Cometh the Hour (The Clifton Chronicles 6)

“Some time next week.”

The buzzer on Mai Ling’s alarm clock starting purring.

“Perfect timing,” said Mellor, as he slammed down the phone, got off the table and disappeared into the bathroom.

Mai Ling agreed. While Mellor was in the shower she unscrewed the mouthpiece on the phone and removed the recording device. She then folded up the massage table, placed the bottles back in the case and threw the soiled towels in the laundry basket.

By the time Mellor came out of the bathroom holding up a ten-pound note, Mai Ling was getting into a car parked outside the Swan Hotel. As she handed the tape to Barry Hammond she said, “Thank God I’ll never have to see that man again.”

* * *

“Sir Desmond,” said Virginia, as the butler showed her protégé into the drawing room.

“Not yet,” said Mellor.

“But I have a feeling it won’t be too long now. Ah,” Virginia said, looking over Mellor’s shoulder. “Miles, good of you to drop by, considering how busy you must be. Have you two met before? Desmond Mellor is one of the country’s leading businessmen. Desmond, Sir Miles Watling, chairman of Watling Brothers.”

“We met at Ascot, Sir Miles,” said Mellor, as the two men shook hands. “But there’s no reason you should remember.” Always be respectful to those who already have a title, was one of Virginia’s golden rules.

“How could I forget?” said Sir Miles. “You were in Virginia’s box and you gave me the only winner I backed all afternoon. How are you, old chap?”

“Never better, thank you,” said Desmond, as Virginia reappeared with a tall, elderly, gray-haired gentleman on her arm.

“So good of you to come, your grace,” she said, emphasizing the last two words.

“Who in their right mind would even consider missing one of your parties, my dear?”

“How kind of you to say so, Peregrine. May I introduce Mr. Desmond Mellor, the well-known philanthropist?”

“Good evening, your grace,” said Mellor, following Virginia’s lead. “How nice to meet you.”

“I’m so sorry the duchess isn’t with you,” said Virginia.

“I’m afraid she’s a bit under the weather, poor gal,” said the duke. “But I’m sure she’ll be as right as rain in no time,” he added, as Bofie Bridgwater walked across to join them, right on cue.

“Good evening, Desmond,” said Bofie, as he was handed a glass of champagne. “I understand congratulations are in order?”

“You’re a little premature, Bofie,” replied Mellor, placing a finger to his lips. “Although I think I can safely say we’re in the home straight.”

The duke and Sir Miles pricked up their ears.

“Should I be picking up a few more shares in Mellor Travel before the news of the takeover becomes public?”

Desmond winked conspiratorially. “But mum’s the word, Bofie.”

“You can rely on me, old chap. I won’t tell a soul.”

After he’d had a long chat with the duke, Virginia took Desmond by the arm and guided him around the room to meet her other guests. “Dame Eleanor, I don’t think you’ve met Desmond Mellor, who—”

“No, I haven’t,” said Dame Eleanor, “but it gives me the opportunity to thank Mr. Mellor for his generous donation to the Sick Children’s Trust.”

“I’m only too happy to support the amazing work you do,” said Desmond. Virginia’s

stock answer, when dealing with the president of any charity.

By the time Desmond had spoken to everyone in the room, he was exhausted. Small talk and social etiquette were not his idea of how to spend a Friday evening. He was growing impatient to leave for his dinner with Adrian Sloane, when he would find out if the tape and the letter had been delivered to the Bank of England. But he hung back until the last of Virginia’s guests had departed so he could have a private word with her.

“Well done, Desmond,” were Virginia’s first words when she returned to the drawing room. “You certainly impressed a lot of influential people this evening.”