by Anne Mallory
Gabriel Noble stretched out a hand to her. She took it.
Chapter 9
He stared challengingly at her across the table a week later.
“I don’t trust you with it,” she said.
“I’m hurt. Really, you don’t think I can do this simple task after all we’ve done together. After all of the places I’ve opened that you thought could never be unlocked?”
They had spent another week visiting Clerkenwell and the surrounding areas. Questioning people. Calling in favors. Making another visit to Cold Bath and Kenny.
Her brother had looked even worse than before, despair turning down his eyes and sagging his jaw.
Casenton, Alcroft’s contact and favor, had come through and the trial had been delayed two weeks. They had one week remaining. Time was dwindling.
“Gaining us access to Cold Bath is one thing,” she said. “This is something entirely different.”
She was pleased to see the amusement in his eyes. He hadn’t been nearly so jovial earlier when they’d run into Arthur Dresden, the Runner, again. “How do you think I get by without servants, Marietta?”
“Well, Gabriel.” It seemed silly to keep calling him Noble after having her lips locked to his for most of the previous nights this week when they were out and in costume. “I think you get by because your dear Clarisse and Mrs. Rosaire organize things so that you can.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is.”
He leaned back in his chair and smiled lazily. “Would you like to make a bet, then?”
The challenge was too good. And she desperately needed to continue the lighthearted banter after their trying day. After seeing Kenny looking so poorly. “Yes, I suddenly find myself curious to see what you can burn over the fire.”
“Burn? I see.”
“Come now,” she scoffed. “You eat terribly. I’ve seen you ingest pints of tea and that awful coffee you enjoy instead of having a full, hearty meal. If it weren’t for Mrs. Rosaire’s soups and stews, delicious as they are, I think you might have withered away to a coffee bean by now.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” She nodded emphatically. “Perhaps I should start cooking regular meals.”
“My manly heart is enraptured.”
“You need to keep up your strength if you are to serve me.”
Gabriel’s chair legs smacked the kitchen floor. He leaned forward, nearly touching her. “If you needed me to serve you, Marietta, you should have just said so.”
Her cheeks flamed under his intense stare, his one-sided grin. “Serve Kenny.”
“Well, that I am most unwilling to do. It’s you or no one.” He tipped the chair back again.
She snorted. “I highly doubt that.”
“I am in demand, it is true.”
His tone was nonchalant. She wondered about him once more. He used the female attention whenever he needed, but intuition told her that he didn’t like the attention. Strange. She’d met popinjays in the ton, more than one cock of the walk, a score of libertines, Corinthians and dandies, and all of them seemed to revel in female attention. Or at the outside be arrogant concerning it. Gabriel Noble was arrogant about it, yes, but it covered something else. Something deeper.
“Then it is decided,” she said. “You will try your hand at this meal, and when that doesn’t work, I will start cooking regular meals and we can stop relying on Mrs. Rosaire for everything, though her delicious soups and stews would be nice to continue.” They were just too good. From the amount of food he partook in her presence, though, Gabriel didn’t eat enough. “And perhaps I will need to clean up after you as well.”
She really should watch her tongue. Her cooking was average at best. But Noble was just too good at most things. This was going to be amusing.
Unless he was a run of the mill cook as well. Then she would just have to outdo him at being average.
“You are allowing me to cook tonight, then? You aren’t going to bemoan my sending Mrs. Rosaire away?” There was something in his eyes as he made the last remark. Something that cautioned her to be wary. She ignored it, too high on their banter after a trying day.
“Go ahead, Noble. Give it a go.”
He unfolded himself from his chair. “What would you like to eat?”
She clasped her hands together on top of the table. “I’ll leave it to you.”
“Salmon with wine sauce?”
She blinked as he turned and walked to the sideboard. He pulled two slabs of fish from underneath and deftly tossed an onion from one hand to the other.
“Pardon?”
“Is salmon with wine sauce to your taste?”
She met his eyes and saw the glimmer there. The high was still upon her, but suddenly she wasn’t sure she was going to be celebrating his defeat after all. “Are you sure you should try something like that? I will settle for something much less.” Let it not be said that she lacked stubbornness.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, Marietta. I can’t have you settling.” He smirked and grabbed a large butcher knife, tossed it into the air, then cut and boned the fillets. He gathered vegetables and dry ingredients, laying them out across the high cooking table.
Her feet moved of their own volition when he started chopping things as if born to the knife. She stood next to him, one hand along the high table edge.
“There is a reason you don’t eat as much at the table, isn’t there?” A cook was always sampling as he went.
“There is.”
“Mrs. Rosaire doesn’t make the soup, does she?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“She does not.”
She closed her eyes at the confirmation. Of course. That was why Jeremy had almost corrected her.
“You must have taken a nice laugh at my expense.”
He looked at her out of the side of his eye, through the hanging locks. “No. It’s just something I don’t share with people.”
“But Jeremy assumed I knew.”
“Jeremy is usually away at school where he should be.”
