The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress

by Victoria Alexander

  “Because I have no idea how to do anything in a kitchen and, as I’m still not quite ready to venture out of the house, I thought learning to bake a cake would be interesting and unexpected and definitely frivolous. I shall never have to cook for myself or my family. Why, my mother never steps foot in a kitchen unless it is to instruct Mrs. Helstrom—our cook—as to the menu for dinner. And I am supposed to learn something one would not expect. Besides”—she grinned—“I like cake.”

  “Isn’t there a cook in residence here who could teach you to bake a cake?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” She peered around him again. “But I thought hiring a chef would be much more fun. He comes very highly recommended.”

  “No doubt.” He huffed. “Very well then, you have my apologies for thinking, well, what I was thinking.”

  “I’m not sure whether or not I wish to accept it.” Her brow furrowed with annoyance. “The idea that I would have to hire someone to become my lover is not merely rude but offensive and rather hurtful as well. I thought we had come to know each other better than that. I would certainly never jump to a conclusion that painted you in an especially poor light. The fact that you seem to have no difficulty thinking the worst of me is most distressing.”

  “I didn’t really—”

  “Oh, but you did.” She stepped closer and glared up at him. “Do you think I am so unappealing that I would have to pay a man to take me to his bed?”

  “No, of course not.” He grimaced. “I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t thinking . . .” He drew a deep breath. “You are exceptionally lovely, Miss Merryweather.”

  “Then it’s my character that you think men would have to be paid to overlook?”

  “Not at all,” he said staunchly. “You’re quite clever and extremely interesting. You are kind and witty and have an acute sense of honor I have rarely encountered in a woman or a man, for that matter.”

  “Then the fault lies not with me but with you?”

  “With me?” He paused, then blew a resigned breath. “I am an idiot, Miss Merryweather,” he said weakly.

  “None of us is perfect, Mr. Fairchild. It’s important to acknowledge our own flaws so that we may strive to overcome them. You shall have to work on that.” She studied him for a moment, as if she was assessing every one of his flaws and found them both numerous and irredeemable. “Apology accepted.” She nodded firmly. “That’s enough of that then. François insists on instructing me in the basic tenets of cake making before we actually start, and I’m beginning to suspect it will take much of the day. It’s apparently far more complicated than I expected. But as I said”—a slight wicked smile curved her lips—“it will be fun.”

  Not if he could help it. “While the baking of a cake does seem fairly innocuous . . .” He glanced over his shoulder at the Frenchman in the kitchen. Bloody hell. Baking with Vadeboncoeur might well be anything but innocent. There was no mistaking the way the man looked at Lucy. Cake was not the only thing on the chef ’s mind. “Surely there is something else you could learn to do that would satisfy that item on your list?”

  “Nothing I could think of.” She shrugged. “At least nothing I could learn in a timely manner. Most skills take a great deal of time to master, you know.”

  “Perhaps but . . .” He racked his brains trying to think of something. What could she learn? “Why, you could learn a language. Or at least a few phrases.”

  “I daresay François could help me with that as well.” She cast Cam an innocent smile. “However, every well-bred woman I know is expected to speak at least a smattering of French and Italian, so learning a language is not the least bit unexpected and is far more practical than frivolous. Besides, any number of well-meaning instructors have attempted to teach me both French and Italian and, well, my mind simply doesn’t work in more than one language.”

  “You could learn to play tennis perhaps.” Tennis was certainly appropriate. “Or be instructed in rowing or fencing.”

  “I already enjoy tennis, and frankly, I would much prefer to be rowed than to row. And quite a few ladies of my acquaintance fence. As do I.” She smiled. “Quite well really.”

  “You could—”

  “I could do any number of things I suppose, Mr. Fairchild.” She sighed. “But this is what first came to mind and this is what I intend to learn. François is here and prepared to teach me, so unless you have any further objections, I suggest we get on with it.” She considered him for a moment. “I am really quite surprised, Mr. Fairchild, given there are so many other things that I might have settled on to learn that are far more difficult, if not dangerous and even scandalous. Baking a cake is insignificant compared to some of the things that have crossed my mind.” An innocent note sounded in her voice, but her eyes sparked with wicked amusement. “Would you like to hear about those?”

