Cometh the Hour

12

The earl of Fenwick wrote to his daughter and summoned her to Scotland. Almost a royal command.

Virginia dreaded the thought of having to face her father. As long as she kept herself out of the gossip columns and within her budget, the old man didn’t seem to care too much about what she got up to in London. However, her high court libel action against her ex-sister-in-law Emma Clifton had been extensively reported in the Scotsman, the only paper the noble earl ever read.

Virginia didn’t arrive at Fenwick Hall until after dinner, and immediately retired to bed in the hope that her father would be in a better mood following a night’s sleep. He wasn’t. In fact, he barely uttered a word throughout breakfast, other than to say, “I’ll see you in my study at ten,” as if she were an errant schoolgirl.

She was standing outside Papa’s study at five minutes to ten, but didn’t knock on the door until she heard the clock in the hall strike the hour. She was painfully aware that her father expected one to be neither early nor late. When she did knock, she was rewarded with the command, “Come!” She opened the door and walked into a room she only ever entered when she was in trouble. Virginia remained standing on the other side of the desk waiting to be invited to sit. She wasn’t. She still didn’t speak. Children should be seen and not heard, was one of her father’s favorite maxims, which may have been the reason they were almost strangers.

While Virginia waited for him to open the conversation, she took a closer look at the old man who was seated behind his desk, attempting to light a briar pipe. He’d aged considerably since she’d last seen him. The lines on his face were more deeply etched. But despite being well into his seventies, his gray hair was still thick, and his finely clipped moustache served to remind everyone he was of a past generation. The earl’s smoking jacket was the lovat green of his highland clan, and he considered it a virtue that he rarely ventured beyond the borders. He’d been educated at Loretto School in Edinburgh before graduating to St. Andrews. The golf club, not the university. At general elections, he supported the Conservative Party, not out of conviction, but because he considered the Tories the lesser of several evils. However, as his Member of Parliament had been Sir Alec Douglas-Home, he wasn’t without influence. He visited the House of Lords on rare occasions, and then only when a vote was required on a piece of legislation that affected his livelihood.

Once he’d lit his pipe and taken a few exaggerated puffs, he reluctantly turned his attention to his only daughter, whom he considered to be one of his few failures in life. The earl blamed his late wife for indulging the child during her formative years. The countess had favored the carrot rather than the stick, so that by the age of eighteen, the only carats Virginia knew were to be found at Cartier and not the local greengrocers.

“Let me begin by asking you, Virginia,” said the earl between puffs, “if you have finally settled all the legal bills that arose from your reckless libel action?”

“Yes, I have, Papa. But I had to sell all my shares in Barrington’s in order to do so.”

“No more than poetic justice,” commented the earl, before taking another puff on his ancient pipe. “You should never have allowed the case to get to court after Sir Edward advised you that your chances were no better than fifty-fifty.”

“But it was in the bag until Fisher wrote that unfortunate letter.”

“Another example of your lack of judgment,” spat out the earl. “Fisher was always going to be a liability, and you should never have become involved with him.”

“But he was a major in the army.”

“A rank you reach only after the war office has decided it’s time for you to retire.”

“And a Member of Parliament.”

“Who rate above only second-hand car salesmen and cattle thieves for reliability.” Virginia opted for silence in a battle she knew she couldn’t win. “Please assure me, Virginia, that you haven’t thrown your hand in with any more ne’er-do-wells.”

She thought about Desmond Mellor, Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles, to whom she knew her father wouldn’t have given house room. “No, Papa, I’ve learned my lesson, and won’t be causing you any more trouble.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“But I must admit that it’s quite difficult to live in London on only two thousand pounds a month.”

“Then come back and live in Kinross, where one can exist quite comfortably on two thousand a year.”

Virginia knew only too well that was the last thing her father would want, so she decided to take a risk. “I was rather hoping, Papa, you might see your way to raising my allowance to three thousand a month.”

“You needn’t give that a second thought,” came back the immediate reply. “In fact, after your most recent shenanigans, I was thinking of cutting your allowance in half.”

“But if you did that, Papa, how could I hope to survive?” She wondered if this was the moment to burst into tears.

“You could behave like the rest of us and learn to live within your means.”

“But my friends rather expect—”

“Then you’ve got the wrong friends. Perhaps the time has come for you to join the real world.”

