Luca went to his room directly after making his polite bow. He retrieved his book from its locked drawer, opened it to the pages where he recorded his progress with Lady Josephine, and wrote a stern note to himself.
Courting a lady cannot begin by kissing her companion.
He underlined it. Twice, for good measure.
Then he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, his thoughts melting away until only one concern remained.
“I agreed to make pasta.” He groaned and covered his face with one hand. “Sono scemo. A complete fool.”
And that was the one thing he couldn’t afford to be seen as by anyone—a fool.
Chapter Thirteen
Josephine laughed far too much when Emma revealed the outcome of her tête-à-tête with the ambassador. And she laughed again on the afternoon appointed for the pasta-making. To the point that Emma finally threw a cushion at her friend’s face. Josephine caught the cushion before it fell to the floor, then threw herself onto Emma’s bed while Emma sat at her desk writing a letter.
“You cannot blame me for laughing. You have put the poor man in a horrid position. However did you get him to agree to cook?” She giggled and rolled onto her side to stare at Emma with widened eyes. “Can you imagine what an Englishman would’ve done had you suggested such a thing? You would have been put out of polite society.”
Emma scoffed and signed the letter to the new Mrs. Gardiner with a flourish. “They would have treated the suggestion as a jest. Lord Atella seemed genuinely interested in the idea, though.” All to impress Lady Josephine. Who only laughed.
The momentary irritation Emma felt toward her friend bothered her. She folded the letter. It would go through the regular post, as the duke did not frank the personal letters of the household—though he certainly could have gotten away with it.
“What is the point of having a national mail system if we are never to use it properly?” he had said on more than one occasion when a member of the family muttered about the expense of sending and receiving letters.
“Do you wish to come to the kitchen with me?” Emma asked, not meeting Josephine’s eye, instead folding her letter carefully.
“That would rather defeat the purpose of the event.” Josephine threw a pillow in the air and caught it again. “I am entertaining Grandmama and her friends this afternoon in the music room. If Lord Atella wasn’t already engaged to cook, he would have been invited. Once again, you have spared me.”
“He isn’t all that terrible,” Emma murmured quietly.
“Of course he isn’t. He is an ambassador.” Josephine tossed and caught the pillow again and again as she spoke, her tone one of boredom. “He knows precisely what to say to be agreeable to everyone in the room. That is the role of a politician, be they noble or gentry, foreign or domestic. They make friends with everyone, ask for favors, and all to further their own interests.”
All true. Emma had heard the duke caution his children with similar words as he prepared them for their roles in Society—a society that thrived on connection and favors. Emma knew the lessons, too.
However, all her interactions with Lord Atella had felt genuine. Especially the last one, alone with him in the garden, beneath the autumn-wreathed myrtle. Her favorite tree—her favorite place in all the gardens.
Why had she taken him there? To get out of the wind had been the obvious answer at the time. But now she wondered. And fretted. When spring came, the tree would burst with pink blooms before any of its neighbors unfurled their tiny white buds.
She had always liked that particular tree for that reason—it was so bright and glorious while everything around it still slept. Yet now when she visited it in the spring she would think of Lord Atella, and how she had tricked him into a performance that the one he intended to impress did not care about. Not one whit.
Hopefully, the rest of the duke’s guests would be impressed. If Lord Atella still had a political victory from making a spectacle of himself, she need not feel entirely guilty. Which was yet another reason she had to attend to him in the kitchens. It was only right.
And the idea of pasta-making and the preparation of food having such importance attached to it did intrigue her.
She left her letter on the desk, trusting the maid to post it, and went to the wardrobe to find an apron. She only wore it on rare occasions—such as strawberry-picking parties. It wasn’t at all like what the upstairs maids wore, or the kitchen staff. Her apron was delicate, made of fine white material, with embroidered bilberries and vines all along its edges. Not at all practical for kitchen work.
