by Olivia Drake
Was she a widow? Or a wife betraying her wedding vows?
Either way, Abby could not countenance the change in Max, that he would associate with such a female. The sweet, gawky boy she had once loved had vanished forever. Now, in the prime of his life, he had become a hardened libertine, focused only on hedonistic pleasures.
One thing was certain. Seeing him again had cured her of any long-buried vestige of heartbreak. She was now very thankful that he had abandoned her fifteen years ago. No matter how handsome he might be, no matter how much she craved a bit of adventure, she was better off without a philandering rake in her life.
And it was just as well that her identity was out in the open. There need be no more fretting about the fear of discovery. Even though he’d dismissed her, at least she did not have to pack her belongings just yet. There would be one more week to enjoy here at Rothwell Court. One more week of being independent and earning her own wage before returning home—unless she could come up with another plan for her future. In the meanwhile, she would do her best to avoid Rothwell and his cronies. She certainly would not cower just because he was here.
Considerably cheered, she proceeded to the end of the long corridor and opened the door to the servants’ wing. She would take her tea in the kitchen today. The staff would provide pleasant company to pass the time while she waited for Rothwell to complete his visit with Lady Gwendolyn.
But a commotion of upraised voices greeted her ears. There seemed to be some sort of altercation going on. Following the sound of the turmoil, she hastened past the butler’s pantry and the scullery and entered the kitchen.
The massive room had a high, vaulted ceiling and a hearth large enough to roast an entire ox. Scores of copper pots gleamed on shelves against the stone walls. A long table ran the length of the chamber, where two young maids sat before a mound of carrots and turnips, their peeling forgotten as they listened goggle-eyed to the heated discussion between Finchley, the butler; Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper; and Mrs. Beech, the cook.
Old Finchley was shaking a knobby finger at the other two gray-haired retainers. A fixture at Rothwell Court, he had worked his way up from lowly boot boy during the reign of the eighth duke, the present duke’s grandfather.
“A rackety lot of blackguards, they be,” he pronounced darkly. “Raffish blades cavorting with bits o’ muslin. They already demanded a deck of cards. There’ll be gambling and orgies in the days to come, mark my word, unless the duke puts a stop to it!”
“It is not the fault of the master,” Mrs. Jeffries said, fairly bristling with indignation. “He has been taken in by That Woman. I knew at once the sort she was, all treacle to His Grace and vinegar to the staff. The cheek of her to order me about as if she’s a duchess when it’s plain as the nose on my face she is nothing but a whore of Babylon!”
“And if she doesn’t like what’s served for dinner, then let her starve.” Mrs. Beech grappled behind her thick waist to untie her apron, which she flung onto the flagstone floor. “I never cooked Frenchie and I won’t start now!”
Abby hurried forward. “May I ask what is going on here? Mrs. Beech, surely you cannot be resigning!”
They opened a space to welcome her into their little circle. Upon her arrival a week ago, she had made it clear that she was not so high in the instep as to lord over them by virtue of her birth. Why would she? They all hailed from local families that Abby had known since the time she could walk. She had sung with them in church, delivered baskets to their ill and infirm, and worked alongside them at festivals and rummage sales.
Mrs. Beech planted her hands on her ample hips. “I don’t know what else to do, Miss Abby! I’ve already planned the meals for the week and stocked the larder and now I’m to toss it all away and make some fancy-frippery recipes just delivered to my hand by Mrs. Jeffries!” She snatched up a clutch of papers from the table and vigorously rattled them. “All of these His Grace’s favorites, Lady Desmond claims, when I know him to be one who likes his meat and potatoes served plain and simple!”
“You must allow that was before he went to London fifteen years ago,” Abby diplomatically pointed out. “Perhaps his tastes have changed.”
“Be that as it may,” Mrs. Jeffries said with a sniff of her sharp nose, “I cannot think the master would be so rude as to expect Cook to prepare a seven-course dinner of peculiar new recipes on such short notice. And with only the two kitchen maids to help her!”