“What are you suggesting, Papa?”

“You could start by dismissing your butler and housekeeper, who are in my opinion an unnecessary expense, and then move into a smaller flat.” Virginia looked shocked. “And you could even go out and look for a job.” Virginia burst into tears. “Although that, come to think of it, would be pointless, as you’re not qualified to do anything apart from spending other people’s money.”

“But, Papa,” Virginia said, dabbing away a tear, “another thousand a month would solve all my problems.”

“But not mine,” said the earl. “So you can begin your new regime by taking a bus to the station and traveling back to London — second class.”

Virginia had never entered a second-class carriage and, despite her father’s admonition, had no intention of doing so. However, during the long journey back to King’s Cross, she did give considerable thought to her current predicament, and what choices had been left open to her if she was not to further exhaust the old man’s patience.

She had already borrowed small amounts from several friends and acquaintances, and one or two of them were beginning to press her for repayment, while others seemed resigned to the fact that she hadn’t considered the money a loan, more of a gift.

Perhaps she could learn to live without a butler and a cook, visit Peter Jones more often than Harrods, and even board the occasional bus, rather than hail a taxi. However, one thing she could never agree to do was to travel on the tube. She didn’t care to go underground, unless it was to visit Annabel’s. Her weekly visit to the hair salon was also nonnegotiable, and white wine in place of champagne was unthinkable. She also refused to consider giving up her box at the Albert Hall, or her debenture seats at Wimbledon. She’d been told by Bofie Bridgwater that some of his friends rented them out when they weren’t using them. So vulgar, although she had to admit it would be marginally better than losing them altogether.

However, Virginia had noticed recently that she’d been receiving more brown envelopes through the letterbox. She left them unopened in the vain hope that they would go away, whereas in truth they were often followed by a solicitor’s letter warning of an impending writ if their client’s bills were not paid within fourteen days. As if that wasn’t enough, she had that morning opened a letter from her bank manager asking to see her ladyship at her earliest convenience.

Virginia had never met a bank manager, and it certainly wasn’t convenient. But when she returned to Cadogan Gardens and opened her front door, she discovered that the brown envelopes on the hall table now outnumbered the white. She took the letters through to the drawing room, where she divided them into two piles.

After dropping into the wastepaper basket a second request from her bank manager for an urgent meeting, she turned her attention to the white envelopes. Several invitations from chums inviting her to spend a weekend in the country, but she’d recently sold her little MGB and no longer had any means of transport. Balls, at which she couldn’t possibly be seen in the same dress twice. Ascot, Wimbledon, and of course the garden party at Buckingham Palace. But it was Bofie Bridgwater’s embossed invitation that intrigued her most.

Bofie was, in her father’s opinion, a waste of space. However, he did have the virtue of being the youngest son of a viscount, which allowed him to mix with a class of people who were only too happy to foot the bill. Virginia read Bofie’s attached letter. Would she care to join him for lunch at Harry’s Bar (which certainly meant he wouldn’t be paying) to meet an old American chum (they’d probably met quite recently), Cyrus T. Grant III, who was visiting London for the first time and didn’t know his way around town?

“Cyrus T. Grant III,” she repeated. Where had she come across that name before? Ah, yes, William Hickey. She picked up the previous day’s Daily Express and turned to the gossip column, as a gambler turns to the racing pages. Cyrus T. Grant III will be visiting London this summer to take in the season, Hickey informed her. In particular, to watch his filly, Noble Conquest, race in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at Ascot. He will be flying to London on his Lear jet, and staying in the Nelson suite at the Ritz. Forbes magazine has listed Grant as the 28th richest man in America. A multimillionaire — Virginia liked the word “multi” — who had made his fortune in the canning industry — she didn’t care for the word “industry.” Hickey went on to say that Vogue had described him as one of the most eligible bachelors on the planet. But how old are you? mumbled Virginia, as she studied the photo of the tycoon below the story. She guessed forty-five, and hoped fifty, and although he wasn’t what you might have called handsome, or even presentable, the number 28 stuck in her mind.

Virginia dropped Bofie a handwritten billet accepting his kind invitation, and added how much she was looking forward to meeting Cyrus T. Grant III. Perhaps she could sit next to him?

