She didn’t have to wait long. She picked up one of the newspapers lying on a nearby table, but she had barely sat down in one of the leather chairs opposite Mr. Fortescue’s desk and opened that day’s copy of the Times when the door to Phillip’s office opened and Mr. Fortescue reappeared. “You may go in.”
She set aside the newspaper, picked up her dispatch case, and walked past the secretary into a large room furnished in similar fashion to the foyer downstairs, very modern and masculine, with an oak-paneled dado below a muted wallpaper and uncurtained windows that overlooked the Thames. There was a brass radiator instead of a fireplace, and the lamps were electric, with shades of green-and-amber stained glass.
Phillip rose from his chair behind a large, uncluttered mahogany desk as she came in. He was immaculately dressed, as always, and in his dark blue suit, aubergine waistcoat, and silver-gray necktie, he looked very much the wealthy, successful man of business, while still managing to exude that ineffable quality of hauteur that proclaimed him one of the highest-ranking peers of the realm. “Miss Martingale,” he greeted her with a bow. “How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you, my lord,” she answered, dipping a curtsy.
“This is an unexpected visit. Please sit down.” He waited until she had seated herself in one of the comfortable Morris chairs opposite his desk before resuming his own seat. “My secretary tells me you have come on behalf of the Duchess of St. Cyres, who wishes to make a contribution to the May Day Ball. But I confess, I am somewhat confused as to the reason she would send you on such an errand.”
“Well…” Maria paused and gave a little cough, finding this much harder than she’d anticipated beneath his cool, discerning gaze. “The duchess didn’t exactly send me.”
“Indeed? That is a somewhat cryptic reply, Miss Martingale. You have succeeded in arousing my curiosity.”
Despite the polite friendliness of his voice, Maria felt a hint of dread as she met his impassive gaze, and she wished she had remembered before this moment how hard it had always been to put anything past Phillip. She plunged into speech. “The duchess will wish to make a contribution to the orphanages. I know she will. I’m sure of it. I mean, she’s always happy to do something for orphans—” She broke off and began again. “I had come this afternoon about the May Day Ball, yes, but I hadn’t meant to…that is, I hadn’t expected to…” She stopped again, silently cursing her own impulsiveness. She’d insisted upon seeing him, but she had no idea what to say now that she was sitting here. She reminded herself that in time, he would have learned of Lawrence’s decision to hire her, and she tried to think how best to phrase the situation in a tactful way. “The duchess is a friend of mine, and she is always willing to donate to a worthy charity.”
“I’m very pleased to hear it,” he said, sounding amused and somewhat puzzled that such a simple statement had been so difficult to say.
She sighed and gave up any attempt to be tactful. “Oh, I might as well come straight out with it! I came here to see Lawrence.”
He didn’t even blink. “Forgive me if I’m not surprised. Thought I was out of town, did you?”
“This isn’t something sordid, if that’s what you’re implying. It’s perfectly innocent.”
“Of course it is.”
The very blandness of his voice made her cheeks grow hot. “Damn it, Phillip,” she muttered, wriggling in her chair, “it isn’t as if I were intending to seduce Lawrence on top of his desk!”
“Then perhaps you should stop stammering and blushing like a schoolgirl caught out past curfew, and tell me straight out why you wanted to see Lawrence.”
“Your brother hired me to be the pâtissier for all your charity events. Starting with the May Day Ball.”
He groaned. “I knew it,” he muttered giving her a dismayed stare. “I knew the first time I ever saw you, sitting in that tree talking about rope swings, that you were trouble.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “I said I was sorry about your arm.”
He didn’t seem to share her amusement about their childhood adventure. “I should toss you out right now and to hell with it.”
Her smile vanished, for this conversation was heading into dangerous territory. “To return to the point, your brother and I set an appointment for today to discuss the details of the ball. The menu, price estimates, that sort of thing. But when I arrived, I learned that you had sent him to Plymouth, and that he had taken his secretary with him. So I asked to see you instead.”
“Gave up trying to sneak behind my back?”
“No, I just didn’t want all my hard work to be for naught! I’ve been slaving away for two solid weeks in preparation for this meeting, and now, I find that Lawrence is gone, he’s not intending to return until after the ball, and I have no direction and no approval of the menu I conceived. I don’t know the quantities to make, nor the theme of the decorations. A job like this can’t be thrown together at the last moment. So I am forced to discuss the matter with you.”
“It doesn’t particularly surprise me that Lawrence hired you. In hindsight, I realize I should have anticipated something like this. Nor am I surprised that my brother left town without informing you of his departure, since he is quite careless about considerations of that kind. What does surprise me is that you think for one moment I would agree to retain you as my pastry chef.”
“I am one of the finest pastry chefs in London, I’ll have you know! And it would be deuced difficult to find someone of my skills to do the May Day Ball at this late date. And,” she added, “there is the contract, of course.”
He frowned. “Contract?”