  Without warning the unbidden thought flashed through his mind: there were any number of things he’d like to teach her as well. He ruthlessly shoved the thought aside. “Absolutely not!”

  “Good, because I do love cake.” She turned back toward the kitchen. “Now if you will excuse me.”

  “I have no intention of leaving, Miss Merryweather.”

  “Well, I have no intention of allowing you to linger in the kitchen glaring at François.”

  “It seems we are at an impasse then.” He couldn’t resist a satisfied smile.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” She stepped closer, a determined look in her eye. “Mr. Fairchild, we have already agreed that I could throw you out at any moment, which would make your job much more difficult and unpleasant as I can’t believe you enjoy skulking about in the cold. I have only allowed you to join our little company because it now seems wise to have a gentleman’s presence for the purposes of safety.”

  “You and I both know you won’t throw me out.” He cast her a confident smile. “We have come too far for that.”

  “Yes, I suppose we have.” Her voice hardened. “However, I have no desire for your disapproving glare to follow my every move, nor do I intend to allow you to intimidate poor, dear François.”

  “When did he become poor, dear François?” He tried and failed to hide the indignant note in his voice, ignoring the fact that she had called Miss West a poor dear as well as the elephant. It was simply a phrase she used both frequently and indiscriminately. Nonetheless, when she used it in reference to the Frenchman, it made his teeth clench.

  “When you became an overbearing, irrational tyrant. And an idiot.”

  “I am not . . .” He sighed. “I did apologize.”

  “Very well.” She stepped around him, opened a tall cupboard, grabbed a folded white cloth, and thrust it at him. “If you insist on staying, you’ll have to put this on.”

  He eyed it with suspicion. “What is it?”

  “It’s an apron. It wouldn’t do for you to be covered in flour.”

  He scoffed. “I’m not going to wear an apron.”

  “As you wish. But if you are going to be here, you too will have to learn to bake a cake.”

  He snorted. “I don’t think so.”

  “Of course, if you don’t believe you are up to it . . .” She shrugged.

  “The greatest chefs in the world have always been men,” he muttered, and snatched the apron from her hand. “I can’t imagine this will be all that difficult to master.”

  “We shall see.” She smirked.

  He stared at her. “You don’t think I can do this, do you?”

  “Do you?”

  He unfolded the apron. “You’re driving me quite mad, Miss Merryweather.”

  “I cannot tell you how delightful I find that, Mr. Fairchild.” She held out her hand. “Give me your coat.”

  He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Why?”

  “Because the apron will not fit properly over a coat.” She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “You would probably be most uncomfortable, which would make you even more irritating than you seem determined to be today.”


  “Fine!” he snapped, pulled off his coat, handed it to her, and struggled into the apron.

  “Come along then.” She nodded and marched back into the kitchen, tossed his coat onto a chair by the door, and retook her seat. “François, your class has now grown to two. Mr. Fairchild will be joining us.”

  “Excellent, mademoiselle.” Vadeboncoeur cast him a smug look, then turned his attention back to Lucy. “But are you certain you wish to make a cake? A cake is nothing special.” His gaze met Lucy’s. “But a soufflé.” His voice was low and enticing, as if he was talking about something far tastier than a soufflé. “To bake a soufflé is a skill to be desired.”

  Lucy stared as if mesmerized. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “Flavored with chocolate perhaps.”

  Lucy made an odd sort of moaning sound. “I do so love chocolate.”

  Cam stared. What on earth?

  “The first bite melting in the mouth . . .”

  “Oh my, yes . . .” She fairly sighed the words.

  “Light as the very air you breathe, an essence of flavor, the taste fit for the gods themselves . . .”

  “Mmmm . . .”

