Except the shadow man.
“He took in Mavis,” she conceded. “He occasionally thanks you when you do him a favor, I notice. But that doesn’t excuse him, Iris. Or how he spoke to me this morning. The nonsense he made up, to pretend he had control over what I drank, for heaven’s sake!”
Iris gave a nod. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then finally said: “Just ease up, will ya? Give ’im a graceful way out, if you can.” She hunched a little as they came closer to the market and more and more people began clogging the way. “ ’Twas his kitchen, all intents and purposes, ’til you came yesterday. He can’t switch it off just like that.”
Gigi didn’t answer. It hadn’t been just a territorial dispute. Edgars had tried to belittle her, as if doing so would somehow lift him up. And no matter how much she needed the safety and anonymity of Aldridge House, she could not accept that.
If she’d been born poor, been in Iris’s shoes, how would she have coped? Been pragmatic about it? Or would she finally have ended up broken?
She shook off the dark, heavy feeling that tried to settle over her like a suffocating blanket, and focused on the stalls just up ahead.
“Let me show you the art of bargaining, Iris.” She caught sight of the produce on display. “And what real food looks like.”
10
She had found Reine Claude plums at the market. Reine Claudes!
When she’d exclaimed that it couldn’t be, that Reine Claudes were only ready for harvest in July, the trader told her they were just off a ship come in from Cape Town, from the tip of Africa. Grown by the French Huguenots who had settled there.
It was lucky for Lord Aldridge she’d found them at the end of her shopping, because once she had them in her hands, she’d gone straight home and started making jam.
It didn’t take long to make it, and while it was cooling she’d put in a tray of brioche to cook, ground some coffee, and taken a long, deep breath. As the scents and aromas swirled around her, she knew she had never been closer to her mother than since before she’d died.
A bell rang above the door, a signal from Rob that Lord Aldridge was down for breakfast, and Gigi put the brioche, jam and coffee on a tray for Harry to take up.
He’d only been gone a few minutes, and Gigi was busy with an omelette, when Edgars came down.
“His lordship is down for breakfast.” Edgars watched her from the stairs, his lips tight and a gleam in his eye. She had the impression he was gloating.
“I know.” She gave him a friendly smile as she tipped the beaten eggs into a pan. The perfume of herbs and tomato fanned her face, and she swirled the mixture around.
“Where is it, then?” Edgars asked.
Ah. He was waiting for an English breakfast. Gigi lifted a single brow, pouting her lips, giving her head an arrogant tilt. Oh, she was the epitome of an Englishman’s Frenchie. “His lordship asked for a French cook, n’est-ce pas?” She went back to her omelette.
He was very quiet and she ignored him, folding the omelette, tipping it onto a plate, and holding it out to him. It was fragrant, tender perfection.
“My concession to English bacon and eggs,” she said. “Tell his lordship bon appétit.”
His face twisted, temper rising hot up his neck and along his cheeks. Before he could say anything, though, there was a knock at the door, and he turned from her without taking the plate and stalked up the stairs, anger and tension riding his shoulders like two little devils.
“Fiddle dee dee,” she said in exasperation, thinking of Rumplestiltskin, because Edgars looked as if he wanted to stamp his foot in rage.
“Iris, please take this to his lordship. It cannot be eaten cold.” She shuddered as she handed the plate over. “I hope whoever is at the front door does not need to speak to Lord Aldridge. It is vital that this is eaten straightaway.”
Iris lifted her brows in surprise and her lips quirked a little, but she moved quickly to the servants’ side stair to avoid walking up into the hallway, past Edgars and whomever he was speaking with.
Gigi set out more brioche and jam for the staff in their little dining room and then poured herself a cup of coffee, leaned back against the table, and closed her eyes, tipping her head back to catch the rays of sun angling through the high windows.
They fell warm and golden on her eyelids.
All was quiet for the moment. Everyone was busy with their jobs, the scents and sounds of a house moving through its routine a long-forgotten memory for her.
