Banquet of Lies

by Michelle Diener

  He jerked back his head and her eyes widened, all trace of desire gone.

  There were footsteps on the stairs, and in a smooth motion Jonathan spun from her, moved behind his desk, and sat down.

  It was the only way he could hope to hide his arousal.

  Madame Levéel turned at the same time, facing him with her back to the door, and took two steps away, putting more distance between them than just the desk.

  “Of course I can make you coffee, my lord,” she said, and there was a stain of red across her cheeks. “And some galette, as well, perhaps? A light meal to hold you until le dîner?” Her accent was as thick as the sweet cream he’d smelled downstairs, and for the first time, he realized she could lay it on heavy or light, as she pleased. Or perhaps, a voice whispered in his head, as she remembered.

  “Thank you, Cook, that would be very nice.” He spoke just as Edgars stepped through the door, eyes narrowed at the sight of them.

  He saw the way she took a surreptitious breath and blanked her face of all emotion before she turned. “Mr. Edgars.” She inclined her head and stepped toward him, and he was forced to move out of her way.

  Jonathan watched her swing out into the hall and then heard her light tread as she retreated to her domain. Without having to explain herself, damn it.

  Explain what she was doing, rifling through his desk.

  If he hadn’t had to touch her, kiss her; if he’d demanded answers right away. . . . Ah, well. It had probably been worth it.

  He surprised himself by grinning. “I’m afraid I’d forgotten it was the staff’s half day, Edgars. I was lucky Madame Levéel was in to answer when I rang.”

  Jonathan watched Edgars try to keep his face from revealing what he thought of that. He truly had forgotten it was the staff’s half day, but otherwise, this was a day for lies. “Please tell Cook just the coffee will be fine. I’ve got another appointment today.”

  “Certainly, my lord.” Edgars turned to go, but not before Jonathan saw the flare of disapproval in his eyes.

  And what could he say? This time, Edgars had him bang to rights.

  21

  No one had ever touched her like he did. She knew Lord Aldridge would never have taken hold of the daughter of Sir Eric Barrington and kissed her. Either last night or just now. But because she was his employee and cook, it seemed he had no compunction.

  She needed time to work out whether that was a good or a bad thing.

  Trying to hide her trembling, she pulled the crème brûlée from the oven, grateful to have something to do straightaway. Her hands shook as she set it down, and she moved on to the coffee, turning the grinder with quick, sharp bursts while she listened to Babs and Harry joking with each other.

  Everyone was in high spirits after their morning off, and she was grateful for the laughing and teasing around her, the swirl of movement as everyone shed their coats and hats and pulled on their uniforms. It hid her confusion and fear.

  Edgars came back down the stairs, and things got a little less rowdy.

  “His lordship says not to worry about the ga . . .” He trailed off with a sudden fury on his face, and Gigi wondered if it was because he couldn’t remember what she’d offered Aldridge, or because she’d offered it to begin with.

  “The galette?” she asked.

  “Yes.” The word snapped like the click of a castanet. “Just the coffee will be fine. He has to go out again.”

  She gave a nod and tapped the last of the ground coffee into a canister.

  “How long has his lordship been home?” Edgars’ voice was strange, almost strangled.

  She lifted her head in surprise. He was walking on very shaky ground. Aldridge had warned him last night to keep quiet about his suspicions, and by the croak in his voice, he knew he was crossing a line. He had found them fully clothed and six feet apart.

  This line of questioning was a fishing expedition. One she sorely resented. “About ten or fifteen minutes, I suppose.” She gave a careless shrug designed to irritate him.

  “You can’t worry about that,” Iris spoke up, standing close to the fire and warming her hands.

  “Worry?” Edgars jerked his head her way.

  “If he comes home early on our day off. He’s forgotten before, but he’s not the type to be out of sorts when he realizes we aren’t in. And Cook was here to answer the bell.”