  “Intense and yet ethereal.”

  “Oh . . .” Lucy leaned forward, her eyes slightly closed.

  Good God! Cam was right. The bloody Frenchman was seducing her with words of food! Enough of this nonsense was enough.

  “Miss Merryweather wishes to bake a cake and a cake it shall be,” Cam said crisply.

  Lucy snapped out of whatever culinary spell Vadeboncoeur had cast and heaved a resigned sigh. “I do love cake.”

  “Then let’s get on with it, shall we?” Cam removed his cuff links, set them on the table, then rolled up his sleeves and adopted a pleasant smile. “How do we begin?”

  Vadeboncoeur’s eyes narrowed slightly. “At the beginning, of course, monsieur.” He cast a regretful look at Lucy, then launched into a heavily accented explanation of eggs and flour and Cam had no idea what else. Lucy still looked interested but no longer enthralled.

  Good.

  Vadeboncoeur’s flirtatious manner did seem to lessen but only a bit, and Cam kept a close eye on him. Not an easy task as this whole business of baking a cake was far more complicated than Cam had ever imagined. Of course, he’d never given any real consideration to what went on in a kitchen, only to what came out of it. Separating the egg yolks from the whites alone proved far trickier than one would have thought, and he and Lucy went through an astonishing number of eggs before getting the technique right. Although Cam did question Vadeboncoeur’s technique.

  And just before the chef handed him a bowl full of egg whites and a medieval-looking instrument with which to beat them into submission, the unbidden thought struck him.

  His grandmother would definitely like Lucy.

  “Mr. Fairchild.” Lucy leaned closer to Cam and spoke low. François, in the far end of the kitchen, had his back to them checking the ovens. “I believe you’re supposed to whip those into a light and frothy consistency, not stir them as if you were trying to cool off soup.”

  He stirred faster.

  “Goodness, Cameron.” She huffed with exasperation. “François showed you how to do it.”

  Apparently, anything in a kitchen was as far beyond Cameron’s abilities as foreign languages were for Lucy. Admittedly he did seem to be making an effort in those rare moments when he and François were not exchanging thinly veiled insults. Lucy considered it something of a miracle that neither had given in to the impulse to fling food at each other, although it was plain in both men’s eyes that they were tempted. But the day was still young. They were both acting like schoolboys. Or rivals. When François had stood behind her and put his arms around her to instruct her in the proper way to separate eggs, the muscle in Cameron’s jaw tightened and she wondered that his teeth didn’t crack given how hard he clenched them. It was a credit to his self-control that he hadn’t done something stupid but instead requested for François to show him the proper way as well. It was quite humorous, although she doubted either man would have agreed. Lucy had never had men snipe at each other over her before and it was very nearly as enjoyable as it was annoying.

  Nonetheless, spending a few hours learning to do something he had no interest in and would never do again, as well as putting up with a man he obviously disliked, was the price Cameron had to pay for his . . . his idiocy. Imagine him thinking for so much as a moment that she had hired François to be her lover. The very thought heated her cheeks with embarrassment.

  “You simply need to put more wrist into it.” She shrugged. “It isn’t especially difficult.”

  “To whip zee eggs into a concoction as light and fluffy as zee very clouds in zee sky takes a fine hand, mademoiselle,” he said in his best, or more likely his worst, French-accented imitation of the chef. “One must use zee wrist and zee heart.”

  “Mr. Fairchild!” She gasped and tried very hard not to let him see the tiniest bit of amusement. “That was extraordinarily rude.”

  He cast her an unrepentant grin. “But funny. You have to admit it was funny.”

  “It was not the least bit funny,” she said firmly, and turned away for fear he’d see her amusement in her eyes. It wasn’t his imitation of the chef that was so funny but rather the very fact that he’d attempted it at all. His accent was atrocious, which did make it all the more comical.

  But then she did find him more and more amusing. He’d come to the house every day during her unfortunate confinement and never once pointed out he had warned her that the skin coloring was a bad idea. It was most considerate of him.