She hadn’t realized she’d missed this. Missed this connection to her mother. This peace and quiet, where the day ran as smooth and sweet as a boat through calm water.
She heard the sound of someone walking down the servants’ stairs and straightened, opening her eyes, unwilling to let anyone see her this way.
It was Iris, who walked slower and slower the closer she got to the bottom.
“What is it?” Gigi took a sip of her coffee.
“That man? The one down the street you pointed out this morning?”
Gigi pushed herself away from the table. “Yes?”
“He’s here. Edgars brought him in to see his lordship while I was giving him his omelette. He’s been invited to breakfast.”
* * *
“What’s wr—” The look Dervish shot him made Jonathan blink and snap his mouth closed. He leaned back easily in his chair for the sake of Edgars, hovering in the hallway.
“Morning, Aldridge.” Dervish stepped into the room.
“Out a bit early, aren’t you?” Jonathan spared Dervish another quick glance and cut into the omelette Iris had placed before him. He took a bite.
“You seem in the middle of a spiritual experience,” Dervish said after a moment. “Perhaps I should come back later?”
“Join me in worshipping at the altar of French cuisine, Dervish. I’m sure there’s plenty, though if there isn’t, you’ll be the one going without.”
Dervish sat, a smile finally on his face.
They both waited while Rob served Dervish some brioche, jam and coffee and then withdrew. Dervish opened his mouth to speak, but Jonathan lifted a hand to silence him. If he knew his staff, Rob would be back shortly with more food.
He bent his head to his omelette and then lifted it when he realized Dervish was too quiet.
Dervish was holding up a piece of brioche covered in jam, staring at it.
“I haven’t . . .” He raised his eyes to Jonathan. “I haven’t had Reine Claude jam since Adèle Barrington was alive.” He put a hand over his mouth and coughed, then took a sip of coffee. “Sorry. I . . .” He shook his head. “I was a little in love with her in my youth. She was older than I was, and so sophisticated, but warm and happy. An extraordinary combination. Eating this reminds me of her and Barrington, of how he was when he lost her. And now his death . . .” He raised the cup to his lips again and looked away.
Jonathan looked away himself to give Dervish a moment. He’d never seen Dervish laid so bare. The man spent his time behind a chilly, polite mask, and Durnham was the only one whose company he’d ever known Dervish to seek out. He gave him time to regain control, searching for something to say that would move things back to normal—a place where Dervish, judging by the stark expression in his eyes, desperately wanted to be. Jonathan pulled the small bowl of golden jam in front of him closer. “Reine Claude jam? What fruit is it?”
“Greengages. The French call them Reine Claudes. Adèle used to make the jam with her own hands. Go down to the kitchen, kick her chef out for a few hours, and stand over the stove with that pretty little girl of hers at her side. Used to have orchards of greengages around the château where she grew up in Brittany, she told me.” He rubbed the side of his cheek, his expression no longer as raw. “Where on earth did you get Reine Claude jam?”
Rob came in at that moment with an omelette in hand.
“Rob. Where did we get Reine Claude jam?”
Rob slid the plate beside Dervish and stepped back
, hands behind his back. “Madame Levéel made it this morning, my lord. She got the fruit at the market earlier.”
Jonathan gave him a nod of dismissal and waited until he heard the footman’s footsteps fade down the hall before he finally came back to his original question. “What’s wrong?”
“I got up early this morning. Can’t seem to sleep since I learned of Barrington’s death. I had the most terrible dreams of Giselle Barrington wandering the streets of London with her father’s murderer stalking her.”
“So you went looking for her?” Jonathan asked incredulously.
Dervish shrugged, unembarrassed. “It’s better than doing nothing. My God, if she is alive, if she has that document, she’s in terrible danger.”
There was nothing to say to that; it was true.
“Anyway, I went past Goldfern, just in case she’s desperate enough to be hanging about there, and I saw some men fixing a window at the side of the house. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by going to inquire. Would you do so?”
