Page 1 of Bookshop Cinderella

1

London, 1896

Darling Max, just the man I need!”

Maximillian Shaw didn’t have to turn his head to recognize the owner of the feminine voice murmuring so persuasively in his ear. “Delia? What a delightful surprise.”

He set aside the newspaper he’d been reading and turned, smiling into the piquant face of his favorite cousin. “Even though it’s clear you’re about to cage a favor.”

Unrepentant, Delia bestowed a dazzling smile on him. “I’ve gotten myself into a terrible pickle, Max, and I need your help. I realize that asking favors of a duke is the height of impertinence—”

“As if that’s ever stopped you before,” he cut in wryly.

Still smiling, she leaned closer, the wide brim of her hat raking over the crown of his head and ruffling his dark hair. “It’s nothing difficult,” she promised and gave his cheek an affectionate pat, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were in the foyer of the Savoy, London’s most luxurious hotel. “A mere trifle.”

Max knew well the dangers of participating in Delia’s so-called trifles. A year younger than him, she’d been embroiling him in her schemes almost from the moment she learned to walk. “The last time you said something like that,” he said, standing up as she came around to the front of his chair, “I ended up with a bloody nose and a black eye.”

She waved away his discomfort over the occasion in question with an airy gesture of her hand. “All part of our misspent youth. May I join you?” she added before he could reply, nodding to the empty chair to his right.

It would never have occurred to Max to object. Doing favors for Delia did tend to land a chap in trouble, but he liked a bit of trouble now and again; and besides, he’d never been able to turn his back on a beauty in distress.

“I’d be delighted to help, of course. Shall we have tea and talk about it?” he added, gesturing to the Savoy’s famous dining room nearby. “Or would you prefer the American Bar? Frank is probably on duty by now. We could have him mix us some delectable new libations.”

“Women aren’t allowed in the American Bar,” Delia reminded him, making a face that clearly conveyed her opinion of that particular rule.

“The bar isn’t open yet, so Frank won’t mind.”

“Do stop tempting me with these delights. I’ve no time for cocktails or tea. Not today. I’ve only half an hour to get to Charing Cross station or I shall miss my train for Dover.” Despite those words, she sank into the empty chair beside his. “I’m just waiting for my maid and the bellman to bring my luggage down,” she went on, casting a glance past him down the length of the Savoy’s opulent foyer. “Then I’m off to the Continent.”

“The Continent, eh?” he echoed as he resumed his own seat. “Pleasure or business?”

“Both, of course. If work didn’t amuse me, I’d never do it.”

That, Max reflected, was undoubtedly true. After all, it wasn’t as if Delia needed an income. Her third husband had left her an absolute packet when he died. No, she chose to work for her own amusement, though Max was rather at sea as to just what her job entailed. Something for the hotel, reporting to César Ritz himself, with duties that involved parties, shopping, and the exercise of considerable charm—a post tailor-made for his cousin, in other words. “So, what is this favor?” he asked. “And why can’t you do it yourself, if it’s so trifling?”

“But I’ve just told you! I haven’t the time. César called me in an hour ago and ordered me at once to Rome—some sort of disaster at his new hotel there. Only César would think it a perfectly simple thing to manage four hotels in four countries simultaneously. Anyway, I warned him he was stretching himself too thin and offered to help with the other hotels as well as this one, and he’s finally decided to give me a chance, so I’m off to Rome. But I was in such a flutter to pack that it was only as I was coming down in the lift that I remembered I’d also made a promise to help Auguste. It’s a promise I’ve now no time to fulfill, and when I spied you sitting here in the lobby, it was like the answer to all my prayers.”

“Auguste Escoffier?” Max shook his head, bewildered by the mention of the Savoy’s famous head chef. “Delia, we both know I enjoy an excellent meal, but I know nothing about how such meals are prepared. In a pinch, I might be able to boil an egg,” he offered dubiously. “Though I doubt anyone would want to eat it.”

“You don’t have to cook anything,” she assured him, laughing. “Now, listen. Auguste has this banquet for the Epicurean Club coming up in three weeks—enormous affair, over a hundred people—members, their wives, even the Prince of Wales.”

“I know. I’m a member of that club, and I’ve already received my invitation.”

“Yes, exactly.” Delia beamed at him with all the delight of a child who’d just been handed a present. “Which is why you’re the perfect person to aid Auguste in my stead. As you know, the Epicurean Club always presents an array of exciting new dishes at these affairs, which is why they hold them here at the Savoy. Auguste has been racking his brain about what to serve, but he’s just as overworked as César these days, poor pet, and his ingenuity is sapped.”

Not a surprising bit of news when one considered that the Savoy’s dining room had become the most popular and fashionable restaurant for every aristocrat within a thousand miles, and the culinary brilliance of its head chef had been in continual high demand for over five years now. Still, if Escoffier was suffering a bout of creative drought, Max didn’t see what he could do to assist in alleviating it. “The price of success for both of them, I fear.”

“Just so. Auguste has asked for my help to create the menu. And he wants me to plan the decorations, order the flowers, that sort of thing. So, of course, I set Evie Harlow onto it at once.”

This mention of someone entirely unfamiliar sparked Max’s curiosity. “Evie who?”

“Evie Harlow. She owns a bookshop near here and does research for me when I’m planning one of these affairs. She’s a marvel. Do you remember that banquet a few years ago for the Edelweiss Club? The one that was such a sensation because of the flowers?”

“Not really, since I’m not a member of that club. And I can’t imagine how mere flowers could cause a sensation, but I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

“Not just any flowers,” she corrected. “Edelweiss. It only grows in the highest mountain regions. I wanted it for the table decorations, and how on earth was I to find it, I ask you? Climb the Alps and pick it myself?”

The picture made him want to smile, for Delia’s notions of athletic endeavor were limited to walking (in fashionable clothes along fashionable thoroughfares), driving (with a chauffeur), and waltzing (usually with the best-looking, richest men in the room). “That would be ridiculous,” he agreed.

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