  “Did he complain?” Gigi asked Edgars as she poured hot water over the coffee. She watched him with her most guileless expression. “He was unhappy that it was just me in the house?”

  “No.”

  Everyone swung their gaze to him at his tone, and he cleared his throat.

  “Well, then.” She shrugged again, Gallic to the bone. “It is none of our concern when he comes home, whether it is the staff’s half day or not.”

  Edgars flushed, which had the strange effect of steadying her. Pitting her will against his brought out a side to her she’d never known existed before. She almost enjoyed the game they were locked in, and she was able to place the coffee cup and saucer on a tray with a steady hand.

  “I’ll take it.” Rob lifted it carefully and made for the stairs. As if that were the signal, the others all disappeared to do their jobs, leaving Edgars and Gigi alone.

  She watched him force himself not to watch Iris as she looped her apron over her head and walked toward the stairs. Despite herself, she felt a tug of pity.

  She could sympathize with him—wanting Iris but not sure she would have him.

  Would Aldridge want her like he seemed to do in the study if he knew who she really was? If he knew how she had tricked him and used his house for her own convenience?

  She had been brought up with impeccable manners, and she knew she was putting herself beyond the pale with her actions.

  Aldridge might find the notion of dallying with his cook enticing, but dallying with his neighbor and social equal was probably not on his list. It came with far too many complications.

  She blushed suddenly and, to cover it, crouched down beside the oven and opened it a little, let the heat fan her cheeks. It was still a little too hot to slow roast the lamb.

  As she stood, she smoothed a hand over her skirts. Aldridge’s kiss had woken something in her, something that had already been stirred to life by last night’s brief encounter, and the notion of an imaginary garden tryst.

  The thought made her still, and she looked over at Edgars, who had taken up a glass to polish.

  Had he given Aldridge the idea that she would be an easy lover? A woman at home with rolling about with men and coming home covered in grass stains?

  He hadn’t seen much of her since she’d started working in his house, and now that she thought of it, his actions last night and in his study had been bold. Overly bold.

  Unless that was what a man did when he caught a servant rifling through his private things?

  She had been lucky to escape his study without having to explain herself, and now she counted herself lucky to get out of his grasp before she made even more of a fool of herself than she had already.

  If the shadow man didn’t kill her, this would eventually be over. And as neighbors, she and Lord Aldridge were bound to meet.

  When that happened, everything that occurred between them now would be seen in a very different light.

  She busied herself with peeling the potatoes for a gratin.

  Though she wanted this deadly game of hide-and-seek to be over, meeting Aldridge as Miss Giselle Barrington was something she was already dreading.

  * * *

  There was no question which of the ten people hard at work in the Duke of Wittaker’s magnificent kitchen was Georges Bisset. Jonathan spotted him immediately.

  He stood whisking something in a bowl while he watched his underlings, the movement of his hands oddly hypnotic. He was tall and broad shouldered, with a barrel chest and a face that was cherub-round, topped with dark hair threaded with silver.

  He murmured something to a woman i
n an apron, and she gave a grave nod and moved off, her demeanor serious. Everyone looked serious, come to think of it.

  Bisset ran a very focused kitchen.

  He’d planned to let Wittaker know he wanted to speak with his chef but on the way over had decided that this was personal business, and therefore none of Wittaker’s concern.

  If Wittaker ever heard of this visit, Jonathan hoped the duke took the same view, because he’d been known to call a fellow out over the slightest trifle. While he wasn’t afraid to face Wittaker with pistols at dawn, he’d prefer to avoid it. Besides, Jonathan had to see him occasionally at the House of Lords.

  He stepped fully into the room, and Bisset looked up from his whisking and frowned. He handed his bowl to someone else and walked toward him, and something in his stride and attitude brought to mind a charging brigade.

  “Qui?” Bisset sized him up, and there was a tension about him.

  “Monsieur Bisset?” There was no doubt, but he asked anyway for politeness’s sake. “I am here about Madame Levéel.”