“I already know. I went past the house myself last night, just to check on things after our chat at the club.” He cut into a brioche, eager to try jam that could bring the stony-faced Dervish to tears. “There was someone in the house. I chased him down, but he got away.”
“What was he after? Did you find out?” Dervish had almost stopped breathing.
“He was rifling through Barrington’s letter drawer. The caretaker tells me Barrington’s lawyer had collected the important post only the day before, so there was nothing to find, but it’s telling.”
“It means they didn’t get the document from either Barrington or his daughter, if they’re breaking into Barrington’s house looking for something. Either that, or Giselle Barrington is alive and she saw them, and they’re trying to find some clue as to where she is.”
“Or both,” Jonathan pointed out.
“Or both,” Dervish agreed. “In which case, they must be desperate to find her.”
“I wonder where the hell she is?” Jonathan took a bite of his brioche.
11
If the shadow man was in the house, she had to know.
Gigi looked blindly down at the kitchen table, her mind racing. If it was him upstairs, he had found her. There could be no other reason for his visit.
“His lordship’s guest is very taken with your jam.”
Rob’s voice cut through her thoughts, and she gripped the table to keep herself steady. “He is?” She took a deep breath and turned to him.
“Yes. Not that I blame him. I nearly cried myself when I had your fancy buns and jam for breakfast.” Rob gave her a cheeky grin.
She went still. “He nearly cried?”
Rob shrugged. “Actually, weren’t no nearly about it. He did cry.”
That didn’t sound like something the shadow man would do. “What’s his name?”
Rob shrugged. “I didn’t let him in, Mr. Edgars did. Never seen ’im before.” He edged closer to the staff dining room. “Any buns left?”
“Brioche,” she corrected absently. “Yes, there are.”
Rob disappeared and she looked down at the table again. She’d bottled the leftover Reine Claude jam, and now she lifted one of the smaller jars, weighed it in her hand.
Perhaps she could give the stranger who had a special interest in Goldfern the jam that brought him to tears.
She quickly went through to her rooms and pulled on the chef’s hat Georges had given her, covering her hair entirely, and swapped her apron for a new one.
Now she looked like a cook. Not the daughter of a famous, knighted scholar.
She stepped back into the kitchen and stood at the bottom of the stairs to the hallway, listening for any sound of Lord Aldridge’s guest leaving.
She didn’t have to wait long.
The low murmur of male voices floated down, and she forced her suddenly shaky legs to move up the stairs.
“Excusez moi.” Aldridge and the mystery man had their backs to her, with Edgars slightly off to the side, his hand on the doorknob to open the door.
If it was the shadow man, this would be the perfect way to see his face, with Lord Aldridge and Edgars right there to help her if he should attack.
Lord Aldridge and his guest turned. The man from this morning, while a little older than Aldridge, was very striking. Not handsome, but he had a fierce, brutal beauty to him. He had suffered, this one, and clawed his way out with a will of iron.
The blue cravat she remembered from the glimpse she’d had of him just after dawn was a match for his eyes, and she wondered if a woman had chosen it for him.
There was a moment of electrified silence as both men stared at her.
She frowned, confused as to why they would seem so dumbstruck, and held the jam out to the stranger. As she did, she remembered she should probably curtsy, and dipped her knees. “Rob said mon seigneur liked my jam. Would you like a jar to take home?”
The man took the jar, but his eyes never left her. She hoped he would speak, because then she would know for sure. She hadn’t seen the shadow man’s face, but she had heard him. His voice haunted her nightmares and when he opened his mouth, she would know.
“I . . . thank you . . . Cook.” He stumbled over her title, but she didn’t care—he was not the danger she’d thought him to be, his voice of a deeper, richer timbre than the one she feared.
“Which part of France are you from?”
Relief almost made her miss the question, and she stumbled over her answer, ladling her accent as thick as the jam in his hands. “My family is from Bretagne, mon seigneur.”