“You called, my lady?” said the butler.

“Yes, Morton. I’m sorry to say that I have been left with no choice but to terminate your employment at the end of the month.” Morton didn’t look surprised, as he hadn’t been paid for the past three months. “Of course, I shall supply you with an excellent reference, so you should have no difficulty in finding another position.”

“Thank you, my lady, because I confess these have not been the easiest of times.”

“I’m not sure I understand you, Morton.”

“Mrs. Morton is expecting again.”

“But you told me only last year that you felt three children was more than enough.”

“And I still do, my lady, but just let’s say this one wasn’t planned.”

“One must organize one’s life more carefully, Morton, and learn to live within one’s means.”

“Quite so, my lady.”

Virginia could no longer put off visiting her bank manager after an embarrassed Mayfair hairdresser presented her with a bounced check.

“A clerical error,” Virginia assured her, and immediately wrote out another check. But once she’d left the salon, she hailed a taxi and asked the cabbie to take her to Coutts in the Strand.

Mr. Fairbrother rose from behind his desk as Lady Virginia marched into his office unannounced. “No doubt you have a simple explanation for this?” she said, placing the REFER TO DRAWER check on the manager’s desk.

“I fear, my lady, that you are well above your agreed overdraft limit,” said Fairbrother, not commenting on the fact that she hadn’t made an appointment. “I have written to you several times requesting a meeting to discuss the present situation, but you have clearly been very busy.”

“I rather assumed that as my family has banked with Coutts for over two hundred years, I might be given a little more latitude.”

“We have been as obliging as we felt able in the circumstances,” said Fairbrother, “but as there are several other transactions pending, I’m afraid you left us with little choice.”

“If that is the case, you have left me with no choice but to make arrangements to move my account to a more civilized establishment.”

“As you wish, my lady. And perhaps in the fullness of time you would be kind enough to let me know to which bank we should transfer your overdraft. Meanwhile, we will, I fear, be unable to honor any of your current outstanding checks until we have received his lordship’s monthly payment.”

“That’s fortunate really,” said Virginia, “as I’ve recently visited my father in Scotland, and he agreed to raise my allowance to three thousand pounds a month.”

“That is indeed good news, my lady, and will unquestionably help to alleviate your current short-term problem. However, I should point out that following that meeting with your father, his lordship wrote to inform the bank that he was no longer willing to guarantee your overdraft. And he made no mention of any increase in your monthly allowance.”

13

Virginia spent the morning at a new hairdresser, had her nails manicured and picked up her favorite Chanel outfit from the dry cleaners before returning to Cadogan Gardens.

As she stared at herself in a full-length mirror, she felt she didn’t look too bad for forty-two, well, forty-three... well... She took a taxi to Harry’s Bar just before 1 p.m., and when she mentioned the name Cyrus T. Grant III to the concierge, she was immediately accompanied to the private dining room on the second floor.

“Welcome, my darling,” said Bofie as she entered the room. He quickly took her to one side and whispered, “I know Cyrus is just dying to meet you. I’ve already told him you’re a member of the royal family.”

“I’m a distant niece of the Queen Mother, whom I’ve only met at official functions, though it’s true my father occasionally plays bridge with her when she stays at Glamis Castle.”

“And I told him you had tea with the Queen only last week.”

“Buck House or Windsor?” asked Virginia, joining in the game.

“Balmoral. So much more exclusive,” said Bofie as he grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

Virginia pretended not to notice the guest of honor, who was surrounded by admirers, and wondered if they would have been hanging on his every word had he not been the twenty-eighth richest man in America.

Cyrus couldn’t have been an inch over five foot five, and sadly didn’t have Gary Cooper’s looks to compensate. He was wearing a red-and-white check jacket, blue jeans, a pale blue silk shirt and a leather bootlace tie. His Cuban heels made him almost the same height as Virginia. She wanted to giggle, but somehow managed to keep a straight face.

“Cyrus, may I introduce my dear friend, the Lady Virginia Fenwick?”

“Nice to meet you, my lady,” said Cyrus.

“Please call me Virginia, all my friends do.”

“Thank you, Ginny. You can call me Cyrus, everyone does.”

Virginia didn’t comment. Bofie clapped his hands, and once he had everyone’s attention, said, “I’m sure you’re all ready for a spot of lunch.”