A very good thing she didn’t intend to actually participate. The apron was an accessory—a nod to the work being done.
“How do I look?” she asked Josephine after she had tied the apron around her waist. “Ladylike?”
“I think so. But you should probably cover your hair. Grandmama will have a fit if you come to dinner with flour in it.”
“Do you think there’s a danger of that?” She went poking about in her bureau for a cloth she might use to cover her hair.
“It is a kitchen. I know nothing of it. There may be danger of falling into a vat of strawberry jam.” Josephine bounded from the bed with a wide grin. “Do you remember when we used to watch Cook in the London house make biscuits?”
“Barely.” Emma found a long, thin piece of white cloth she had used once as a hair ornament for a ball, braiding it through her hair to create a coronet. “Will this work?”
Josephine took the cloth and put it over Emma’s hair, twisting and tucking things into place. “It will do. But here.” She twisted out a curl. “Very pretty. Like a milkmaid.”
“What do you know of milkmaids?” Emma challenged, narrowing her eyes at her friend.
Josephine tilted her head to one side, appearing thoughtful. “Only what I have seen in classical sculpture and artwork.”
Emma batted away her friend, gave one last shake to her apron to make certain it lay flat, then she went to the door. “Wish me luck. The kitchen is as foreign to me as England is to the ambassador.”
“Fair sailing and good fortune to you,” Josephine sang, then withdrew a handkerchief and waved somewhat dramatically. “Fare thee well, dear friend.”
The ridiculous conversation lifted Emma’s spirits. She went through the castle humming, making her way to the lowest floor of the house, excepting the cellar.
When she came to the kitchens, she found several downstairs staff standing in the hall, peering through the large doorway to the bright workroom. Though she rarely visited the kitchens, she had always loved the large, curved windows that began above the heads of the workers and stretched upward, easily fifteen feet higher, to the whitewashed ceiling. Chandeliers hung low, too, to keep the interior bright even at night.
As she passed through the doorway, the servants drawing back at her approach, she noticed an unusual quiet in the large room.
In the middle of the kitchen were several tables laden with raw foods, knives, and bowls, and several assistant cooks and kitchen maids stood around the tables as still as stone.
The head cook, a French chef de cuisine the duchess had met during a trip to Paris, stood at the center of the room with his hands on his hips. His forehead was deeply wrinkled and his face an unsightly shade of red.
“Already the menu you have changed, why must you also cook? A nobleman—cooking?” He made a strangled sort of sound. “Absurd. Dishonorable. In my kitchens? The staff will not know how to perform their duties with you nearby, my lord.”
Lord Atella stood in front of the cook, taller but somehow less imposing than the bossy Frenchman, with his secretary at his side.
“You would dare,” the secretary said, chest puffed out, “speak against your own duchess’s wishes for my lord to serve her in this way?”
“I dare to think of the sanctity of my kitchen, of the food that must be la perfection! If the rest of the meal suffers for the distraction of my staff, it is not m
y lord who will be blamed, but moi, Absolon Dupont. Then what will I do?”
Emma had reached the eye of the storm, and she joined the conversation before Mr. Torlonia could speak again. “Monsieur Dupont, bon matin.” She addressed him in French, softening her tone to one of respect. “His lordship respects the importance of the meal, I assure you. Perhaps we could work in the smaller dining room for the staff? No one is eating there at present, are they?”
He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at her, responding in his native tongue. “You think to win me over with your pretty French, eh? Miss Arlen, the kitchen is no place for you or him. This is where we work.”
“I promise, we will remain as out of the way as possible.” She switched back to English as she put her hand over her heart. “You have my word.”
The wrinkles in his forehead smoothed, and he raised his hands with a broad shrug of his shoulders. “Very well.” He turned his back and muttered in French, “Even though I am perfectly capable of creating noodles.”
Lord Atella leaned toward her, keeping his voice low. “I did not mean to start a battle with the French in my quest to improve relations with the English.”