“Might we draft the laundry and dairy maids to aid with the chopping this evening?” Abby suggested. “Then tomorrow, you can seek temporary help from among the tenants. I can think of several wives who would be pleased to make a few extra coins.”
“I suppose we have no choice,” the housekeeper fretted. “But that isn’t the worst of it, Miss Abby. The recipes are written in French!”
“Likely frogs and snails,” Finchley uttered in his raspy voice. “’Tis food fit for traitors and turncoats, not respectable Englishmen. But I daresay that after this rain, Tom can nab some of the slimy creatures out in the garden.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Abby said, hiding a smile. “And I’m well versed enough in French to translate the recipes if you like.”
Mrs. Beech’s plump features were set in obstinate lines. “It’ll be all creams and herbs and froufrou nonsense. I don’t see why I should change my menus, anyhow, unless the order comes straight from the master. Her ladyship is not the mistress of this house.”
“I should certainly hope not!” Mrs. Jeffries fanned her gaunt face with her apron so that her large ring of keys jingled. “Why, I had the measure of her at once. She is one of His Grace’s fancy pieces, if you’ll pardon my plain speaking, Miss Abby. She even had the effrontery to request chambers conveniently close to the duke’s apartment. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised to hear that she is the ravisher of him!”
Abby was perfectly content to listen to their disparagement of Lady Desmond. Nothing would delight her more than to convey to them a detailed description of the sordid tryst that she had witnessed in the library. It also would serve the purpose of correcting their misapprehension about Rothwell’s blamelessness in the matter. But it was not her place to spread gossip—or to disabuse their loyalty to the master whom they’d known since his boyhood.
“I daresay, Mrs. Beech, we might find some manner of compromise if only we put our heads together. Why, Lady Hester and Lady Gwendolyn would wither away without your delicious meals. Now do pick up your apron and we shall discuss the matter over a nice pot of tea.”
As the grumbling cook relented and went to do Abby’s bidding, Mrs. Jeffries said, “Alas, I daren’t tarry here any longer. The upper maids have been changing the linens and airing out the bedchambers, and I must ascertain that they have not been set upon by this troop of sinners!”
Finchley, too, had duties to fulfill. The stooped old butler shuffled to the door, then turned around to utter forebodingly, “You mustn’t allow Lady Gwen to go out to the stables alone, Miss Abby. There’s a monstrous heathen bunking down with the lads there.”
He vanished before Abby could query his meaning. Mrs. Beech knew only that His Grace had brought along a veritable giant in his retinue. She had glimpsed the fellow from the back door and it had been enough to make her slam it shut and turn the key in the lock. While the cook muttered about everyone in the house being murdered in their beds, Abby wondered what in the world Rothwell wanted with such a fearsome retainer. It wouldn’t shock her to learn he had gambling debts and needed a bodyguard to ward off all the dun collectors.
Putting him out of her mind, she took a seat at the table to translate the recipes. At home, she often had planned the daily meals with their cook when her mother had become too infirm for the task. Now, she worked together with Mrs. Beech to determine how the menus could be adjusted to suit the refined tastes of the London guests. While drinking their tea and nibbling on a plate of Mrs. Beech’s currant tarts, they discussed ways to alter the cook�
�s own recipes for a more sophisticated palate by adding a cream sauce in place of a plain beef gravy, or a bit of shaved mushrooms and braised butter to the pommes de terre. Since Mrs. Beech excelled at pastry, they settled on a dinner menu for that evening that included bouchée à la reine stuffed with chicken and onions, and served with a stew of the carrots and turnips that the kitchen maids were already peeling.
In less than an hour’s time, she had sufficiently soothed Mrs. Beech’s qualms and convinced her to appreciate this rare opportunity to show off her superior cooking skills. As the woman hopped up to issue orders to the three additional maids who had appeared, Abby hoped the interfering Lady Desmond would be satisfied with the results and cease badgering the staff.
She herself was feeling quite pleased for having averted disaster. There would have been an uproar had Cook walked out on a houseful of hungry guests. Of course, Rothwell deserved chaos for having sprung a party of his cronies on the staff without sufficient warning. Even if he had sent word to his aunt, a few hours’ notice was scarcely adequate to complete the necessary preparations.