She tilted her head to study him as he crushed the garlic clove, minced the shallots, and washed, trimmed, and quartered the mushrooms, forgoing for the moment the interesting bit of information that he didn’t share his cooking abilities with others and yet was fully doing so with her.
“You never attended school, did you? You speak as if you did. You carry yourself as a graduate of the finest when you want to. But Alcroft said something about wanting you to go to Eton.”
“I had the best teacher possible. But no, I didn’t attend Eton or Harrow or Charterhouse. Nor Oxford or Cambridge.”
“But Jeremy has.”
“Yes. And that is why he will finish.”
“Because you never had a chance to go?”
“Because he will have opportunities I never had.”
She looked around the kitchen and at his fine clothes, sleeves rolled up and baring his forearms. “You haven’t done so poorly.”
He owned a house in one of the finest addresses in the city, and if her assumption was correct, an entire street here. She hadn’t seen a single person enter or leave any of the other properties surrounding them. She had a feeling Noble owned them all. In a city where land was considered king, he had a kingdom.
He didn’t respond.
She picked up a knife and quartered the carrots, trying to make herself useful. The challenge was completely moot. If he was the one making the soups and stews—and bread—that she had been devouring every day, there was no competition. The Rockwoods’ celebrated chef wasn’t half as good.
“What do you do with the ten thousand pounds you collect from the paid cases?” she asked as she sliced another carrot.
“Slightly personal, don’t you think?” He dropped his ingredients into the pot and then picked up her carrots and dropped them in as well.
“I could go back to asking you about schooling.”
“I could ask you why you’ve never married.
”
“You could,” she said as lightly as she could manage.
“Good. Why have you never married?”
“The mart was dry during my years. Not much to choose from.” She kept her voice light. “And neither was I much of a prize.”
“Mmmm.”
“My tongue does have a rather funny way of saying things that are not particularly docile and genteel. My parents weren’t as concerned with the graces while we were growing up. When they died, we went into mourning. Things were…different when it was time to come back out.”
“Your parents spent too much time at the races.”
Her hand tightened around the knife. “And at the tables and in the gentlemanly sports wagers. How did you know?”
“I know much about you, Marietta. And your recalcitrant brothers.” He was nonchalant as he stirred the pot.
“I must make sure to delve into your past as well.”
“You can try. You might even succeed. If I’ve ever met someone as industrious as you, I’m not sure I know of it.”
She stopped fiddling with the garlic nub. “That sounds quite close to a compliment.”
“My old aunt Tilly wasn’t half as industrious, though she never found herself in dire straits.” He stirred the pot and looked at her slyly from the corner of his eye. “We called her the old battle-axe.”
Her jaw dropped. “You—You—”
He chuckled and winked at her. Her ire evaporated like the steam from the pot—coiling and disappearing into the air. When he used his wiles on her, he was tantalizing. With that purely happy look on his face he was devastating.
“You do realize that I will have my revenge?” she said calmly, though her heart was racing.
“I could hope for no less.” He flashed her a grin, and she gripped the side of the table to keep from moving closer.
“I dislike you.”
“Always a comfort to know.” He looked at the kitchen clock, a small mantel piece positioned precariously on a shelf. “Right on time for the night.”
She blinked. She supposed it was something of a nightly ritual. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint you, your highness.”
“Your majesty, if you will.”
“But of course, your majesty. Can I bring you anything?”
“A bottle and glass of red wine would be lovely.” He pointed to a cabinet.
Marietta retrieved a bottle and two glasses.
They were on to their second glass of Burgundy wine by the time Gabriel was placing the fillets in a shallow serving dish and sprinkling them with fresh parsley.
The meal was excellent. Moan inducing. The fish melted in her mouth, the sauce just the perfect balance for letting the flavor come through and hinting at something further, something deeper—teasing her to take one bite and then another.
She paused in between bites and took a sip of wine. Gabriel lifted a brow, though she read the pleasure in his eyes and it pleased her in return. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“I learned from one of the best French chefs that upper class money can buy.”
That hadn’t been what she expected him to say. “You hired a chef to teach you how to cook?”
“I thought you knew better, Marietta. I am purely merchant class, no matter my wealth.” He lifted his glass and watched her over the rim.
“Some noblewoman purchased a chef for you to learn?”
She immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say, even with a teasing tone of voice, as she watched his fingers tighten around the stem.
His smile was slow and sensual, and though it did funny things to her stomach like always, his eyes were emerald hard. “Of course. Isn’t that what would make sense, after all? Very perceptive of you, Marietta.”
And unlike his earlier teasing compliment, this one held contempt.
“I meant only to tease you.” She looked at her plate, not wanting to see the hard look and mocking, sensual smile. “I suppose it is getting more and more apparent why I am headed firmly for the shelf.” She tried to laugh, but it came out forced.
Her thought had been an easy assumption to make, what with his obvious ease in gaining favor from women and his tricks to manipulate them. But the language in his eyes—it always said differently, and she had chosen to discount it in lieu of being witty.