It took her more than a little self-control to smother a laugh. “Monsieur Dupont will not view this as an act of war. I’m most certain.”
A kitchen boy came forward, his apron as clean as his youthful face. “Cook says I’m to help with whatever you need. I’m Gerry.”
“Grazie.” Lord Atella opened his mouth to say more, but Mr. Torlonia spoke first.
“Show us to the dining room,” he commanded.
The boy nodded and shuffled quickly away to an open door on the other side of the room. Torlonia started to follow first, his expression stony.
Emma winced and fell into step behind him, with Lord Atella following behind. When they arrived in the room with the long table, benches on either side and chairs at either end, Torlonia started barking like an irritable dog.
“Bring flour, eggs, and olive oil. Salt, too. A bowl. A sharp knife.” He cast a quick look at the conte. “And an apron for the ambassador.”
The boys’ eyes went large, and he bobbed his head rapidly before scuttling out, obviously used to taking orders.
Emma clasped her hands before her apron and stared up at the ceiling, dreading whatever time she would spend listening to the older Italian gentleman grousing about everything, as he immediately began to do. The room was too dark. How did anyone expect his lordship to work in such conditions? The table too short. The surface not smooth enough. The surroundings uninspiring—
“And why does my lord want to make pasta?” He paced the room angrily. “What an idea. You, in the kitchens. What would the king say? What would your peers say? The duke has never cooked in his life, I would lay my life on that!” Then he looked sharply at Emma. “You are not to repeat that.”
Her jaw dropped open, but she snapped it closed again quickly. That he would dare to presume to order about someone of her station rather shocked her. She had been spoken to dismissively before, by people who did not understand her place, but never had anyone thought they could tell her what to say.
It left her quite speechless.
* * *
Luca had no intention of allowing Torlonia to stay after his poor show of temper. He took hold of his secretary’s arm, fixed him with a hard stare meant to remind Torlonia who outranked whom, and spoke quietly in Italian. “Thank you for your time today, signore. I think you had better go back to our rooms and prepare the letter of introduction for the duke’s nephew traveling to Rome. I will press my seal to it after it is completed.”
The ambassadorial duty would be excuse enough to send the man away without making him lose face in front of Miss Arlen, but Torlonia would not mistake the note of warning in Luca’s tone. Not if he wished to continue in his position.
Perhaps Luca had given the older man too much freedom in his speech, that he would think himself capable of ordering people about with such superiority.
Torlonia drew himself away from Luca, his nose tilted up, and he cast one dismissive glare at Miss Arlen before sweeping into a bow. “As you wish, mio Signore. I would only remind you before I go—do not forget what it is you are trying to accomplish here.” Then he left the room while Luca stood silently watching, clenching and unclenching his jaw.
Miss Arlen slipped closer to him, tilting her head at an angle to peer at him from the corner of her eye. “He must be very good at his job.”
Luca heaved a sigh. “When he stays within its bounds, yes.” Then he rubbed at his eyes. “I am sorry. I should not speak ill of him. Torlonia is a friend to me.”
"Our friends sometimes think they know best,” she responded, her tone thoughtful rather than offended. “Do not trouble yourself on my account. I am here as a friend, too. Tell me how you wish me to help.”
His gaze swept from her partially covered brown curls down to her dark slippers. Though her dress was not as fine as others she had worn, it was certainly out of place in a working kitchen. Her concession of a finely embroidered apron made him smile despite himself.
“If you do not mind, I will remove my coat. We have work to do, and I must keep my coat clean. I do not want my valet to join my secretary in a mutiny.”
"A wise decision.” She walked alongside the table while he shrugged out of his coat, putting it on the back of a chair. Then he unbuttoned his cuffs and started rolling them upward to just above his elbows. When Miss Arlen stood on the opposite side of the table from him, she stopped.