“I’m afraid so.” The glimmer of uneasiness in his face gave her some measure of satisfaction. She set her dispatch case on his desk and unfastened its buckles, then pulled out the document in question. “This contract names me as the official pâtissier for all charitable events of the Hawthorne family during the 1895 London season.” She looked down at the sheet of paper in her hands and began to read. “Martingale’s is to provide all breads, cakes, pastries, petit fours, and confections, and any additional desserts required by the chef de cuisine. Specific events, number of guests, quantities of goods supplied, detailed menus, prices, and fees to be determined as required, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Of all the absurd—” He broke off and reached across the desk, snatching the sheet of paper from her.
“It’s even signed,” she told him cheerfully, leaning forward in her chair to indicate the place where Lawrence had scrawled his signature. “See? Right there at the bottom. Mr. Lawrence Hawthorne, your dear brother, the man you put in charge of all your charity events.”
He lifted his head and looked at her. “Why?” he murmured, shaking his head. “Of all the people in the world who might have leased Aunt Fiona’s shop, why did that person have to be you?”
“Because it was your lucky day?”
His gaze hardened. “You realize it would be a simple matter for me to have this so-called contract overturned? You wouldn’t have the means or the power to fight me.”
“True, but a contract isn’t just a binding legal document, is it?” she asked with an attempt at artless naivete, hoping Lawrence’s prediction of Phillip’s actions proved more accurate than her own. “It’s also a matter of honor. It’s a…a promise, really. And you wouldn’t want Lawrence going around breaking his promises, would you?” She smiled. “After all, we both know that you regard a promise as a sacred thing.”
“You, however, do not,” he countered in a dry voice. “Otherwise, we would not be having this conversation, and you would be making life hell for some other poor sod.”
“Your brother came to my shop and asked me to be the pâtissier. What would you have had me do?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Refuse?”
“Why should I? This is the sort of opportunity no professional pastry chef would ever refuse.”
“So your interest in Lawrence is purely professional.”
; “Damn it, I have no interest in Lawrence, professional or otherwise! How many times do I have to say it? He came to me. I did nothing to encourage him.”
“You exist. That’s encouragement enough, I fear.” He set aside the contract, and leaned back in his chair with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers as if he had a headache. He muttered something under his breath. It sounded like, “True north.”
She frowned, uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.” He lowered his hand and straightened in his chair. “You’re right,” he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I cannot blame you for any of this.”
Such easy capitulation was the last thing she’d expected. “You can’t?”
“Unfortunately, no. As loathe as I am to admit it, the fact that Lawrence has always had the foolish inclination to follow you around like a panting puppy is not your fault.”
So like Phillip to admit she was right even while making it sound like an insult. “What a relief,” she said, leaning back and pressing a hand to her heart. “I was worried you might think ill of me and blame me for all this. It’s been keeping me up at night.”
He didn’t respond to the flippancy. Instead, he folded his arms and tilted his head to one side, studying her. “Is the Duchess of St. Cyres truly a friend of yours?”
“You needn’t sound so skeptical! I do have friends, you know. You were once one of them.”
“A fact which baffles me at the present moment.” Before she could fire off a reply to that, he went on, “Now I understand why the duchess was praising your pastries to me at a cotillion the other day. But she made no mention of a contribution to my orphanage fund. Does she really intend to make one?” He paused, and a rueful smile curved one corner of his mouth. “Or was that just a ruse to get past my secretary?”
“It was not a ruse!” She consoled herself for the lie with the knowledge that in addition to having vast wealth, Prudence was a kindhearted person who could easily be prevailed upon to donate money to any worthy charity. “The duchess will make a very generous contribution.”
His smile widened with understanding. “Once you ask her to do so.”
She made a sound of aggravation. “Why do you always make me feel as if you can see right through me?”
“Perhaps because you’re as transparent as glass?”
“You’ll have the duchess’s donation by the end of the week,” she assured. “But only,” she added, mirroring his smile with one of her own, “if I remain your pâtissier. If you sack me, Prudence won’t donate a penny.”
“Broken promises, a few lies, and a spot of extortion all in one day. That’s a bit much, isn’t it, even for you?”
“It’s not extortion,” she protested, indignant. “She’s my friend, after all.”
He studied her for a moment longer, then he gave a curt nod. “Very well,” he said, picked up the contract and handed it to her across the desk. “Because the London orphanages are always full and always in desperate need of funds, and because the Duchess of St. Cyres is known to be a very rich woman, I won’t override Lawrence’s decision. Provided you keep to your word. And—”
It was his turn to pause. Leaning back in his chair, he subjected her to a hard stare. “And provided you have the necessary skills. You are an accomplished pâtissier, I trust, capable of more elaborate pastries than a few tarts?”
This was one thing about which she did not ever have to lie. “I am one of the best pastry chefs in England, I’ll have you know. I worked not only under my father, but I also trained for almost twelve years under the great chef André Chauvin, even working under him at the Clarendon Hotel.”
“Were you the Clarendon’s pâtissier, then?”
“Not in name. André allowed me the duties of that position, but he could not give me the title of it. As a woman,” she added with a hint of resentment, “I was not considered worthy of such a responsibility by the owners of the hotel. It’s an axiom of my profession that only men have the talent to be great chefs. A false axiom, but many believe it. That is why I decided to strike out on my own. To prove myself. Why these questions about my bona fides?” She gave him a provoking grin. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Not for a moment,” he said with an unflattering lack of hesitation.
