscount Calderon, at your service. You, I can only assume,” he added as he straightened, “are the notorious Lady Stratham I’ve been hearing so much about.”

Given that rather unflattering description, Delia wondered what exactly he might have heard about her. “Heavens,” she said, working to keep her voice light, “my reputation precedes me.”

“It does, indeed.”

At this incisive reply, his attractiveness fell a notch in Delia’s estimation. He seemed quite a cold fish.

What a waste, she thought, repressing a sigh as she cast a quick, wistful glance over his splendid body.

When she returned her gaze to his face, she saw that he was studying her as well, though his eyes were devoid of any discernible emotion. He said nothing, and as the silence lengthened, Delia began to feel like a butterfly on a pin under his unwavering stare. She refused to show any discomfiture, however. A woman had her pride.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said at last, using English in hope that he would do the same, thereby sparing him any need to continue in French, a language he was clearly uncomfortable with. “You’ve met Michel already, it seems, so now that we all know each other, Lord Calderon, do tell me what has inspired your interest in the affairs of the Savoy Hotel, particularly those that come under my purview?”

One corner of his mouth curved upward a notch, though it could hardly be called a smile. “You think I’m pushing in where I have no business?”

She smiled sweetly. “The thought did cross my mind.”

“Then allow me to reassure you. I have an interest in the affairs of the Savoy because I am a member of the hotel’s board of directors.”

“What?” She couldn’t help a laugh, for she was already acquainted with every member of the board, and she knew he wasn’t among them. “Since when?”

“Since three weeks ago, Lady Stratham, when I acquired a substantial share of Savoy stock and was appointed as the board’s newest member.”

Delia stirred at that piece of news, suddenly uneasy. “I see.”

“As to what has impelled my interference,” he went on, “the power to do so has been bestowed upon me by a unanimous vote of the other members of the board. They have authorized me to study every facet of the hotel and its current practices and make whatever changes I see fit so that things might run more efficiently.”

Dumbfounded, it took her several moments to think of a reply. “But Ritz is the general manager. Is that not his job?”

“Ritz has already agreed to give his full cooperation to my efforts.”

“And if what you choose to do should go against his wishes?”

“Ritz’s preferences,” he said with a shrug, “must take second place to what is necessary.”

With that dismissive reply, Delia knew just why everyone she’d encountered this morning was so touchy and out of sorts. Before she could speculate as to just how many other hotel employees this man had upset while she’d been in Paris, he spoke again.

“I sent you and every other head of staff a memorandum upon my appointment,” he said, “introducing myself, explaining the situation, and requesting a meeting to discuss the changes that need to be made in each department for the coming year. As of this morning, you are the only one with whom I have not met.”

Was he implying that she’d been negligent in her duties? “I’ve been away,” she said, grimacing at the defensive note of her own voice.

“Yes, in Paris; I was told.” His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Jaunting about on Ritz’s behalf.”

Choosing the decorations for the Parisian hotel Ritz was opening could hardly be considered a mere jaunt, but there was no point in saying so. “And what a pleasurable interlude it was, too,” she said with an exaggerated sigh of rapture. “Paris is always so delightful, even at this time of year.”

“I daresay.”

Paris clearly held no charms for him, a fact that did not surprise her in the least. Resisting the impulse to needle him by waxing rhapsodic about the City of Light’s witty salons, romantic cafés, and naughty cabaret shows, she said instead, “I was doing work for Ritz’s hotel there.”

“Ritz’s own hotel, yes, quite so. Though I believe your entire salary is paid by the Savoy.”

Delia stiffened, the last shred of his masculine appeal fading irretrievably away. “Just what are you implying, Lord Calderon?”

“I shall be happy to answer that question, Lady Stratham, and any others you may have in the meeting with you that I have already requested. Shall we say two o’clock this afternoon?”

“So sorry, but I have an engagement at two o’clock,” she was happy to inform him. “In fact, my appointment diary is full for the entire day.”

“Is it? So is mine, with one exception at two o’clock. Please rearrange your schedule so that we can meet at that time.”

Such high-handedness made Delia bristle, and though her engagements today could easily be rearranged, she saw no reason to reward his arrogance by doing so. Besides, she had no intention of meeting with him until she had cabled Ritz in Rome and learned the true facts of the situation. Stalling, she decided, was her best option.

“You seem quite a busy man, Lord Calderon,” she said, mustering all the charm in her arsenal, “and I should hate to see you waste your time, so let me assure you that a meeting between us is not at all necessary. I have always managed to do my job quite well without the assistance of any member of the board.”

He gave a pointed cough. “Not as well as you might think, I’m sorry to say.”

Those ominous words caused her uneasiness to deepen, but before she could ask what he meant, he spoke again. “After studying the fourth-quarter financial reports, the board feels that sweeping changes need to be made throughout the hotel. Your duties will be profoundly impacted by those changes and, given the fact that you have been gone so long, time is now of the essence—hence, my insistence upon a meeting today. If you would bring an estimate of your expenditures for the current year, that would be most helpful to our discussions.”

Even if she chose to meet with him this afternoon—which was by no means a certainty, despite his presumptions on the matter—she wasn’t about to spend the next four hours in the agony of suspense. “What sorts of ‘sweeping changes’ is the board thinking to make?” she asked.

“For a start, you will no longer be reporting to either Mr. Ritz or Mr. Echenard. The honor of being in charge of you now falls to me,” he added with a most unflattering lack of enthusiasm.

“You?” Delia stared at him, appalled.

He seemed to perceive her feelings. “I see that you relish the prospect as much as I,” he said dryly. “Still, there is little either of us can do about it. The deed is done.”

Those words felt like a gauntlet thrown down, and Delia stiffened, bailing on charm—which was clearly wasted here—and readying herself to do battle. “Oh, is it really?”

“The board feels that the majority of your duties, particularly the events you arrange on behalf of the hotel for various clients, need to be managed with greater oversight than has been exercised in the past.”

“Greater oversight?” she echoed. “Are you saying that I have been cavalier in such matters?”

His frost-tinted gaze slid past her, then back again, reminding her they were not alone. “This is hardly the appropriate place to discuss it. When you come to my office this afternoon, I will be happy to explain the situation—”

“Your office?” she interrupted in shocked surprise. “You have an office? Here in the hotel?”

“I do, yes. Right by your own, as a matter of fact.”

This situation was growing worse with each passing moment. “So you’re to be my nanny, is that it?”

He gave her a wintry smile. “I prefer to say that the board feels Ritz is stretched much too thin to oversee your duties, and that both he and you would benefit from some outside supervision over your position, and those who report to you.”

Delia couldn’t imagine what had happened to bring about the board’s concerns about her or this man’s interference, but she had no illusions that any of it would be to her benefit. And as she envisioned working for this ice block of a man, she realized with a sick sense of dismay that her dream job had just become a nightmare.

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, bu. . .