“I sure am,” said Cyrus, who left the ladies standing. Virginia was both appalled and delighted to find herself sitting on the right-hand side of the honored guest.

“How long do you plan to be in England?” she ventured.

“Just a few weeks. I’m here for what you people call the season, so I’ll be going to Wimbledon, Henley and, most important, Royal Ascot. You see, I have a filly running in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes.”

“Noble Conquest.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Cyrus. “That’s impressive, Ginny.”

“Not really. I never miss Ascot, and your horse is already being talked about.”

“I’d invite you to be my guest,” said Cyrus, “but I guess you’ll be in the royal box.”

“Not every day,” said Virginia.

“I asked if you could sit next to me today,” confided Cyrus, as a plate of smoked salmon was placed in front of him, “because I’ve got a problem, and I have a feeling you’re the right person to solve it for me.”

“I will certainly do anything I can to help.”

“I don’t know how to get dressed, Ginny.” Virginia looked surprised, until he added, “And I’m told you have to wear a special outfit before you can enter the royal enclosure.”

“Top hat and tails,” said Virginia. “And if you’re lucky enough to have a winner, Her Majesty will present you with the cup.”

“That would be the greatest honor of my life. May I call her Liz?”

“Certainly not,” said Virginia firmly. “Even her family address her as ‘Your Majesty’.”

“Will I be expected to bow?”

“First things first,” said Virginia, warming to her task. “You’ll need to visit Gieves and Hawkes in Savile Row, who will be able to kit you out.”

“Kit me out?”

“Make sure that you’re appropriately attired.”

A waiter appeared by Cyrus’s side and refilled his glass with whisky, while another offered Virginia a glass of champagne.

“It’s just a shame they don’t have my favorite brand,” said Cyrus after he’d emptied his glass.

“Your favourite brand?”

“Maker’s Mark. I haven’t been able to find a hotel or restaurant in this city that stocks it,” he said, as a waiter leaned forward and lit his cigar. Cyrus took a few puffs and blew out a cloud of smoke, before saying, “I hope you don’t mind, Ginny.”

“Not at all,” said Virginia, as another waiter whisked away the empty plates. “Is your wife traveling with you?” she added, casting a fly.

“I’m not married, Ginny.”

Virginia smiled.

“But I plan to get myself hitched just as soon as I’m back in Louisiana.”

Virginia frowned.

“I’ve known Ellie May since we were in high school together but, goddamn it, I was too slow off the mark first time around, so Wayne Halliday upped and married her. They got divorced last year, so I’m not going to let her get away a second time.” Cyrus took out his wallet and produced a photo of Ellie May, who didn’t look likely to win any beauty pageants, but then perhaps she had other, more tangible, assets.

“Quite beautiful,” said Virginia.

“I think so.”

Virginia needed to reconsider her strategy.

“And that’s another thing I’ve got to do while I’m in London, Ginny, get myself an engagement ring. You see, I couldn’t risk buying a ring in Baton Rouge, because if I did, half the county would know an hour later, which wouldn’t make it much of a surprise for Ellie May. And I’ve no idea where to start,” he added as a T-bone steak almost the size of the plate was put in front of him.

Virginia sipped her champagne while she considered this new piece of information.

Cyrus picked up his knife and fork and glared at the steak before attacking it. “It has to be a bit special, Ginny, because Ellie May’s family came over on the Mayflower. She can trace her ancestors back nine generations. Bit like you, I guess.”

“The first recorded Fenwick was farming in Perthshire in 1243,” said Virginia, “but I confess we’re unable to trace anyone with certainty before that.”

Cyrus laughed. “You got me there. I know who my granddaddy was, ’cause he founded the company, but before that it gets a bit hazy.”

“Every great dynasty has to begin somewhere,” said Virginia, touching his hand.

“That’s kind of you to say so,” said Cyrus. “And to think I was nervous about sitting next to a member of the royal family.” He put down his knife and fork, but only to pick up his cigar and take another gulp of whisky.