  If Cameron wasn’t so terribly amusing and dashing and, when he wished to be, charming, he might not be worth the effort to keep around. But she had been far more frightened by the incident with her purse than she’d let even Clara see. The theft had brought to mind all sorts of dire and dreadful predicaments two women alone might encounter, and having a gentleman on hand seemed like an excellent idea. Still, even if she wished to be rid of him, he had been hired to watch her and watch her he was determined to do. Besides, she was becoming rather fond of him. No, in truth, she liked him. More and more each day. And just last night he had appeared in her dreams as well, which was both disconcerting and intriguing.

  And she did so love his stories about his work as a private investigator. Lucy had always loved a good story. Pity she didn’t believe a word of them.

  It was her experience that real life was never as perfectly entertaining as something made up. And Cameron’s stories were suspiciously close to perfectly amusing. It was hard as well to ignore how he steered the conversation to one of his investigative adventures whenever it veered too close to his personal life. The man was definitely hiding something. But that touch of mystery was nearly as appealing as his brown eyes and irresistible smile.

  She’d noted when she’d taken his coat that the quality of the fabric and the tailoring of the garment was well above average. And probably out of financial reach of a private investigator no matter how much he was paid for what appeared to be very little work. He was obviously well educated and, just as obviously, used to the finer things in life. His pronunciation of François’ last name was impeccable even to her untrained ear and had earned him a grudging modicum of respect from the chef. He was also a bit more concerned with propriety than one might have expected. All of which spoke of a privileged upbringing.

  But, regardless of his secrets, he did seem to have a sense of honor. One could tell that just by talking to him. Lucy wasn’t completely certain but she suspected she was an excellent judge of character; at least, nothing had ever happened to prove her wrong, and something inside her insisted he was an honorable man. But what did an honorable man have to hide? It would be entirely convoluted to hire an investigator to ferret out the secrets of a fellow investigator. Still, the idea had merit.

  Oh yes, she did indeed like Cameron Fairchild. Even so, she had lied to him. As brief and fleeting as the
ir kiss had been, as unremarkable as she had claimed it to be, it had still done something quite remarkable to the pit of her stomach. Which did seem to bear further examination or at the very least, another kiss. He had very nearly kissed her at the circus and she had very much wanted him to. He’d not attempted it since, which was both disappointing and a relief. She wasn’t entirely sure how she’d react to another kiss, although she couldn’t quite get the idea out of her head. It occurred with alarming frequency whenever her hand inadvertently brushed his, or she gazed into his dark eyes or his smile reached into her soul. She slanted a quick glance at him. He was handsome and dashing, funny and proper, no more than a few years older than she and, in many ways, all a woman might want in a man. If a woman was looking for a man—which she wasn’t, of course. Still, he was a mystery and she simply adored mysteries.

  Cameron leaned close and spoke softly. “Do you realize you called me Cameron? Twice by my count.”

  “Did I?” She shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  He grinned in obvious disbelief.

  “You needn’t make anything of it. I call François by his given name.”

  “I thought that was significant at first and frankly, somewhat alarming. Then I realized I was wrong.”

  “Oh?”

  “Once I heard you attempt to pronounce Vadeboncoeur, I saw that François was much more practical.”

  “He insisted.” She winced. “He’s rather sensitive about the pronunciation of his name.”

  “And your mind doesn’t work in more than one language.”

  “Exactly.” She paused. “I will confess, I have started to think of you as Cameron rather than Mr. Fairchild,” she said slowly. “We are spending a great deal of time together, after all, and we have forged a friendship of sorts.”

  “I didn’t expect that.” He smiled into her eyes and something deep inside her fluttered. “But I find it delightful, Lucy.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “As do I.” She drew a deep breath. “However, I think it would be wise to restrict our address of one another to Miss Merryweather and Mr. Fairchild when in the presence of others, especially Miss West. I doubt she would find it quite as delightful.”