Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  Only Rye had been saddled with a knighthood, but for each man, peacetime posed a special kind of problem.

  “The way I see it,” Powell said, “Benny is still one of your lads. You put the situation to her same as you would any difficult mission. There’s an objective, terrain, enemy lookouts, the usual hazards. What is the objective, by the way?”

  To keep the girl safe. The objective was always to keep the rank and file safe from avoidable perils. “That’s part of the challenge. Benny has some say in what the objective is, doesn’t she?”

  “Nothing for it,” MacKay said, leaning past Powell to appropriate a sip from Rye’s glass. “You must talk to the girl. Have a straight-up, man-to-man, er… well, an honest talk with her.”

  “Good luck.” Powell’s words held not a hint of teasing.

  “You two have been no help whatsoever,” Rye replied, getting to tired feet. “I believe I’ll frolic in the rain rather than waste any more of my time here.” The temptation to fall asleep in the exquisitely comfortable chairs by the roaring fire in the company of good friends was nigh overwhelming.

  But Rye avoided leaving the children without an adult in the house overnight, and MacKay was right: An honest conversation with Benny was unavoidable.

  “You’ve made out your will, right?” Powell said as Rye stretched in the fire’s heat. “I get the horses.”

  “MacKay gets Scipio, you get Agricola, but you have to agree to take some of the lads too.”

  “I’ll send them to my sisters,” Powell said. “Look how well I turned out, after all.”

  MacKay didn’t dignify that with a riposte.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Rye said, “for a pleasant meal.”

  “Let us know how it goes.” MacKay saluted with Rye’s drink. “Women are complicated, and they develop that quality earlier in life than is convenient, to my way of thinking.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” On that statement of lowering fact, Rye left his friends to their brandy. They were conversing softly in what passed for their common language as he closed the door to the reading room.

  Did he and Benny still have a common language? He pondered that question all the way home, but still had no satisfactory answer when he summoned her for an audience in the morning.

  * * *

  The pain had eased, as Miss Ann had said it would. The awkwardness of facing the colonel was growing by the moment.

  Benny stood at attention before the great desk, while Colonel Goddard flicked beads on an abacus before her. They were never to call their commanding officer Sir Orion, though he’d been knighted along with hundreds of other brave soldiers.

  Once upon a time, Benny had wanted to be a knight.

  “So how did you make Miss Pearson’s acquaintance?” the colonel asked, putting down his pencil.

  “You had us watching the marchioness last spring, and I… the scents from the Coventry’s kitchen are ever so lovely. I took to biding in the maple tree in the garden there, and Miss Ann smelled me.”

  The colonel regarded her with that slightly raised eyebrow the boys dreaded. He wore his eye patch today, doubtless to hide the scars, but all that patch did was make him look more fierce.

  “Gracious, child, is bathing really all that distasteful?”

  Benny shook her head.

  “Ah,” the colonel said, coming around the desk and propping a hip on one corner. “You wore camouflage. Soot on the cheeks, dirt on your elbows. Clever of you.”

  Benny flicked a confused gaze at him. “I deceived you, sir.”

  “Have a seat.”

  Benny would rather have leaped out the window, but Miss Ann had said the business would result in others viewing Benny differently. The colonel had never invited Benny to have a seat before, for example. The business was awkward, but also grown up. That wasn’t all bad, was it?

  Benny sank into a chair and nearly did bolt out the window when the colonel took the chair beside hers.

  “I never did inquire whether you were a boy or a girl, did I?” he mused. “You did not deceive me, so much as I deceived myself. Do the boys know?”

  This conversation was extraordinary because it was a conversation, a discussion rather than an interrogation or handing down of orders.

  “I ’spect Otter does. He kept mum, though.”

  “Otter excels at keeping mum. How are you feeling?”

  Benny had the oddest sense the colonel was stalling. “Fidgety. Miss Ann said there’s no reason to give my courses more than a passing thought, and soon I will pay no more attention to them than I do a monthly bout of hay fever. I do not care for the bellyache part.”