When Bofie asked Cyrus a question, Virginia turned to the person on her right, in the hope of finding out more about Cyrus T. Grant III. Mr. Lennox turned out to be Cyrus’s trainer. It took Virginia a few moments to realize that Mr. Lennox trained Cyrus’s horses, not Cyrus himself, which may have explained why his boss looked unlikely to be up for a morning gallop. She pumped Lennox for information, and quickly learned that Thoroughbreds were the real love of Cyrus’s life. After his grandfather had died, his father Cyrus T. Grant II had continued to build up the family company, and when he died, Cyrus T. Grant III was made an offer that allowed him to give up the canning business and concentrate on his stud farm. He’d already won the Kentucky Derby, and he now had his eyes set on the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes.

Once Virginia had gleaned all the information she needed, she turned her attention back to Cyrus, who may not have cared that much for Scotch whisky, but still seemed quite happy to consume several drams of the golden nectar between each mouthful of steak. An idea was beginning to form in Virginia’s mind.

“If you’re not doing anything particular this afternoon, Cyrus, why don’t I take you to Bond Street and see if we can find something a little special for Ellie May?”

“What a swell idea. Are you sure you can spare the time?”

“I’ll just have to rearrange my diary, won’t I, Cyrus.”

“Gee, Ginny, and to think the folks back home kept telling me the English are so uptight and standoffish. Won’t I have something to tell them when I get back to Baton Rouge.”

“I do hope so.”

When Cyrus eventually turned to his left to speak to Bofie again, Virginia slipped out of her seat and went across to have a word with the maître d’.

“Would you be kind enough to send one of your waiters to Fortnum’s and pick up two bottles of Maker’s Mark. Put them in a bag, and hand them to me as I leave.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“And put them on the bill.”

“As you wish, my lady.” She handed the maître d’ a pound note, painfully aware that he was probably better off than she was.

“Thank you, my lady.”

Virginia returned to her place and quickly guided Cyrus back onto his favorite subject — Cyrus. She allowed him to talk about himself for the next twenty minutes, only interrupting with carefully prepared questions.

Over coffee, Virginia leaned across to Bofie and said, “I’m going to take Cyrus shopping this afternoon.”

“Where will you start?” he asked.

“Asprey, Cartier, and possibly Cellini.”

“Cellini?” said Bofie. “Aren’t they a little nouveau?”

“I’m sure you’re right, Bofie, but I’m told they now have the finest selection of stones.”

“Then let’s start there,” said Cyrus as he got up from the table, seemingly unaware that several of the guests hadn’t yet been served coffee. While he was being helped on with his raincoat, the maître d’ deftly handed her ladyship a Fortnum’s bag. Once Virginia had kissed Bofie on both cheeks, she linked her arm into Cyrus’s and led him up the path to Bond Street.

They glanced in the windows of Cartier and Asprey, but didn’t go in, as Cyrus seemed set on Cellini. When they arrived outside the thick glass door displaying a large golden “C,” Virginia rang the bell and a moment later a man appeared, dressed in tailcoat and striped trousers. When he saw Virginia, he immediately unlocked the door and stood aside to allow them to enter.

“Mr. Cyrus T. Grant and I,” she whispered, “are looking for an engagement ring.”

“Many congratulations, madam,” said the assistant, whom Virginia didn’t disillusion. “Perhaps you’d allow me to show you our latest collection.”

“Thank you,” said Virginia. They were guided toward a pair of comfortable leather chairs next to the counter, before the assistant disappeared into a back room.

Cyrus, clearly not a man who liked to be kept waiting, began to fidget, but he perked up the moment the assistant returned carrying a tray displaying a large selection of magnificent diamond rings.

“Wow,” he said. “Now that’s what I call spoiled for choice. Where do I start?”

“They’re all so beautiful,” purred Virginia. “But I’ll leave you to decide, my darling,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

Cyrus stared down at the sparkling stones for some time before he selected one.

“A fine choice, if I may say so,” said the assistant. “Every other woman will be certain to admire it.”

“They’ll be as jealous as hell,” said Cyrus.

Virginia certainly agreed with that.

“Shall we try it on the lady’s finger, so you can see how it looks?”

“Good idea,” said Cyrus as the assistant placed the ring on the third finger of Virginia’s left hand.

“And its provenance?” asked Virginia, looking more closely at the huge diamond.

“The stone is South African, my lady, from the Transvaal. 6.3 carat, certified rare yellow, unblemished. VVH2.”

“How much?” asked Cyrus.