“The reason I have such a fondness for this jam is because someone I knew from Brittany used to make it, years ago. Yours tastes just as I remember it. Your family is not related to Adèle Barrington, are they? You even look a little like she did. She was the Marchioness de Morlaix before she was married.”
She stared at him, the sound of the sea in her ears. Then she blinked and shook her head. “Bretagne is the home of the Reine Claude. It is traditional to make the jam if you are from there.”
There was another silence, and Gigi glanced at Lord Aldridge. He was still watching her, but the look in his eye was guarded, maybe even angry.
“Thank you, Madame Levéel.” Aldridge didn’t sound himself. His words were thick, as if they were caught in his throat.
Taking it for the dismissal it was, she gave a quick nod of goodbye, turned, and ran down the stairs, strangely hurt by the curt way he’d dispatched her, and equally grateful to no longer be under scrutiny.
There was no pleasing her, obviously.
Except she was pleased. Aldridge’s strange behavior was nothing compared to the relief she felt. The visitor wasn’t the shadow man. She could have run out of time, but she hadn’t.
Whoever he was, he’d known her mother, though. Her father, too, if he’d been around eating jam at their house.
She wondered which of her parents’ many friends he could have been.
Iris was emptying a dustpan into the ash bin as she reached the bottom, and Gigi remembered she’d gone up with the omelette before Edgars had let the stranger in.
“Who is the man with Lord Aldridge? Did you hear Edgars announcing him?” She knew she sounded a little breathless, but mention of her mother had stripped her of her calm.
“Lord Dervish, Edgars said.” Iris looked up, her strong, beautiful face smudged with ash. She looked like the Scandinavians of Norway, from good Viking stock. Perhaps her far-off ancestors had raided the coast of England and left more than just huts burned to the ground.
“Are you from the coast originally, Iris?” She couldn’t help the question, even as she sifted the name Dervish through her memories and came up with nothing.
“Aye. From Kent.” Iris straightened. “Why do you ask?”
“You look like a beautiful Viking maiden. I can see you with a raven on your shoulder, riding into battle to choose who will fall and who will be spared.”<
br />
“Eh?” Iris stared at her, holding her ash-smudged hands away from her white apron.
“The Valkyries. From Norse legend. They rode horses into battle, and chose who was to fall and die.”
“Not sure I’d like to have that sort o’ responsibility.” Iris turned and rinsed her hands at the sink. But she seemed pleased, as if the story appealed to her, gave her a new view of herself.
Above them came the sound of the front door being closed, and Gigi thought of the letters in her father’s chest. The letters of a man who signed himself D.
Dervish?
If he was involved in the secret business her father sometimes undertook, her father wouldn’t have mentioned him. He’d been fearful of telling her anything that might endanger her if she was questioned. So she never had any names, any idea what the documents said or why they were taking them. She’d trusted her father that it was better that way, but now it left her running blind.
It would be useful to know where Lord Dervish lived. If he was the mysterious D., she could give the document to him.
“Iris, I need something for this evening’s meal. I’ll just step out to see if I can get it.” She was already walking into her rooms as she spoke, ripping the chef’s cap off her head, throwing the apron over a chair and pulling her hat and cloak from the peg.
“You don’t want me or Babs to go, Cook?” Iris asked, a little hopefully.
“Non. I need to find it myself.” She ran up the stairs, slipped out into the alley, and raced down to Chapel Street. There was no one to the left, in the direction of Goldfern, but when she looked right, she saw Dervish just turning right onto South Audley.
Holding her skirts to one side, she ran, following him as he turned left onto Farm and then right onto John Street, keeping well back.
John Street was narrow, an exclusive enclave very close to Berkeley Square, and she watched as Dervish climbed the stairs of a thin, smart town house and tried the door. His own house, then. He was juggling the jam and the knocker when the door opened and he stepped inside.
Banquet of Lies Page 7