But what more could one expect of a self-indulgent libertine?
She took one last swallow from her teacup, realizing it was time to head back upstairs to guard Lady Gwendolyn against the barbarian horde. The duke surely would have departed his sister’s chambers by now so there was little chance of encountering him.
A movement drew her gaze to the doorway. Her eyes widened as the Duke of Rothwell strolled into the kitchen.
Chapter 5
Abby nearly choked on a mouthful of tepid tea. He must have taken a wrong turn. She couldn’t imagine any other reason why he’d venture into the staff wing.
Since the kitchen was a beehive of activity, the duke didn’t notice her perched on a bench near the hearth. His attention was focused toward the other end of the chamber, where several laundry and dairy maids had been enlisted as temporary helpers. The air echoed with their high-pitched chatter as they chopped and peeled, knives flashing. Pots bubbled on the Bodley Range and Mrs. Beech barked orders over her shoulder while she busied herself at a task near the stove.
It was just as well that he didn’t spot Abby because the sight of him in his evening clothes held her enthralled. He had exchanged his traveling garb for a coat of midnight-blue superfine, a white silk waistcoat, and a pair of black pantaloons, all of a superior cut that emphasized his muscular form. Yet there was nothing in the least dandified about him, from the top of his neatly brushed hair to the toes of his tooled-leather shoes. Within the folds of his cravat glinted a pearl stickpin, his only jewelry except for a gold signet ring. His aura of posh sophistication made her conscious of her dowdy gray gown and spinster’s cap.
She was a plain peahen compared to his peacock glory.
Not, of course, that she had the slightest interest in attracting his admiration. Rather, it was merely a natural feminine instinct for a lady to wish to look her best in the presence of a handsome gentleman. Especially when the gentleman in question had spurned her so abominably many years ago in favor of more stylish women.
Thankfully, he did not so much as flick a glance in her direction. He sauntered straight to Mrs. Beech, who was cutting butter into flour for the cream cake she was preparing to bake. With her back turned, she didn’t notice the duke until he reached past her stout form and snatched a strawberry from the bowl beside her.
The cook spun around, her wooden spoon raised. “Thief! I ought to— Oh!” As she spied Rothwell, a broad smile stretched across her doughy features and she bobbed a curtsy. “Why, ’tis Master Max! Your Grace, I should say.”
Bending, he planted a loud smack on her floury cheek. “Good old Beechy. I was hoping to find you still here. But it seems I must beg your forgiveness for putting you to so much trouble on my behalf.”
“Oh, bosh, ’tis no trouble at all. Not a bit! The only trouble, milord, is you staying away from your home here for so many years.”
Abby blinked. No one would ever have guessed Mrs. Beech to be the same irate cook who had ripped off her apron and threatened to walk out only a short while ago. And … Beechy?
“I’ve certainly missed your culinary delights,” Rothwell said, popping the strawberry into his mouth. “What was that raspberry treat you used to make for me?”
“Jam roly-poly. Might I whip up a batch for you straightaway?”
“Tomorrow is soon enough. You appear far too busy at the moment. Though I don’t suppose you’ve anything else lying around to feed a starving man?”
A deep belly laugh issued from her. “You always did have a hollow leg, Your Grace, and that’s the truth.”
While Mrs. Beech disappeared into the pantry, he stole several more berries and ate them while prowling around the kitchen, peering into the steaming copper pots on the stove and sniffing the delicious aromas. When he nodded at the maids, they blushed and twittered. All of a sudden, his gaze roved to the far end of the table and halted on Abby.
He checked his pace in mid-step. His genial expression vanished, the charming smile gone in a blink. One dark eyebrow crooked upward.
His displeasure at finding her here could not be more obvious.
Abby’s heart thumped. She knew she ought to arise, to make her curtsy, and depart to her duties. She could not afford to antagonize her employer. But her limbs seemed incapable of obeying the dictates of her mind. Her lungs felt squeezed of air, rendering her giddy and light-headed. If only he were not so infernally handsome …
Their gazes held for one prolonged moment. Then the duke inclined his head in a cool nod.
