At noon, sunlight filtered through the stained glass of the Savoy's Palm Court, scattering rainbow halos across the marble floor.
Shane entered, feeling the warmth of the room and the subtle aroma of fresh tea and polished wood. Noël Coward leaned casually against a gilded palm tree, an unlit cigarette dangling between his fingers.
"You look like you didn't get much sleep last night," Coward remarked, gesturing playfully toward the faint shadows under Shane's eyes.
"Allow me to introduce some very special friends," he continued, emphasizing special with his usual languid charm.
The first to rise was a well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman. "J. D. Williams—James David Williams," he said, extending a hand. Shane noted the signet ring on his finger, embossed with the Gaumont company crest.
"Mr. Cassidy, regarding the three-strip color process we discussed last year…" His gaze darted between Shane and Coward, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Ivor Novello, seated at the grand piano in the corner, struck a discordant note. "J. D.," he murmured without lifting his head, "perhaps you should ask Mr. Cassidy about the three-color layers he mentioned last night."
Coward turned gracefully. "And now, Lady Diana Cooper." His voice took on a theatrical flourish: "England's most enchanting rose, the moon goddess of the West End."
Lady Diana's laughter rang lightly as her gilded fan unfurled. Sunlight filtered through the delicate lace, scattering tiny motes of light across her face.
"Oh, men…" she murmured, covering her lips with the fan, revealing only clear blue-grey eyes that seemed to hold centuries of poise and charm.
Shane's breath caught. He remembered this visage from the European Court Beauties Compendium, a book he had studied countless times in his past life to perfect his understanding of classical beauty. Her morning dress, a soft pearl-grey silk, shimmered subtly in the sunlight. The slender silk-satin collar framed her neck with swan-like elegance.
At her collar rested the Siren's Tear sapphire brooch, each refracted light fragment seeming to whisper secrets from the ocean's depths. Shane suddenly understood why Hollywood makeup artists, decades later, would spend fortunes attempting to replicate this gaze—its luminous depth inspiring icons such as Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca.
Coward presented a gold-edged parchment, sunlight refracted through a crystal champagne glass dancing across its surface. "A small gift, Mr. Cassidy. Prepared personally by Lady Diana."
Lady Diana's fan tapped lightly against the parchment. "Noël, you make me sound mysterious. It was merely a chance encounter with friends from the theatre at a tea party."
Coward opened the letter, revealing the signatures of seven of London's most prestigious West End theatre owners. With this endorsement, "the circus" would secure prime venues across the West End. A delicate hyacinth crest adorned the bottom of the letter, an emblem of distinction.
Lady Diana snapped her fan closed with a soft clack, the gilded ribs lightly tapping her chin. "The most captivating drama always plays out in the ledger, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Cassidy?"
From a corner, a paintbrush whispered against canvas. A young man in cream-colored linen, cuffs marked with dabs of cobalt blue, sketched fluid lines in his sketchbook.
"Our dear Rex," Coward introduced with poetic flair, "West End's most sought-after muralist." A golden paintbrush brooch glimmered on his lapel—another gift from Lady Diana, presented at the opening of his Pompeii Fantasy mural at the Tate Gallery.
Lawrence's fingers tapped her champagne glass thoughtfully. "Shane, is there a misunderstanding with Mr. Crocker?"
Shane sipped whiskey from the waiter's tray. "Charlie Chaplin has always championed black-and-white silent films. My investment in color technology… it complicates Mr. Crocker's perspective." He tapped the table lightly. "Revenue splits are deadlocked—Harry Crocker demands 45% of European box office receipts. That nearly drains our margin."
Lawrence studied her glass. "Harry's style is like this. Last year, he negotiated U.S. distribution for The Circus, pushing United Artists' share to a minimum. But this time…" Shane's knuckles drummed the table. "European rights are mine. Charlie needs my strategy, not the other way around. Crocker hasn't accepted that yet."
Novello's fingers danced urgently across the keys, improvising a variation of the 1927 silent film The Crimson Rose.
"Perhaps Harry needs… visual aids," Novello suggested with a sly smile, "like actual ticket queues to demonstrate demand?"
Lady Diana's fan tapped Shane's suit pocket lightly. "That West End letter will play its role at a pivotal moment, won't it?"
Coward chuckled, producing a folded program from his waistcoat. "Even better: next Wednesday, Leicester Square private screening. Some very special critics will attend."
Shane noticed penciled names of editors from The Times and The Observer.
Lawrence leaned forward, pearl earrings swinging. "Noël, are you going to…"
Coward interrupted smoothly, "Just adding new numbers to Harry's calculator. Once the press whispers about a certain film, distributor leverage increases automatically."
Outside, a cruise ship's horn sounded over the Thames, sunlight dancing off the rippling water. Shane's mind raced: presales, previews, media strategy… suddenly, a plan formed.