Mr.Churchill's Secretary(52)

“And I’d like a Romeo y Julieta cigar,” Simon said. “That’s what the P.M. smokes, isn’t it, Red?” he said to Maggie. “Should make you feel at home.”

The waiter went to the humidor at the corner of the bar to pick out Simon’s cigar, then brought it back to the table, where there was an elaborate ritual of cutting the ends and lighting it. Finally, taking a long puff, Simon leaned back, satisfied, jutting out his chin in an all-too-familiar pose.

The champagne was opened and set in a silver bucket at David’s right elbow, along with widemouthed coupes etched with flowers. David shooed the waiter away, then filled each glass. “Champagne,” he proclaimed, standing, “the perfect drink to toast Miss Sarah Sanderson, prima ballerina assoluta.” He bowed his head.

“To Sarah,” they all chimed in, clinking glasses. “Cheers!”

After the toast, Sarah spied Dimitri at the bar and rose to join some of her fellow dancers; apparently, the bar was quite the gathering place for homesick Eastern Europeans. She took David along with her.

“More drinks, then?” Simon said, refilling Maggie’s glass and then Paige’s, then laying his hand on Paige’s silk-clad thigh under the table. Just as Maggie was about to comment, she caught a glimpse of Annabelle whispering something in John’s ear and changed her mind. After all, Paige was a grown woman—and he’d probably been practicing the move for years.

As Maggie looked down the table, she saw that Chuck was a bit tipsy; she and Nigel were rubbing noses. The conversation at their end had turned to Edward and Mrs. Simpson.

“But it’s just so romantic!” Paige thumped the table with her dainty fist.

“Well, of course, Scarlett; you’re American,” Simon said. “You don’t realize the monarchy has nothing to do with the princes and princesses of fairy tales.”

“Oh, but what was it he said after he gave up the throne?” Paige closed her eyes to think. “That he couldn’t go on as King without—what?”

“ ‘—the help and support of the woman I love,’ ” John finished. Who knew he had such a romantic side? Maggie thought, finishing her glass of champagne and letting David pour her another. Or at least a good memory. It must be remarkable champagne.

As the singer started a slow rendition of “I Get Along Without You Very Well,” Annabelle turned to John. “I adore this song,” she cooed, jumping to her feet. “You simply must dance with me. Come on,” she entreated, grabbing his hand and pulling him to his feet before he had a chance to refuse.

For such a skinny little thing, she’s certainly pushy, Maggie thought through the golden haze of champagne bubbles.

As they got up to dance, Maggie’s eyes followed them.

Simon pounced. “Dance with me, Scarlett?”

Paige smiled. “Of course.”

Maggie saw Simon and Paige dance together, then leave the dance floor to go—where? Sarah was suddenly at Maggie’s side. “We have to stop them,” she said, her face pale.

“Stop them?” Maggie said, surprised. “You mean … But surely Paige deserves to have some … fun. It’s not any of our business, after all.” Maggie was taken aback. Sarah always seemed so bohemian—why this sudden puritanical streak?

“I—I can’t say. But I need to talk to her.”

Maggie looked at Sarah’s face. She was dead serious.

“All right, then—let’s go.”

“Would you like to see Wallie Simpson’s suite?” Simon said to Paige. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “The concierge is a good friend of mine,” he said, his fingers stroking her back. “Come on, what do you say?”

“Why, yes, Simon,” she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “I’d love to see it. It’s a place of … historical interest, after all.” She strolled with Simon to the lobby, where they took an elevator with intricate inlaid wooden panels upstairs.

“Here we are,” he said, walking in as though he owned the place. “The infamous Mrs. Simpson Suite.” The walls were an ivory-colored watered silk, the drapes a heavy blue-and-gold brocade, which nearly hid the blackout curtains. A powder-blue silk sofa was flanked by two end tables, topped by Chinese vases.

“It’s not as though Edward and Mrs. Simpson were the only lovers at the hotel,” Simon continued, the scent of alcohol on his breath. “Oscar Wilde brought any number of young lads here. They say Antonín Dvořák stayed here regularly with his grown-up daughter—if you know what I mean.” He gave a chuckle. “But I tell you, we Brits are a lot less prim and proper than you Americans seem to think.”