The silence stayed unbroken in the kitchen for twenty ticks of the mantel clock.
“I’ve always liked the kitchens.” His voice was more reserved, and she already missed the extra note of affection that he had begun to use with her. “They are warm and hidden. Owners and guests rarely enter them. A chef took me under his wing when I used to run about under foot. Put me to work.”
She bit her lip as he continued.
“It was a good place for me. I thought about becoming a chef, but events led to other things.”
“What types of other things?”
“This and that. Favors exchanged. New favors to use.” His gaze washed over her. His voice warmer. “I do believe I won our bet. Unfortunately for you, you did not specify the terms.” The look in his eyes made her butterflies move in an abstracted pattern.
“The loser cleans the dishes, of course,” she said lightly, pushing the butterflies down.
He raised a brow, heat still sparking from his eyes beneath. “I will make sure to set the terms myself next time, but this once I’ll let you off easily.”
He moved to clear the dishes and cutlery and she moved to the basin. She washed each item and stuck them into a rack to drain. He pulled a cloth out to dry and they worked in a charged but comfortable silence until she placed the last dish in the rack.
“Where are we headed tonight?” She found herself on edge in anticipation of his answer. Of what they might find. Or what they might need to do in the interim.
“One would think you enjoy the forays into the underbelly of the city.”
“Hardly the underbelly. We’ve barely stepped foot in the East End.”
“For someone like you, the East End would be farther than your worst nightmare. The areas outside of Mayfair are the underbelly for someone of your station.”
“Says the man with the enormous house in Mayfair.”
“Says the man who didn’t always have that house. You, on the other hand, are used to the genteel aspects of life.”
“I worked and went to various unsavory parts of the city to pay our bills.” She lifted her chin.
“Perhaps.” His eyes were keen. “But they were probably positions at the same level as the barristers’, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Not in the same level as the true East End.” He nudged her aside and washed a cup that he had found somewhere in the kitchen—one of his many coffee cups, to be sure—and placed it in the rack to dry. “Where did you work?”
“I sewed for a seamstress near the Strand. And did some knitting and assembly at shops nearby.”
“Industrious of you.”
She gave him a look that said how much she appreciated being called a battle-axe once again. She picked up the drying towel and his cup from the rack—the last item inside. “You didn’t answer my question. Where are we going tonight?”
“Nowhere.”
Disappointment rushed through her. “Oh.”
“Are you disappointed because we won’t be furthering your brother’s case or because you won’t get to kiss me?”
She nearly dropped the cup. She put it back in the cupboard. “Because we won’t be furthering my brother’s case. Don’t be silly.”
“You realize you can kiss me anytime.”
Her heart picked up speed. “Don’t be silly.”
He leaned against the high table. “Don’t be coy.”
“Why would you even want me to kiss you?”
“You don’t find kissing pleasurable just in and of itself?”
“Yes. No!” She was like a child’s string, tied in knots and being pulled willy-nilly.
“You have me confused. Which is it?”
“Kissing is fine. Not too wet or slimy.”
“Mmmm. Sometimes wet is excellent. Slimy, though, I’ll give you that. I’m happy that our kisses haven’t been too slimy for you.”
She tried to ignore his taunting. “But they are only for show. For getting the information we need. For helping Kenny.”
“I see. So you are only interested in kissing to help Kenny? Is that why you are so keen to go out? Because you can only kiss me if it’s in the line of furthering the case?”
“Yes. No! I just think we need more information.”
“We’ve been to the White Stag three nights this week. They are going to start thinking us regulars. And Dresden is no doubt well aware of our presence. I’m sure he has more than one informant in the pub.”
“Then we should go elsewhere.”
“We’ve been to every pub in the general vicinity of the murders. We’ve traipsed all over Middlesex. Our clues are somewhere else for the moment. Which for some reason—” He tapped her chin. “—reminds me of a conversation we had earlier today about beginning new avenues in the morning. Funny that you seem not to recall it.”
She stubbornly refused to recall a thing. “We have to have missed something.”
“Yes, you’ve missed that the only reason you want to go traipsing around tonight is so you can kiss me.”
She lifted her chin. “I do not want to kiss you.”
“Fine. Shall we leave?”
She was taken aback for a second. “Leave? Where are we going?”
“You just said we must have missed something. That we need to revisit our haunts. Let’s do that.”
“Y-Yes.” She smoothed her hair. He was wrong about all those things. She didn’t want to kiss him.
“I have something to show you before we leave, though.”
His mouth met hers before she knew what was happening. A gentle pull, a soft caress. She was surprised for a second. She didn’t want to kiss him.
She melted into his body and called herself ten kinds of fool.
This was a new type of kiss. Exploring and questioning. It wasn’t instructional, or claiming, or for show. It asked a question. She wasn’t sure of the response. So she returned the kiss in the same way. Exploring and questioning. What did he want from her? What type of game was he playing? And did she care? Or was she so caught up in playing it too that she wasn’t thinking of the future?
