Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction

by Jennifer Ashley

  I had no idea how Lady Rankin wished me to answer this information, so I said, “I assure you, my lady, I have been quite well trained.”

  “Yes.” Lady Rankin lifted the letter. The single page seemed too heavy for her, so she let it fall. “The agency sings your praises, as do your references. Well, you will find this an easy place. Charles—Lord Rankin—wishes his supper on the table when he arrives home from the City at eight. Davis will tell you his lordship’s favorite dishes. There will be three at table this evening, Lord Rankin, myself, and my . . . sister.”

  Her thin lip curled the slightest bit as she pronounced this last. I thought nothing of it at the time and only gave her another nod.

  Lady Rankin slumped back into her chair as though the speech had taken the last of her strength. She waved a limp hand at me. “Go on, then. Davis and Mrs. Bowen will explain things to you.”

  I curtsied politely and took my leave. I wondered if I shouldn’t summon Lady Rankin’s maid to assist her to bed but left the room before I did anything so presumptuous.

  The kitchen below was to my liking. It was nowhere near as modern and large as the one I’d left in Richmond, but I found it comfortable and what I was used to.

  This house was a double town house—that is, instead of having a staircase hall on one side and all the rooms on the other, it had rooms on both sides of a middle hall. Possibly two houses had been purchased and knocked into one at some time and the second staircase walled off for use by the staff.

  Below stairs, we had a large servants’ hall, which lay across a passage from the kitchen. In the servants’ hall was a long table where the staff could take meals as well as a row of bells that would ring when someone above stairs pulled a cord to summon the servant he or she wished. Along the passage from the kitchen and servants’ hall was a larder, and beyond that a laundry room, and then a room for folding clean linens, the housekeeper’s parlor, and the butler’s pantry, which included the wine cellar. Mr. Davis showed me over each, as proud as though he owned the house himself.

  The kitchen was a wide, square room with windows that gave onto the street above. Two dressers full of dishes lined the white-painted walls, and a hanging rack of gleaming copper pans dangled above the stove. A thick-legged table squatted in the middle of the floor, one long enough on which to prepare several dishes at once, with space at the end for an assistant to sit and shell peas or do whatever I needed done.

  The kitchen’s range was neatly fitted into what had been a large fireplace, the stove high enough that I wouldn’t have to stoop or kneel to cook. I’d had to kneel on hard stones at one house—where I hadn’t stayed long—and it had taken some time for my knees and back to recover.

  Here I could stand and use the hot plates that were able to accommodate five pots at once, with the fire below behind a thick metal door. The fire could be stoked without disturbing the ovens to either side of it—one oven had racks that could be moved so several things could be baked at the same time, and the other spacious oven could have air pumped though it to aid roasting.

  I was pleased with the stove, which was quite new, likely requested by the wealthy lordship who liked his meal served precisely when he arrived home. I could bake bread in one oven while roasting a large joint of meat in the other, with all my pots going above. The greatest challenge to a cook is to have every dish ready and hot at the same time so none come to the table colder than any other. To aid this, a shelf above the stove that ran the length of it could keep finished food in warmth while the rest of the meal was completed.

  Beyond the kitchen was a scullery with a door that led to the outside stairs, which ran up to the street. The sink was in the scullery so that dirty water and entrails from fish and fowl could be kept well away from the rest of my food. The larder, a long room lined with shelves and with a flagstone floor, looked well stocked, though I’d determine that for myself. From a cursory glance, I saw bags of flour, jars of barley and other grains, dried herbs hanging from the beams, spices in tinned copper jars with labels on them, and crates of vegetables and fruit pushed back against the coolest walls.

  The kitchen itself was fairly dark, as most kitchens were, despite the high windows, so we would have to burn lamps all the time, but otherwise, I was satisfied.

  The staff to run this lofty house in Mayfair wasn’t as large as I’d expect, but they seemed a diligent lot. I had an assistant, a rather pretty girl of about seventeen who seemed genial enough—she reminded me of myself at that age. Whether her assistance would be useful remained to be seen. Four footmen appeared and disappeared from the servants’ hall, as did half a dozen maids.