  The tension Jonathan sensed before seemed to ratchet up another notch. “What about Madame Levéel?” His eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “Lord Aldridge.” He bowed slightly, keeping things polite and respectful from his side. There was no question Bisset knew Madame Levéel well; his reaction was too strong. “I would like to talk to you about her, if I may?”

  “If you have a complaint about her, you don’t deserve her.” The Frenchman spoke with a sneer. “I would have her here in my kitchen in a flash. It was a sacrifice to send her to you.”

  He meant it, Jonathan realized. “Why did you send her to me?”

  Bisset didn’t answer, and his shoulders rose, tense and ready. Every instinct Jonathan had honed from ten years in the military went on alert.

  “What is it about Madame Levéel that brings you to my kitchen?”

  “She is afraid.” He’d thought to dance around the issue, maybe not raise it at all, but Bisset’s attitude made that impossible. “I think she’s in fear of her life, and I have a feeling she is being coerced into spying on me.”

  Bisset’s jaw dropped in surprise, and there was no question the emotion was genuine. “Spying on you?” He frowned; then a look came over his face that was part derision, part disgust. “I would imagine you think it is all about you, n’est-ce pas? It must be about you, because you are an important lord. But my petit chou is no spy, and I can assure you, the reason she is afraid, the troubles she may have, they are nothing to do with you, Lord Aldridge. Nothing at all. If you don’t want my treasure, you can send her back to me right away.” Two slaps of the back of his hand into his palm as he said the last two words punctuated his sudden fury. “You have taken enough of my time now, go away.” He flicked his hands at Jonathan as if shooing off a chicken.

  “I want to help her.” Jonathan curled his hands into fists at his side. “Tell me how I can help her.”

  Half turned away, Bisset stopped. Turned slowly back to face Jonathan. “I have lived in England for twenty years, since I escaped the mobs of France with my employers, and it has been my experience that no English nobleman ever cared to help his staff over much. So I have to ask myself, why are you here? And what do you really want?”

  There must have been something on his face, some memory of the feel of the curve of her waist under his hand, the soft touch of her lips, that he was helpless to hide, because Bisset took a threatening step forward.

  “Mon Dieu, you want her! If you have touched a hair on ma petite’s head, I will be using your testicles in a new recipe.”

  Jonathan had had enough of people telling him what he could do when it came to Madame Levéel. “Someone cornered her in an alley two nights ago. They threatened her. Last night she went uninvited to a ball, and this morning, I caught her going through the papers in my study. There is something going on, Bisset, and the question you should ask yourself is would you prefer the Alien Office to be looking into it, or me?”

  “The Alien Office?” Bisset spoke carefully, as if Jonathan had gone mad and he didn’t want to set him off. “You think . . .” He started to laugh, a real, deep laugh from the belly. “Call in your Alien Office, you imbécile, but before you do, I will be coming to fetch ma petite and bring her back to me. What was I thinking, sending her to some lecherous lord? C’est stupide!”

  His face hardened. “Now get out of my kitchen.” He picked up a knife and held it like an extension of his hand. “And believe me, I meant every word about using your testicles for a pâté.”

  Jonathan wanted to hit that contemptuous face so badly he shook with the desire. But this man was something to Madame Levéel. Her father, perhaps, or some other relative. He was in his fifties at least, and far too old to be her lover, and Jonathan was sure that if they were romantically involved, the Frenchman would never have sent her to work away from him.

  So if he struck the man, and somehow the impossible happened, and Madame Levéel became his, he knew it would count against him. Very much against him.

  He lowered the fist he didn’t recall raising and clasped his hands behind his back, as if nothing of the sort had happened. “If you change your mind and care to let me help, please don’t hesitate to send round a note.” He kept his voice so smooth, he was impressed with himself.

  Something flashed in the Frenchman’s eyes, or it might have been the light reflecting off the massive blade in his hand.