  “What lady would? But that’s the problem, Benny, you are a lady, a female, and this is a bachelor household. You cannot continue to bide here unless I find a housekeeper to live in, and even then…”

  Benny nodded. She’d had two good years with the colonel. Plenty to eat, a safe place to sleep. A roaring hearth in winter, books to puzzle over, and mates, even if the boys weren’t exactly her friends. She had learned to read properly, made a start on French—she could speak it passably already—and learned some ciphering.

  “I’ll go, sir. I can apply to the agencies for a maid’s post, and I’m a hard worker.”

  A silence stretched, and the ache in Benny’s throat eclipsed yesterday’s tearing pain in her vitals. She had hoped for the impossible and put off the inevitable as long as she could.

  “Who are your people, Benny? You speak well enough when you want to, and you’re taller than the average urchin. You were given a name worthy of a preacher’s daughter, and—”

  “I won’t go back there. I’ll pike off, in truth, sir, and not even the lads will be able to find me. I have me wages.” Ire made Benny less careful with her diction, but especially now, she must not return to the place she’d once called home.

  “Benny, I forbid you to take to the stews. You can still impersonate a boy for some time, but boys on the streets aren’t much safer than girls. Eventually, somebody will uncover the truth of your situation.”

  The colonel’s order came as pathetic relief, for Benny would never disobey a direct command. “I don’t want to go, sir. This is me home.”

  “All children leave home eventually, Benny, though if it were up to me, I’m not ready to part with you either. Is there a profession you’d like to pursue? A trade or calling?”

  “I want to read better. Miss Ann shows me words when we sit in the garden together. And she knows French and German and Eye-talian. I sometimes help out at the Coventry when my chores are done here.”

  The colonel shook the abacus so all the beads slid to one side. “The Coventry is a glorified gaming hell, Benny. Not a place I’d like to see you employed.”

  “Meaning no disrespect, but it’s a supper club, sir, and the dishes Miss Ann makes… She says spices are the secret, but she knows about more than spices. She gave me a crepe once, with cream and blueberries… all hot and buttery. I dream about the crepe.”

  “You smile when you describe it.”

  Was smiling a bad thing? The colonel never smiled, and he certainly wasn’t smiling now, so perhaps it was. “You’d smile, too, sir, if ever you did eat one of Miss Ann’s crepes.”

  “I daresay I would. We should move you out of the dormitory, Benny.”

  “Then they’ll all know.”

  “A lady is entitled to some privacy.”

  “I ain’t… I am not a lady.”

  The colonel rose, and because he’d not given Benny leave to stand, she remained in her chair, and that made the colonel very tall indeed. Benny had never been afraid of the colonel, but she respected him rather a lot.

  “That’s the thing, young Benevolence Hannah,” colonel said, resuming his perch against the desk. “You are a lady, maybe not in the sense of a fancy lord’s daughter is, but in the sense that you are owed respect and protection. You are a lady, and you must never forget that.”

  Benny had deceived this man for years,
and she would not deceive him now. “Me mam weren’t a lady.”

  “She is deceased?”

  “Dunno. Don’t care.” Had stopped caring the moment Mama had kissed Benny’s cheek, told her to be good for Madame, and stepped into her fancy lord’s coach.

  “My father nearly died a bankrupt, Benny. Only my sister’s timely marriage cleared my family’s debts and let me buy my colors. Papa could well have expired in debtors’ prison, in which case I would have been making my way on the streets as you did. You are not your mother, and the great lot of people who matter in this life won’t know or care about your origins.”

  Benny wasn’t sure what that speech was about, but the idea that the colonel could have ended up on the streets fascinated her.

  “Miss Ann said I wasn’t to worry. That you wouldn’t toss me out.”

  “But you did worry, and I’m sorry for that. Miss Ann will call here later this week, and she might have some ideas where you’re concerned. You cannot sleep in the dormitory again, Benny. Wouldn’t be decent.”