The young man checked his coded stock list and said, “Fourteen thousand pounds, sir,” as if it were loose change for a customer who shopped at Cellini.

Cyrus whistled through his teeth.

“I agree,” said Virginia, as she admired the ring on her finger. “I expected it to be far more, and it certainly would have been, had we gone to Cartier or Asprey. How clever of you, Cyrus, to have chosen Cellini.” Cyrus hesitated. “If someone wanted to marry me,” she said taking his hand, “this is exactly the sort of ring I would want.”

“God damn it you’re right, Ginny,” he said, taking out his check book. “Wrap it up.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Cyrus wrote out a check and placed it on the counter. “Do you have a men’s room?”

“Yes, sir, down the stairs on the right. You can’t miss it.”

As Cyrus slowly pushed himself up out of his chair, Virginia thought he might. She stared lovingly down at the ring before removing it from her finger and placing it in its smart leather box, also embossed with a gold “C.”

“If I were to change my mind...” she said casually.

“Just come back whenever it’s convenient, my lady. We’ll always be happy to accommodate you.”

Virginia was pulling on her leather gloves when Cyrus reappeared. She gave him one look before saying, “I think we’d better get you back to your hotel, my darling. Lucky it’s so close.”

“Good idea, Ginny,” said Cyrus as he took her arm.

The assistant handed her a small bag which contained the even smaller leather box, before accompanying them to the door. As she stepped out onto the street, Virginia checked the opening times printed discreetly on the window.

“Ellie May is going to be so excited,” Virginia said as they walked slowly down Old Bond Street toward the Ritz.

“All thanks to you,” said Cyrus, clinging firmly onto her while she guided him across Piccadilly.

“I always enjoy afternoon tea at the Ritz,” said Virginia. “But you may not feel up to it.”

“Of course I’m up to it,” said Cyrus, staggering unsteadily up the steps and into the hotel.

“Perhaps the first thing you should do,” she added as they passed the tearoom, “is put Ellie May’s ring in the safe in your room.”

“You think of everything, Ginny. Let me get my key.”

When Virginia saw the size of the Nelson Suite, she suggested they take tea in its large drawing room rather than go back downstairs to the crowded Palm Court.

“Suits me,” said Cyrus. “Why don’t you make the order while I go to the john?”

Virginia picked up the phone and ordered tea and buttered scones for two. She then took one of the bottles of Maker’s Mark out of the bag and placed it in the center of the table. When Cyrus walked back into the drawing room it was the first thing he saw. “Where did you get that?”

“I didn’t tell you, it’s also my favorite.”

“Then let’s have a small one to celebrate,” said Cyrus.

When Virginia saw what Cyrus meant by a small one, she was glad she’d ordered two bottles.

A gentle knock on the door and a trolley was wheeled in. A smartly dressed waitress set up tea for two on the table by the sofa. Virginia poured two cups, as Cyrus sat down next to her. She sipped her tea while Cyrus poured himself another whisky. He clearly had no interest in Earl Grey. She moved a little closer, letting her skirt ride up well above her knees. He stared down at her legs, but didn’t move. She edged even closer and placed a hand on his thigh. He quickly downed his glass and refilled it, which gave her enough time to undo a couple of buttons of her silk blouse, while moving her other hand farther up his leg. He didn’t resist when she began to unbuckle his cowboy belt and unbutton his shirt.

“What about Ellie May?” he murmured.

“I’m not going to tell her, if you don’t,” whispered Virginia, as she pulled down the zip on his jeans and placed a hand inside his pants. He took another swig of whisky straight from the bottle, before lunging at her.

Virginia continued to focus on the job at hand and, after she had pulled off his boots and socks, she deftly removed the rest of his clothing, until he was naked. She looked down at him and smiled. She’d never seen anything so small. He took another swig and slipped off the sofa and onto the floor, his head narrowly missing the table. Virginia sank down onto the carpet beside him. She was about to pull him on top of her, when he passed out. She rolled him over gently, so he was sprawled on the carpet.