He hadn’t been so underdressed near a woman since leaving home, and it was hardly the same thing since said woman had been his mother helping him pack a trunk for his trip to Spain. Not that he felt at all indecent about it, given the task at hand. Except he noted Miss Arlen’s gaze darting from his exposed forearms away and back again.
The kitchen boy returned, proffering an apron with one hand while juggling a bowl full of everything Torlonia had requested in the other. Luca accepted the apron. “Thank you, Gerry. You may put those things on the table.”
The boy did as asked, then stepped back with his arms rigid at his side, clearly awaiting further orders.
Would that Luca could somehow withdraw from the task and save face. But once the duchess had heard him speak of the importance of a meal in his country, she had happily insisted he prepare the pasta, at least for the family plates. Then again, she had shared a rather amused glance with her husband when he’d seemed ready to give Luca a way out of the situation.
Perhaps they were laughing at him.
Except they seemed too kind to do such a thing.
Luca sighed and took up the sack of flour. He undid the drawstring at the top holding it together, then poured a pile out onto the table.
Miss Arlen approached her side of the surface, eyebrows furrowed. “What are you doing?”
“The best pasta is not mixed in a bowl, Miss Arlen. It is formed carefully upon a table.” He lightly salted the pile—as he had seen his mother and the monks do—and mixed it carefully in with the flour before forming a well in the grain. The flour was of the finest quality he had ever seen, a subtle testament to the wealth of the duke.
Then he took the eggs and cracked several into the bowl. Three or four? Three whole eggs. Four egg yolks.
“I must remove the egg whites,” he said by way of explanation as he cracked one egg in half, then poured the yolk from one side to the other over a small bowl, letting the clear part of the egg drip into the bowl.
Miss Arlen came around the table to stand closer to him, peering at what he did. “I’ve never cracked an egg. Is that strange to admit?”
The admission sounded almost wistful, and he gave her a reassuring smile. “One of your status would have no need.”
“May I try?”
“Of course. Here, take this one. We need only the yolk.”
She bit her lip and tapped the egg too gently on the table for so much as a crack to appear.
>
“A bit harder, Miss Arlen. You are trying to crack it.”
She narrowed her eyes and gave it a vicious smack, cracking the egg in half while still in her hands, causing the insides to spill both in and out of the bowl, and the broken yolk to coat her fingers.
Luca laughed while she stared at her hand in horror. “Too hard, Miss Arlen.”
She raised her gaze to his, abashed. “I am terribly sorry.” She started to lower her hand to wipe it on her apron—and he caught her wrist to save the pristine piece of cloth.
“One cannot be a cook without breaking a few eggs. But here, use this.” He held up his much darker and longer apron. “We wouldn’t want to ruin yours.”
She wiped her hand on the hem, and her cheeks turned an adorable shade of pink.
Adorable?
Luca stepped back, clearing his throat. He handed her another egg. “Try again?”
She did, tapping the egg softly against the edge of the bowl, then progressively harder until a crack formed. Then she held it over the bowl and pulled it gently apart. “Then you pass the yolk from one side to the other?”
“That is my method, yes.” He stepped a little more to the side, and when she finished and triumphantly held half a shell full of yolk to him, he grinned. “Put it in the larger bowl.” He only had to retrieve one small piece of shell.
The olive oil was a different story. How much did he pour into the eggs? It wasn’t much. He considered. Then took up a large spoon that had been among the items the boy brought. A spoonful seemed right.
He added the olive oil to the bowl, then used a wide fork to whisk everything together. Once he had a dark yellow mixture, he poured the eggs into the flour well.
Miss Arlen squeaked. “You are mixing it together on the table?”
Luca couldn’t help sending her a smile—the sort of smile his mother used to tell him preceded trouble. “As you see. Do you think me a madman?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, her eyes glittering with amusement and a touch of wariness. “Perhaps. I shall refrain from passing judgment until I see the outcome of your strange method.”
A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance Page 13