  “I’ll sleep in the stable, sir. Otter’s farts are prodigious ripe. He favors the cabbage, he does. Eats it on purpose and then abuses us all night with the stink.”

  “Boys can be awful,” the colonel said, gaze on the abacus. “You mustn’t tell them I said that, and you will not sleep in the stable. I’ve asked the housekeeper if you can bide with her and her daughter at night if we can’t find some other arrangement for you.”

  Mrs. Murphy was a good soul. She did not care for mud, and she was always blessing everybody’s heart, but she laughed a lot and never begrudged a boy—a child—a slice of buttered bread.

  Benny stood. “I’m not to be tossed out, then?”

  “Never. You belong with us, Benny. You might take a position as a cook’s apprentice if Miss Ann can find you one, you might go to work for a baker or as an under-nurserymaid, but we are your family, and you will always have a home with us.”

  “I’ll have to start wearing girl clothes.” This, along with regular applications of soap and water, was not an entirely unwelcome prospect.

  “We all don the uniform of the regiment we’re assigned to, Benny. You will face many adjustments, but you’ve already shown me that you are resilient, clever, and determined. Think of Miss Ann’s crepes, and do what you must to learn how to make them for yourself.”

  “Make crepes, sir?” That possibility intrigued as a wildest dream intrigued. “You think I could?”

  “In time, if you apply yourself, but I cannot speak for Miss Ann’s willingness to teach you. Mrs. Murphy will take you ’round the shops this morning and find you some appropriate clothing, but, Benny, how does this situation sit with the boys?”

  “Ask Otter. He mighta told ’em all without lettin’ on. I should do my chores now, sir.”

  In the stable, Benny could rejoice in the knowledge that she wasn’t to be cast back into the streets. In the stable, she could be relieved and happy and tell the horses and cats her good fortune.

  “Do your chores today, but we’ll have to reconsider assignments once you start wearing skirts. Mrs. Murphy can doubtless use more help in the kitchen for the nonce.”

  “I still want to rake the barn aisle morning and night, sir.”

  “You want to feed the damned cats.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The colonel pushed to his feet, his countenance going quite stern. “You may be excused, but, Benny, I meant what I said.”

  “Sir?”

  “This is your home, we are your regiment. If you take a mad fit and commit regicide, the first place you turn for help is here. If you gamble away the crown jewels, you come here to lament your folly. Do we have an understanding?”

  Not exactly. Benny wasn’t sure what committing regi-whatever meant, but she grasped that the colonel was saying something man-fashion that had to do with belonging and safety.

  With caring.

  She darted across the room before her courage deserted her, seized the colonel in a hug, which was like hugging one of the oak beams that held up the barn roof, and then scampered for the door. She wasn’t to be sent away, and someday, she might learn to make blueberry crepes.

  As she pulled the door closed behind her, Benny made a mental note to ask Miss Ann what resilient meant. The colonel had said the word as if it were a good thing, so Benny wanted to know what it signified.

  * * *

  “Six courses,” Ann said, quite firmly. “The traditional progression plus cordials after the dessert.”

  “No extra removes?” Aunt Melisande asked. “At Helene Craighead’s last formal dinner, she had extra removes and another cold dish after the entrées. People talked about her extravagance for a week.”

  “You want them talking about the menu,” Ann replied. “The exquisite pairing of the wines and course selections, the beautiful presentation, the faultless service, and the gracious conversation. Guests stop tasting what you put in front of them when the menu is too lavish.”

  A truth too many hostesses never grasped.

  “You are certain?” Aunt set aside the menu Ann had spent hours researching and testing. “The brigadier gives me great latitude with my entertainments. He expects food worthy of our standing.”

  When had a lot of retired generals and their wives and daughters become more finicky than a pack of dowager duchesses?

  “I am absolutely certain, Aunt. You could feed your guests buttered bread and mulled cider, and if you made them feel welcome, provided interesting conversation, and sent them away full, they’d enjoy the evening.”

  “You have little grasp of polite society if you believe that.”

