London - Edward Rutherfurd [550]
His route from New Bond Street took him westwards along Oxford Street. The old Roman approach road from Marble Arch to Holborn was turning into a shopping street nowadays. He paused once or twice to glance at drapers’ windows, crossed Regent Street, continued on to the bottom of Tottenham Court Road and then came down through Seven Dials and Covent Garden until he reached his destination on the Strand.
Both his wife and his daughter had noticed that Gorham Dogget seemed preoccupied since yesterday. He had been out on business twice and now, as he waited in the lobby, it appeared that the dry Bostonian was uncharacteristically nervous. It was certainly strange, for he was in his favourite place in all London.
There was nothing perhaps in all Europe quite like the Savoy Hotel on the Strand. The brainchild of D’Oyly Carte, the manager of the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, the recently opened hotel, built on the site of the old Savoy Palace where John of Gaunt had lived and Chaucer been a frequent guest, had imported an up-to-date level of American comfort, mixed it with European grandeur, and created a masterpiece. Instead of the usual walk to a bathroom, which was routine in even the best hotels, the lavish suites of the Savoy each had their own. The chef was none other than the great Escoffier; the manager, probably the finest who ever lived, César Ritz. Ritz – entrepreneur, discreet confidant, the ultimate arranger of everything.
Dogget seemed pleased, even relieved to see the earl, and invited him to a quiet corner where they could talk. Smiling pleasantly, he explained that his wife and daughter would be down in a little while and asked whether, in the meantime, there was anything St James wished to discuss. The signal being clear, the earl politely asked for his daughter’s hand.
“I can’t answer for her,” the Bostonian replied, “but you seem, Lord St James, to be a fine man to me. As her father though, I have to ask a few questions. I assume you can support her?”
The earl had thought carefully about how to answer this. “Our wealth has been much reduced, Mr Dogget. The income from the land is small, though I have other interests. But the house and the Bocton estate are all in good order, and there are things like the family jewels. . . .” He was too well-bred to add the other obvious item – the title.
“You’ve enough to live on, though?”
“Oh, yes.” It was true, for the time being.
“And you sincerely love my daughter, for herself? I have to tell you I believe in that, Lord St James. I believe in it strongly. For richer for poorer, as they say.”
“Absolutely.” A downright lie, the earl reminded himself, was not a lie when it meant being gallant towards a lady.
“That’s good. Of course, I dare say one day Nancy will have something of her own,” the Bostonian cautiously allowed, and was only prevented from expanding further by the unusual sight of Mr César Ritz, that most discreet of managers, hovering when he was not wanted.
“Excuse me, sir,” he quietly interrupted, and handed Dogget a slip of paper, at which the American glanced irritably.
“Not now, Mr Ritz!”
“I’m sorry, sir.” The manager did not move.
“I said later,” Dogget growled.
“You said the matter would be dealt with this morning, sir,” Ritz reminded him. “We had understood that as soon as you arrived. . . .” Dogget was glowering at him now but it seemed to make no difference. “Your wife and daughter have been here for weeks, sir. This cannot go on.”
“You know perfectly well there’s no problem.