He appeared about to speak when Mrs. Beech came bustling out of the larder with a meat pie in one hand, a wheel of cheese in the other, and a loaf of bread in the crook of her arm. She placed the items at the end of the table where Abby sat and began slicing the bread and buttering it, chattering all the while. “I daresay this ain’t fancy enough fare for London folk like you are now, Your Grace. But there’s naught else in the world like good country cooking, I always say.”
“What she means,” Abby said, recovering her tongue, “is that Lady Desmond has been so kind as to give Mrs. Beech a number of your favorite French recipes to cook.”
“Has she?” Rothwell’s eyes narrowed for the briefest flash. Then he aimed a crooked smile at Mrs. Beech. “Pray do not feel obliged to follow any but your own menus. Whatever you prepare is bound to be perfectly delectable. In truth, I’d sack my French chef in an instant if I thought you might be persuaded to take over my kitchen in London.”
Blushing at the extravagant compliment, the cook cut a generous slice of meat pie and arranged everything on a plate for him as if he were a little boy. “Well! My dear old father-in-law might raise a ruckus over me leaving him, so I’d best stay put.” She poured a cup of tea for him and then pulled out a chair. “Now sit yourself down, milord, and don’t blame me if your appetite is spoiled for dinner!”
“Make me a treacle tart for breakfast tomorrow and I’ll forgive you anything.”
Seeing him grin at Mrs. Beech, Abby suspected he had been closer to the servants than to his own family. No wonder the cook, the butler, and the housekeeper had taken his side during that earlier heated discussion. Having known him as a lad, they had an entrenched loyalty that made allowances for his wicked behavior. They judged Max by how he had been fifteen years ago—not by his peccadilloes as a man in his prime.
As the duke slid into his seat across from Abby, she caught a whiff of his scent, spicy and masculine and hauntingly familiar. She had a sudden clear memory of lying beside Max in the warm summer grass, gazing up at the clouds and exchanging silly little stories with him about their everyday lives. While hers had involved mostly family members, his had all been about the staff at Rothwell Court.
He had never wanted to talk about his parents. And it occurred to her now that she ought to have pressed him to do so.
It felt strangely unreal to be sitting near him again after so much time had
passed. She found herself wondering if any trace of the tender boy she’d known still lurked inside him. Was it hidden behind the urbane charm that he showed the world? Or did he simply know how to maneuver gullible souls like Mrs. Beech—and unsuspecting girls as Abby had once been?
The answer didn’t signify. In a week, they would part ways for good. He would go back to London, and she would return to her duties as caregiver to her siblings and their children.
As Mrs. Beech scurried off to her dinner preparations, Abby strove for levity by saying, “Treacle tarts and jam roly-poly? One would think you have the palate of a schoolboy, Your Grace.”
“Even a rake has fond memories of his youth.” He forked a slice of Stilton and held it out to her. “Would you care for a bite, Miss Linton?”
The question seemed imbued with hidden sensual meanings. Abby felt a tightening in her bosom, a languor in her limbs. She found the glint in his gray eyes to be particularly disquieting, for this mature version of his familiar features held an alluring sway over her senses. The notion that she might be attracted to the adult Max was far too disturbing to contemplate.
She rose to her feet. “No, thank you. With your permission, I shall return to Lady Gwendolyn.”
“Permission denied.” With a wave of his fork, he added, “Sit down now, lest you force me to be a gentleman and stand up when I would rather be eating.”
Abby wrestled with her pride before resuming her seat. She really had no choice. As his servant, she was obliged to obey his direct command. Yet his presence made her uncomfortable and she held her spine stiffly upright. “Should I not be with your sister? After all, my purpose in this house is to protect her from any vulgar influences.”
“I’ve instructed Gwen not to venture from her chamber until your return.” He ate a bite of meat pie before continuing. “You should know that I’ve decided to grant my sister a short holiday from her studies. That is why I didn’t immediately send a replacement for Miss Herrington.”