  Mrs. Bowen, the housekeeper, was thin and birdlike, and I did not know her. This surprised me, because when you are in service in London, you come to know those in the great houses, or at least of them. However, I’d never heard of Mrs. Bowen, which either meant she’d not been in London long or hadn’t long been a housekeeper.

  I was disturbed a bit by her very thin figure, because I preferred to work with those who enjoyed eating. Mrs. Bowen looked as though she took no more than a biscuit every day, and then only a digestive. On the other hand, I’d known a spindly man who could eat an entire platter of pork and potatoes followed by a hearty dose of steak and kidney pie and never had to loosen his clothing.

  Mr. Davis, whom I soon put down as a friendly old gossip, gave me a book with notes from the last cook on what the master preferred for his dinners. I was pleased to find the dishes uncomplicated but not so dull that any chophouse could have provided them. I could do well here.

  I carefully unpacked my knives, including a brand-new, sharp carver, took my apron from my valise, and started right in.

  The young assistant, a bit unhappy that I wanted her help immediately, was soon chatting freely with me while she measured out flour and butter for my brioche. She gave her name as Sinead.

  She pronounced it Shin-aide and gave me a hopeful look. I thought it a beautiful name, conjuring mists over the green Irish land—a place I’d never been—but this was London, and a cook’s kitchen was no place for an Irish nymph.

  “It’s quite lovely,” I said as I cut butter into the flour. “But I’m sorry, my girl, we can’t be having Sinead. People get wrong ideas. You must have a plain English name. What did the last cook call you?”

  Sinead let out a sigh, her dreams of romance dashed. “Ellen,” she said, resigned. I saw by her expression that she disliked the name immensely.

  I studied her dark brown hair, blue eyes, and pale skin in some sympathy. Again, she reminded me of myself—poised on the edge of life and believing wonderful things would happen to her. Alas, I’d found out only too soon the bitter truth. Sinead’s prettiness would likely bring her trouble, well I knew, and life was apt to dash her hopes again and again.

  “Ellen,” I repeated, trying to sound cheerful. “A nice, solid name, but not too dull. Now, then, Ellen, I’ll need eggs. Large and whole, nothing cracked.”

  Sinead gave me a long-suffering curtsy and scuttled for the larder.

  “She’s got her head in the clouds,” Mrs. Bowen said as she passed by the kitchen door. “Last cook took a strap to her.” She sounded vastly disapproving of the last cook, which made me begin to warm to Mrs. Bowen.

  “Is that why the cook was dismissed?” I already didn’t think much of this elderly cook, free with a strap, whoever she was. Sinead’s only crime, I could see so far, was having dreams.

  “No.” Mrs. Bowen’s answer was short, clipped. She ducked away before she could tell me anything more interesting.

  I continued with my bread. Brioche was a favorite of mine—a bread dough made rich with eggs and butter, subtly sweet. It was a fine accompaniment to any meal but also could be served as pudding in a pinch. A little cinnamon and stiff cream or a berry sauce poured over it was as grand as anything served in a posh hotel.

  It was as I began beating the flour and eggs into the milk and sugar that I met Lady Rankin’s sister. I heard a
loud banging and scrabbling noise from the scullery, as though someone had fallen into it down the stairs. Pans clattered to the floor, and then a personage in a black suit burst through the scullery door into the kitchen, boot heels scraping on the flagstones, and collapsed onto a chair at the kitchen table.

  I caught up my bowl of dough before it could be upset, looked at the intruder, and then looked again.

  This person wore black trousers; a waistcoat of watered silk in a dark shade of green, with a shining watch fob dangling from its pocket; a smooth frock coat and loose cravat; a long and rather dusty greatcoat; a pair of thick leather gloves; and boots that poked muddy toes from under the trousers. The low-crowned hat that went with the ensemble had been tossed onto the table.