She jumped up, ran to the door, opened it a few inches and hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside doorknob. She returned to Cyrus’s side, fell to her knees and, gathering all her strength, placed her arms under his shoulders and dragged him across the carpet and into the bedroom. She left him on the floor as she pulled back the sheets and blanket on the vast king-sized bed. She then knelt down beside him and, with one final Herculean effort, pulled him up off the floor and onto the mattress, grateful that he was only five foot five. He was snoring contentedly as she covered him gently with the sheet and blanket. She filled another glass with Maker’s Mark and placed it on the small table by his side of the bed. Virginia then closed the bedroom door, drew the heavy curtains and turned out all the lights one by one until the room was in total darkness.

When she finally climbed into bed beside him, she was only wearing one thing.

14

Virginia spent most of the night wide awake, listening to Cyrus’s thunderous snores. He tossed and turned, and when he did wake, it was only for a few moments before the snores erupted again. She couldn’t believe Ellie May had ever slept with this man.

Virginia lay there, for hour upon hour, realizing it could be a long night. Not only was Cyrus drunk, but probably suffering from jet lag. She spent her time preparing a plan that would be set into motion the moment he awoke. She even rehearsed the lines she would deliver until they were word perfect.

He woke just after six the next morning, but it was some time before he properly entered this world, which gave Virginia time to carry out an undress rehearsal. A few minutes before seven, Cyrus stretched out an arm and, after some fumbling, managed to switch on his bedside light, the cue for Virginia to close her eyes, turn over and let out a soft sigh. When Cyrus looked around and saw her lying next to him, she heard a voice say, “What the hell?”

Virginia yawned and stretched her arms, pretending to wake slowly. When she opened her eyes, she was greeted with a vision of Bottom: an unshaven face, mouth wide open, sweating profusely and stinking of whisky. All Cyrus needed was a pair of ass’s ears to complete the image.

“Good morning, my darling,” said Virginia. She leaned across and kissed him, catching a full waft of his morning breath, but she didn’t recoil, just smiled, and wrapped her arms around his damp, podgy body. She began to move a hand up his leg.

“You were magnificent last night, my little dumpling,” she said. “A lion, a veritable lion.”

“What happened last night?” Cyrus managed, snatching at the sheet to cover his naked body.

“You were unstoppable. I don’t know how many times we made love, and it was so romantic when you told me you’d never met anyone like me and we must spend the rest of our lives together.”

“I said what?”

“‘But what about Ellie May?’ I insisted. ‘How could I even think about Ellie May now I’ve met a goddess,’ you replied. ‘I shall make you the Queen of Louisiana.’ Then you got out of bed, fell on one knee and asked me to be your wife.”

“I did what?”

“You proposed, and I confess I was overwhelmed by the thought of spending the rest of my life with you in Baton Rouge. You then placed the ring on my finger.” She held up her left hand.

“I did?”

“You did, and now we must let the world share our happiness.” Cyrus’s mouth remained open. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, my darling,” continued Virginia, getting out of bed and pulling open the curtains to let the sun flood in. Cyrus’s mouth remained open as he stared at her naked body. “As soon as I’m dressed, I’m going home to change. After all, even though I’m now your fiancée, we wouldn’t want anyone to see me in the same clothes I was wearing last night, would we, my little dumpling.” She giggled as she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth.

Virginia picked up the phone by his side of the bed. “Breakfast for one,” she said. “Tea, toast and Oxford Marmalade, and perhaps a Virgin Mary. My fiancé has a dreadful hangover. Thank you, yes, as soon as possible.” She put the phone down. “I’ll be back around ten, dumpling,” she promised, “and then we can go shopping. I think we should start at Moss Bros. You’ll need a top hat and tails for Ascot, and perhaps a gray silk cravat if you’re going to be seen regularly in the royal box. And then you can join me while I spend a little time looking at Hartnell’s spring collection. I’ll need to find something worthy of the winner of the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes,” she added as she pulled on her skirt and did up her blouse.

There was a knock at the door. Virginia left the bedroom and opened the door to allow a waiter pushing a trolley to enter.