“But you’re not going to give me the sack? And you’re not going to evict me?” As he shook his head, she studied him in bewilderment. “I was sure you would.”
“As my brother pointed out to me not long ago, forcing you out would be an action unworthy of a gentleman. I tried to buy you off with money, but you refused it. I offered to move you to other quarters, but again you refused. If I wish to be rid of you, this seems the only course I have left. I should thank Lawrence for providing it.”
This made no sense, and the only conclusion she could draw was that he was having her on. “Phillip,” she said in some surprise, “you’ve learned how to tease.”
“Alas, no, I have not. My character is still deficient in that regard, Miss Martingale. I am quite serious.”
“But how does my prosperity compel me to leave?”
“The kitchens you have now are large enough for your present needs, but if you become prosperous enough, you’ll find them insufficient, and that will compel you to relocate your bakery elsewhere. Since Lawrence intends to make Half Moon Street his London residence, it’s in my best interests to see that you succeed—and move to larger quarters—as quickly as possible. In the interim, if you are the pâtissier for all my social events, you’ll be far too busy, and too tired, for midnight flirtations with my brother.”
She knew telling him again that she had no designs on Lawrence would be a waste of breath. “So killing me with kindness is your strategy?”
“Just so.”
She had to admire his ingenuity, but she’d die before acknowledging it out loud. Instead, she sighed, feigning disappointment. “And I’d dared to hope you were making this most generous offer because of your deep and abiding affection for me.”
“Affection?” His gaze raked over her in a perusal that was anything but flattering. “Affection,” he said, his voice harsh as he returned his gaze to her face, “is not the word I would use, Miss Martingale.”
His disdain could not be plainer, and it angered Maria that his low opinion of her still had the power to sting.
“What happened to you?” she asked before she could stop herself. “You were different after your father died. When I came home from France, I noticed how inheriting the title had changed you. It was not a change for the better.”
His chin lifted, a sure sign she’d flicked him on the raw. “That is a gross impertinence,” he snapped. “Tread carefully, Maria.”
She had no intention of doing so. “When we were children, we were friends, you and I. Remember? But once you became the marquess, shallow, stupid things like class distinctions and who’s the right sort of people became more important to you than my friendship. Lawrence still treated me as a friend and as an equal, but you did not.”
“We are not equals!” he said with such savagery that she was startled. “That is a fact of our lives. With my title and my position to consider, we could no longer be friends.” He looked away, adding under his breath, “We should never have been friends in the first place.”
“And Lawrence? He wasn’t a marquess. Yet you still felt it necessary to take him away from me as well.”
“You were planning to elope with him.” He looked at her again, his gaze implacable. “A gentleman cannot marry the daughter of a chef.”
“God, Phillip,” she choked, shaking her head, “you are such a snob.”
“It is not snobbery to face facts. Marrying outside one’s class never answers. People are not made happy by it in the long run.”
“Lawrence and I loved each other.”
“Love?” He made a sound of disdain. “You two weren’t in love. You were infatuated!”
“Lawrence l
oved me.”
“He had a poor way of demonstrating it, don’t you think?”
Those words stung, and she sucked in a sharp breath. It was several moments before she could speak. “The blame for that lies with you.”
“I gave him a choice.”
“A Hobson’s choice! Me or his inheritance. If he’d chosen me, he would have lost not only his living, but also your respect and affection. He could never have borne that. How could you have been so cruel to us?”
“Cruel? I used my influence to save my brother from making a disastrous marriage.”
“And to hell with the fact that our hearts were broken in the process!”
His expression did not soften. “A broken heart mends. A poor marriage choice is irreversible.”
“And what of our friendship, Phillip? Did you think how much it hurt me to lose your friendship? Or did you just not care?”
He stood up so abruptly, his chair skidded backward, but when he spoke, his voice was icy. “My secretary will send you the details of the events for which I will require your services and arrange the appropriate appointments. Good day, Miss Martingale.”
The servant was now dismissed, it seemed. She picked up her dispatch case, rose from her chair, and started toward the door. His voice followed her.
“Maria?”
She paused with her hand on the door knob, but she did not turn around.
“I cared,” he said behind her. “But as I said, we should never have been friends. Friendship is not possible between a marquess and the daughter of the family chef. That is the world we live in.”
She forced herself to look at him over her shoulder. “No, Phillip. That’s the world you live in.”
“So does Lawrence, and that is why I did all I could to prevent him from marrying you. An elopement always engenders talk, but between people of such disparate classes as my brother and yourself, it would have been far worse than a few titters behind your backs. Many families would have refused to receive either of you. Many of Lawrence’s friends would have been obligated to distance themselves from him, at least in public. If you’d had a dowry, money to bring to the marriage, people could perhaps have overlooked your lack of breeding and your lack of connections, but the poor daughter of a chef? No.”
Secret Desires of a Gentleman Page 11
