Page 22 of Lady Scandal

The sight of that smile caused Simon to stiffen. “No,” he said, shoving self-doubt away, reminding himself that customers who didn’t pay their bills were no great loss. “Not at all.”

“That’s good to hear. I was on my way to dinner and saw you with the duchess. You seemed to be having a bit of trouble with her, and I was about to inquire if I could help, but you managed to settle things with her before I could jump in.”

He’d have hurled himself in front of a train before asking her for help, and besides, if that provoking smile of hers was anything to go by, any help she gave would end up doing him more harm than good.

“I appreciate your thoughtful offer,” he lied. “But I had things well in hand.”

“Of course you did.”

Oddly, this quick and mild agreement was more galling than her smile, but thankfully, the clerk on the other side of the registration desk gave a little cough, and Simon offered Lady Stratham and her friend a polite bow of farewell. “Enjoy your evening.”

She gave a nod and turned away, and with relief he returned his attention to the clerk, who was waiting expectantly. “Yes, Ricardo, what is it?”

“Before the duchess arrived, you were asking me about a certain Mr. Sharpe?”

“Yes, Devlin Sharpe,” he confirmed, happy to return to the subject that had brought him to the lobby in the first place. “Mr. Sharpe is a friend of mine, and he’s staying at the Savoy for a day or two. Weare dining together this evening, and I wanted to inquire if he had checked in yet?”

The clerk opened the registration book and scanned the most recent names that had been added. “Not yet, my lord,” he said, looking up. “Do you wish to be notified when he arrives?”

“Yes, thank you. And if you could please ask the maître d’hôtel to reserve a table for us in the restaurant for…” He paused to pull out his pocket watch. “For nine o’clock, I would appreciate it.”

“Of course. And where can we find you when Mr. Sharpe arrives?”

“I’ll be in my office,” Simon answered, but as he shoved his watch back into his waistcoat pocket, his gaze slid past Ricardo and down the long foyer in the direction of the American Bar, and he reconsidered his decision. The Savoy’s famous barkeep, Frank Wells, was said to make the best cocktails on this side of the pond.

He’d never been much of a drinking man, but Lady Stratham was the sort of woman who could make even the staunch teetotaler break the pledge, and he was glad Mr. Wells hadn’t been one of the corrupt people he’d had to fire during the past few weeks.

“On second thought, I’ll be in the American Bar,” he said, and as he headed in that direction, he wondered if Mr. Wells’s repertoire of famous cocktails included one called a Tornado. With Lady Stratham’s damnable smile still in his mind, it seemed an appropriate choice.

5

He was in the Savoy’s American Bar, sipping a bizarre concoction of whisky, gin, and crème de menthe that had been recommended to him by the barkeep, waiting for Devlin, and imagining various ways he might rid himself of Lady Stratham, when a voice intruded on his thoughts.

“Difficult day?”

Simon looked up to find the Duke of Westbourne standing by his chair, faultlessly attired in white-tie, a drink in his hand and a smile on his face.

Simon leaned back in his chair, giving the other man a rueful look. “Is it that obvious?”

Westbourne’s smile widened into a grin, one that bore a strong resemblance to that of his provoking cousin. “Well, it’s rather a safe bet when a man’s drinking alone in a bar. May I join you?”

Simon hesitated, for he’d quite had his fill of aristocrats for one day. But then, he remembered the shareholders’ meeting, where he’d told the investors of his father’s disgrace. Helen and Richard had advised him not to, but he felt he’d had no choice; honor demanded full disclosure of that information, even though he’dbeen sure it would sink his chances. It was Westbourne who had pointed out to the other investors that a man could not be blamed for his father’s sins.

“But,” the duke went on before he could reply, “if you would prefer to drown your frustrations with the Duchess of Moreland all by yourself, I would completely understand.”

Simon sighed. “You saw the whole encounter, I suppose.”

“I think everyone in the lobby saw it.”

He grimaced, knowing that was probably true.

Westbourne, however, merely laughed. “Don’t worry about it, old chap. Being a duke myself, I ought not to say it, but a more odious woman than the Duchess of Moreland never drew breath.”

Simon gestured to the empty chairs at his table. “Please join me, but know that it won’t be for long. I’m waiting for someone, and when he arrives, we’re going to dinner.”

“And I’m off to dinner with friends at my club, where they intend to bore me for the remainder of the night with discussions of politics. So please, take pity on me,” he added, taking the chair opposite, “for this is my only chance this evening to be in congenial company. What is that green stuff in your glass, by the way?”

“Mr. Wells called it a Savoy Hurricane.” Simon held up his glass to study the emerald-colored contents, then he took a swallow, almost relishing the cocktail’s medicinal, ice-cold burn. “He didn’t have anything in his repertoire called a Tornado. This,” he added as the duke gave him a dubious look, “was the best he could do.”

---