“My fiancé is still in bed. Do go through. Your breakfast has arrived, my darling,” Virginia said as she followed the waiter into the bedroom. “And be sure to drink your Virgin Mary,” she added as the tray was placed on his lap, “because we’ve got a busy day ahead of us.” Once again she leaned over and kissed Cyrus, who was now sitting bolt upright and staring blankly at her. “I must also give some thought to the wording of our engagement announcement in the Court Circular. Something simple but dignified,” she said, “letting the world know the significance of our two families coming together. Of course everyone will expect a society wedding at St. Margaret’s, Westminster, although I’d prefer a quiet affair, perhaps in Baton Rouge.” The waiter proffered the bill. “I’ll sign it,” said Virginia, who, before ushering him out, added 20 percent, to make sure the young man couldn’t possibly forget what he had just witnessed. She then gave Cyrus one final kiss and said, “See you in a couple of hours, dumpling.”

She had slipped out of the room before he could reply.

Virginia walked quickly down the long corridor, purpose in her stride, and took the lift to the ground floor. As she passed the reception desk, none of the porters gave her a second look. They were well accustomed to ladies slipping out of the hotel early in the morning, some paid, others not — and certainly Virginia intended to be paid in full. A liveried porter opened the front door for her and asked if she needed a taxi.

“Yes, please.”

He raised an arm, let out a piercing whistle and a taxi miraculously appeared a moment later.

Virginia did as she’d told Cyrus she would. She returned home, where she spent some considerable time soaking in a warm bath, before washing her hair and changing her clothes. She then selected an appropriate outfit for returning to the Ritz.

Over breakfast, she took her time reading the morning papers. After all, the shop she intended to visit didn’t open until ten. She left her flat in Cadogan Gardens just after nine forty, and took another taxi, this time to Bond Street, which looked like a desert at that time in the morning. She was dropped outside the House of Cellini a few minutes after ten.

Virginia pressed the bell, took out her handkerchief, and was pleased to see the same assistant step forward to open the door. She bowed her head and dabbed away an imaginary tear.

“Is everything all right, madam?” he asked solicitously.

“No, I’m afraid it isn’t,” she said, her voice quivering. “My beloved has changed his mind and asked me to return this,” she said, removing the engagement ring from her finger.

“I’m so sorry, my lady.”

“Not as sorry as I am,” she said placing the ring on the counter. “He asked me if you could return his check.”

“That won’t be possible, madam, we banked it immediately, and as you had taken the ring with you, we requested same-day clearance.”

“Then I’ll need a check for the full amount in compensation. After all, you witnessed him giving me the ring, and I’ve agreed with his lawyers not to pursue the matter any further. Always so unpleasant when the press become involved, don’t you think?” The assistant looked anxious. “None of us need that sort of publicity, do we? And of course, it’s possible my beloved might change his mind again, in which case I’ll be back. So perhaps you could put the ring on one side for a few days.”

The assistant hesitated before saying, “Who shall I make the check out to, my lady?”

“The Lady Virginia Fenwick,” she said, giving him a warm smile.

The assistant disappeared into the back office and didn’t reappear for what seemed to Virginia like an eternity. He finally returned and handed her a check for £14,000. As Virginia placed the check in her handbag, he came around from behind the counter, opened the front door and said, “Good day, my lady. I hope we’ll be seeing you again soon.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Virginia as she walked out onto the pavement. She hailed a taxi and instructed the cabbie to take her to Coutts in the Strand. Once again she prepared her words carefully for whatever his name was.

On arrival at the bank, she told the driver to wait as she would only be a few minutes. She got out, walked into Coutts and headed straight for the manager’s office. She marched in to find him dictating a letter to his secretary.

“You can leave us, Mrs. Powell,” said Mr Fairbrother. He was about to tell her ladyship that he wasn’t willing to see her again unless she made an appointment, when Virginia placed the check on the desk in front of him. He stared at the figure of £14,000 in disbelief.

“Be sure to clear every one of my outstanding checks without delay,” she said. “And please don’t bother me again in the future.” Before he could respond, Virginia had left the office and closed the door behind her.

“The Ritz,” she told the waiting cabbie. The taxi swung around onto the other side of the road and headed for Piccadilly. They came to a halt outside the hotel ten minutes later. Virginia handed over her last pound, walked up the steps and made her way to the reception desk.

“Good morning, madam, how may I help you?”

“Would you please call Mr. Cyrus T. Grant in the Nelson Suite, and tell him that Lady Virginia Fenwick is waiting for him in reception.”

The concierge looked puzzled. “But Mr. Grant checked out over an hour ago, my lady. I ordered a limousine to take him to Heathrow.”