Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

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.