  Above this male attire was the head and face of a woman, a rather pretty woman at that. She’d done her fair hair in a low bun at the base of her neck, slicking it straight back from a fine-boned face. The light color of her hair, her high cheekbones, and light blue, almost colorless eyes were so like Lady Rankin’s, that for a moment, I stared, dumbfounded, believing I was seeing my mistress transformed. This lady was a bit older though, with the beginnings of lines about her eyes, and a manner far more robust than Lady Rankin’s.

  “Oh Lord,” the woman announced, throwing her body back in the chair and letting her arms dangle to the floor. “I think I’ve killed someone.”

  Chapter Two

  As I stared in alarm at the young woman, she looked up at me, fixed me with a gaze that was as surprised as mine, and demanded, “Who the devil are you?”

  “I am Mrs. Holloway.” I curtsied as best I could with my hands around my dough bowl. “The new cook.”

  “New? What happened to the last one? Nasty old Mrs. Cowles. Why did they give her the boot?”

  Since I had no idea, I could not answer. “Has something happened?”

  The lady shoved the chair from the table and banged to her feet, her color rising. “Good God, yes. Where the devil is everyone? What if I’ve killed him?”

  “Killed whom?” I asked, holding on to my patience. I’d already decided that the ladies of this family were prone to drama—one played the delicate creature, the other something from a music hall stage.

  “Chap outside. I was driving a rig, a new one, and he jumped out in front of me. Come and see.”

  I looked at my dough, which could become lumpy if I left it at this stage, but the young lady was genuinely agitated, and the entirety of the staff seemed to have disappeared. I shook out my hands, wiped them with a thick towel, laid the towel over the dough bowl, and nodded at her to lead me to the scene of the problem.

  Fog shrouded the street onto which we emerged from the scullery stairs, Lady Cynthia—for that was Lady Rankin’s sister’s name—insisting we exit the house through the servants’ entrance, the way she’d come in.

  The fog did nothing to slow the carriages, carts, delivery wagons, small conveyances, and people who scurried about on whatever business took them through Mount Street, which was situated between Grosvenor Square and Berkeley Square. London was always a town on the move. Mud flew as carriage wheels and horses churned it up, droplets becoming dark rain to meld with the fog.

  Lady Cynthia led me rapidly through the traffic, ducking and dodging, moving easily in her trousers while I held my skirts out of the dirt and dung on the cobbles and hastened after her. People stared at Lady Cynthia in her odd attire, but no one pointed or said a word—those in the neighborhood were probably used to her.

  “There.” Lady Cynthia halted at the corner of Park Street, a respectable enough place, one where a cook should not be lurking, and waved her hand in a grand gesture.

  A leather-topped four-wheeled phaeton had been halted against the railings of a house on the corner. A burly man held the two horses hitched to the phaeton, trying to keep them calm. Inside the vehicle, a man slumped against the seat—whether dead or alive, I could not tell.

  “Him,” Lady Cynthia said, jabbing her finger at the figure inside the phaeton. “He popped out of nowhere and ran in front of me. Didn’t see the bloody man until he was right under the horses’ hooves.”

  I was already moving toward the phaeton, pressing myself out of the way of carts and carriages rumbling through, lest I end up as the man inside. “Did you summon a doctor?” I asked Lady Cynthia when we reached the phaeton, raising my voice to be heard over the clatter of hooves and wheels.

  “Why?” Lady Cynthia gave me a blank stare with her pale eyes. “He’s dead.”

  I opened the phaeton’s door to study the man slumped in the seat, and let out a breath of relief—he was quite alive. I’d unfortunately been witness to those brutally and suddenly killed, but one thing I’d observed about the dead was that they did not raise their heads or open eyes to stare at me in bewilderment and pain.

  The burly man holding the horses called to Lady Cynthia. “Not dead, m’lady. Just a bit bashed about.”

  “Good,” I said to him. “Send someone for a doctor, if you please. Perhaps, my lady, we should get him into the house.”

  Lady Cynthia might wear the clothes of a man, but she hesitated in the fluttery way young ladies are taught to adopt these days. Cooks, I am pleased to say, are expected to be a bit more formidable. While several passersby raced away at my command to summon a physician, I had no compunction about climbing into the phaeton and looking the fellow over myself.