  “Good day to you.” Jonathan gave another bow and stalked out the kitchen as if he didn’t feel the sharp cut of Bisset’s stare all the way to the door.

  22

  Edgars fidgeted at the table, the accounts ledger in front of him.

  In the last hour he had managed to annoy everyone who’d come through the kitchen, interfering in their work where he usually had the good sense to let them get on with it.

  Gigi wished she could leave in angry silence, like Babs and Harry just had, but she was stuck in his company as she poured the egg custard over the thinly sliced potatoes of her gratin.

  “Cook, what is this?” He pointed accusingly at the open page.

  Gigi lifted her gratin dish and put it in the oven before leaning over him to look.

  “Comté.”

  “And what is that?” His hands tightened around the ledger, and his knuckles went white.

  “It is a type of French cheese,” she said gently. Edgars was far too tightly wound.

  “In future, please make sure there is an English explanation beside your entries.”

  “D’accord.” She gave a nod. “Of course. I apologize.”

  He blinked, and she wondered if she was too hard on him, since he was that surprised by a simple apology.

  Iris came down the rear stairs and, like a pointer scenting a bird in the rushes, Edgars became riveted to her. He hung on to the ledger like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

  This was why he’d sat in her kitchen and subjected her to his ill temper and nerves all afternoon. A chance to speak to Iris!

  And then he ruined it.

  “Iris, do you need any help in the bedrooms?” he asked, quick and nervous, almost snapping, the moment she stepped into the room.

  She looked over at him in surprise, tipping the ash from Lord Aldridge’s bedroom grate into the ash bin. “Since when have I ever?” There was a thread of indignation in her tone.

  “I’m simply asking.” He made the crucial mistake of going cold.

  A smile and a bit of humor would have undone the damage, but Edgars seemed to have a knack for making things hard on himself.

  “Well, the answer is no.” Iris sniffed. “Thank you.”

  Rob shouldered open the kitchen door and came in with a tray of eggs from the deliveryman. As he kicked the door closed with the back of his heel, Iris caught his eye and they shared a look.

  Edgars went stiff, then stood with a scrape of his chair and walked into the wine cellar without a word.

&nbs
p; With another sniff, Iris went up the service stairs, coal bucket under her arm.

  Gigi shook her head. His Edginess was an idiot.

  Rob set the eggs down carefully on the shelf and came to stand beside her at the table. She handed him a brioche left over from breakfast, smothered in Reine Claude jam. He took a bite and groaned in appreciation, then cast a quick look at the wine cellar.

  “I reckon the nob you gave this jam to t’other day ran off to find some more.” His tone was teasing, an attempt to lighten the mood.

  “Ran off?” She regretted she wasn’t able to keep her voice as light. Perhaps she had more in common with Edgars than she thought.

  “Yeah.” Rob took another bite. “Went round to his place this morning to drop off a note for his lordship. Maid at the back, she told me he ain’t even there. Took off for foreign parts day before yesterday. Unexpected, like.”

  The world seemed to whirl around her for a moment. She’d pinned all her hopes on Dervish. Had risked everything the other night to drop off her note. “The same day he was here for breakfast?”

  “Yeah, just after lunchtime, th’ maid said. Fancy just deciding to go off like that, without any preparation? Had ’em all running round like a flock of hens, packing his things an’ all. Came back from his office when the carriage was packed, hopped on and waved ’em goodbye.”

  Dervish hadn’t even been there when she’d delivered her note. If she’d known, she never would have gone into Aldridge’s study. Would never have been caught.

  A cold chill washed over her.

  There was nothing that led back to Aldridge House in the note she’d left behind the loose brick at Goldfern for Dervish, but if the shadow man found it on one of his midnight forays over the wall, he would know for sure she was in London.

  Dervish wouldn’t be coming for it, so she’d better get it back. “Did Lord Dervish’s maid say where he was going?”

  “Aye. Sweden.” Rob laughed. “Not sure I even know exactly where that is.”