  When Aunt frowned, she conjured up both the spoiled young woman she’d been prior to marrying Uncle and the settled matron she was becoming. She was still beautiful—a wife nearly twenty years younger than her husband was well advised to remain beautiful as long as she could—but Melisande was perpetually discontent, and that showed.

  “I feed polite society every evening, Aunt. I see what disappears from the buffet a quarter hour after it’s served, what remains unfinished at the end of the evening. I know which dishes are all clever presentation—popular the first time we set it out, not of much interest thereafter—and which are constant favorites. At the Coventry, I can experiment without anybody the wiser, and I take advantage of that privilege.”

  Aunt poured herself another cup of tea, a stout black that had beery notes on the tongue. “You should not be working in that place, Ann. If anybody learned that my niece…. Suffice it to say, the brigadier is not happy with the situation either.”

  Ann had been hearing this refrain for three years. “I am well compensated for my time. I get to cook to my heart’s content, and I am learning much.” A small falsehood. Jules had stopped presenting new recipes less than a year after he’d taken over as chef. “Have you had a chance to pass my menu suggestions to Mrs. Bainbridge?”

  “Yesterday. She was intrigued. An apple cider glaze for scallops would certainly be novel.”

  The glaze was delicious. “That recipe is also simple to prepare, which matters, and can be made with ingredients common to any country kitchen.” Honey, dark vinegar, pepper, spinach, bacon… nothing fancy, though the results were impressive.

  Impressive mattered to a London hostess more than flavorful, nutritious, or cheap to prepare, while for Ann, expense would always be a consideration.

  The Pearsons were gentry, but Grandpapa had been wealthy enough to afford London seasons for his daughters. Mama had married a solicitor, and there had been ample funds to send Ann to various schools and academies, each more pretentious than the last. She had run away for the final time at age fourteen, and by then, Mama and Papa had succumbed to influenza, Grandpapa had been ailing, and Aunt had been following the drum in Spain as the dutiful wife of the brigadier.

  Ann tried a bite of shortbread and wished she hadn’t. “You can tell Mrs. Bainbridge I am available to discuss the menus at her conven
ience.”

  Aunt set down her tea cup. “No, I cannot. As far as Emily Bainbridge is concerned, you bide in genteel obscurity down at the family seat in Sussex. You send me recipes by post, and that’s the extent of your culinary eccentricity.

  “You insist on disgracing your upbringing,” Melisande went on, “by laboring like some scullery maid. If that became common knowledge, Emily Bainbridge would be serving up the gossip for the next five years. You know you are welcome to bide here as my companion, and despite your age, I live in hope that your selfish flight will end in matrimony. That can’t happen unless you put aside your foolish attachment to cooking, of course, because no man wants to take in hand a headstrong, unnatural female.”

  Ann needed Melisande’s connections, needed her entrée into polite society’s dining rooms and buffets. She chose her words carefully as a result.

  “If I used my inheritance to open a school, would that be less of an embarrassment?”

  “A cooking school?” Melisande’s tone conveyed both disdain and amusement, as if cooking weren’t a necessary daily undertaking in most households. “Were you a French chef of considerable renown, then such an enterprise would be bearable, but you are not, and you never will be.”

  “French chefs can be more trouble than they’re worth. Let me know what Mrs. Bainbridge says, and please tell her I have more recipes if these won’t suit.”

  “Your mother would die a thousand deaths to know what’s become of you.”

  Your cook is cheating on the shortbread with lard. Your devoted brigadier has been seen at the Coventry with Emily Bainbridge clinging to his arm.

  “I am content, Aunt.” A trifle lonely, truth be told, and utterly sick of Monsieur’s drama in the kitchen, but happy too. That Mama might well have been mortified by Ann’s vocation barely signified.

  “You think you are content,” Melisande said, offering a plate of petits fours, “and I know what it is to be young and in thrall to silly dreams, so I turn a blind eye to your stubbornness for now. Promise me the Coventry’s guests never see you, Ann. You owe the brigadier and me, as well as your future expectations, that degree of discretion.”