  He was an ordinary person, the sort one would find driving a cart and making deliveries to Mayfair households, though I saw no van nearby, nothing to say who his employer was. He wore a plain but thick coat and a linen shirt, working trousers, and stout boots. The lack of rents or stains in his clothing told me he was well looked after, perhaps by a wife, or maybe he could afford to hire out his mending. Or perhaps he even took up a needle himself. But the point was he had enough self-respect to present a clean and neat appearance. That meant he had work and was no ruffian of the street.

  I touched his hand, finding it warm, and he groaned piteously.

  Lady Cynthia, hearing him, looked much relieved and regained some of her vigor. “Yes, inside. Excellent idea Mrs. . . . Mrs. . . .”

  “Holloway,” I reminded her.

  “Holloway. You.” She pointed a long, aristocratic finger at a sturdy youth who’d paused to take in the drama. “Help us carry him into the house. Where have you been?” She snapped at a gangly man in knee breeches and heavy boots who came running around the corner. “Take the rig to the mews. Wait until we heave this man out of it.”

  The thin man, who appeared to be a groom—indeed, he would prove to be the head groomsman for Lord Rankin’s town stables—climbed onto the box and took the reins, sending Lady Cynthia a dark look. His back quivered as he waited for youth and the burly man to help me pry the hurt man out of the phaeton.

  I looked into the youth’s face and nearly hit my head on the phaeton’s leather top. “Good heavens,” I said. “James!”

  James, a lad of about fifteen or so years with dark eyes, a round, rather handsome freckled face, and red-brown hair sticking out from under his cap, shot a grin at me. I hadn’t seen him for weeks, and only a few times since I’d taken the post in Richmond. James didn’t move much beyond the middle of London, as he made his living doing odd jobs here and there around the metropolis. I’d seen him only when I’d had cause to come into London and our paths happened to cross.

  James, with his father, Daniel, had helped me avoid much trouble at the place I’d been before Richmond, and I’d come to count the lad as a friend.

  As for his father . . .

  I could not decide these days how I regarded his father. Daniel McAdam, a jack of all trades if ever there was one, had been my friend since the day he’d begun deliveries in a household I’d worked in a year or so ago. He was charming, flirtatious, and ever ready with a joke or an encouraging word. He’d helped me in a time of great need last autumn, but then I’d learned more about Daniel than perhaps I’d wanted to. I was st
ill hurt about it, and uncertain.

  After James and the burly man worked the injured man from the carriage, I pulled myself upright on the phaeton’s step and scanned the street. I have sharp eyes, and I did not have to look far before I saw Daniel.

  He was just ducking around a corner up Park Street, glancing behind him as though expecting me to be seeking him. He wore the brown homespun suit he donned when making deliveries to kitchens all over Mayfair and north of Oxford Street and the shapeless gloves that hid his strong hands. I recognized his sharp face, the blue eyes over a well-formed nose, the dark hair he never could tame under his cloth cap.

  He saw me. Did he look abashed? No, indeed. Mr. McAdam only sent me a merry look, touched his cap in salute, and disappeared.

  I did not know all Daniel McAdam’s secrets, and I knew he had many. He’d helped me when none other would, it was true, but at the same time he’d angered and confused me. I was grateful and could admire his resolve, but I refused to let myself fall under his spell. I had even allowed him to kiss me on the lips once or twice, but that had been as far as that went.

  “Drat the man,” I said.

  “Ma’am?” the groom asked over his shoulder.

  “Never mind.” I hopped to the ground, the cobbles hard under my shoes. “When you’re done in the stables, come ’round to the kitchen for a strong cup of tea. I have the inkling we will all need one.”

  End of Excerpt

  Read more about Kat Holloway and the books at the series website:

  http://www.katholloway.com

  Also by Jennifer Ashley

  Historical Romances

  The Mackenzies Series

  The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie

  Lady Isabella’s Scandalous Marriage

  The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

  The Duke’s Perfect Wife