Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  “Our chef isn’t about to allow the guests to see the army of minions who turn his ideas into delicious reality.” Ann managed a sip of her tea. “The Marchioness of Tavistock has consulted me for menus.”

  “She’s Mrs. Dorning now, unless somebody wants to show her undue courtesy. Her husband is your employer. Of course she consults you.”

  The marchioness did not consult Monsieur, and that drove him to sniffing and pouting as badly as if his soufflé had fallen.

  The point of the call had been achieved. Ann had made certain Mrs. Bainbridge had her menu and turned over another list of suggestions for Aunt Melisande’s upcoming officers’ dinner.

  “If your cook has questions,” Ann said, rising, “please let me know. Some of the recipes are complicated, and she should practice them before serving them to your guests.”

  “She has enough experience with your suggestions by now to know that, though I must say, the results are delicious and present well.”

  “Is that a compliment, Aunt?”

  Melisande rose gracefully, her airs still those of the regimental darling. “I do not doubt your talent, Ann, merely your good sense. You could have married a wealthy cit and put on all the lavish dinners you pleased, but you insist on squandering your good name on sculpted potatoes. I worry about you.”

  On the quiet nights, when Monsieur retired early and left the kitchen entirely in Ann’s hands, she worried too. The Coventry could be closed down with a single raid, or Monsieur could have her fired on a whim. The Dornings might sell the club, and the new owner could see the kitchen staff replaced.

  Ann’s inheritance was safely invested, but Melisande was right: The post of undercook was not a certain path to fame and acclaim.

  “You worry for nothing,” Ann said as Melisande escorted her to the front door. “I am happy, and my employers value me.”

  The hour was too early for the butler to be manning the door in anticipation of morning callers, so Melisande herself passed Ann her cloak.

  “Your mother was headstrong,” Melisande said. “Papa wanted a minor title for her, a younger son at least, even a barrister might have served, but she had to have her solicitor.”

  Aunt and Mama had been fifteen years apart in age and thus hadn’t known each other well. “Mama and Papa were devoted, as you and Uncle are.”

  Melisande’s expression turned wistful. “I was headstrong once too, Ann. Nothing good comes of women who want more than their due. I wish you would remember that. Only the brigadier’s vast patience with a younger wife saved me from making a complete cake of myself.”

  The brigadier had made a cake of himself at the faro table not a week past.

  “You don’t often speak of the early years of your marriage,” Ann said, pulling on her gloves. “Following the drum sounds patriotic and glamorous, but I imagine it was trying as well.”

  Melisande rearranged the folds of a man’s greatcoat hanging on a peg. The scents of tobacco and beeswax clung to the wool, which was excellent quality. The brigadier came from old money—old, modest money. He was a distant, if polite, uncle and, according to Aunt Meli, much respected at Horse Guards.

  “I was not suited to many aspects of being an officer’s wife,” Melisande said. “I suspect few young women are. I will see you next Wednesday, weather permitting.”

  She pulled Ann in for a hug, a surprisingly affectionate gesture, and Ann hugged her back. Melisande meant well, and maybe someday, the menus Ann passed to her would have their intended effect.

  “Where are you off to now?” Melisande asked, stepping back.

  “I must call upon Colonel Sir Orion Goddard,” Ann said. “We have a mutual project to discuss.”

  The warmth in Melisande’s eyes evaporated. “He’s a single gentleman of dubious repute, Ann. Your good name will be tarnished past all bearing if you make a habit of such company and such behavior.”

  “The colonel’s sister is married to my employer, and he has been all that is gentlemanly in my presence. I am not a brigadier’s pretty wife, Aunt. I am an undercook by choice. If the colonel wants to discuss a menu with me, I cannot receive him at the club, can I?”

  Not that he’d set foot there, and not that the colonel looked to be anything more than a beefsteak-and-ale man.

  “Be exceedingly careful,” Aunt said. “Your uncle is notably reticent on the subject of the colonel’s military record. Goddard does not merit a place at the brigadier’s military dinners.”

  “Fortunately,” Ann said, gathering up her parasol, “the war is over.” Some wars were over. “I bid you good day, Aunt, and will see you next week.”

  Ann left, relieved as always to be free from the gently relentless censure of her only living relative. Melisande was gaining a reputation as a hostess of some renown, no little thanks to Ann’s menus. Her suggestions extended to centerpieces, table linen, wine and spirits, and even the tea tray following the meal.

  Ann loved to create not merely a meal, but an occasion at supper. Aunt scolded her consistently for that ambition, and just as consistently requested Ann’s aid.

  “I should be used to her hypocrisy by now,” Ann muttered, declining to open her parasol. The sharp autumn sunshine felt good on her face, though the lingering taste of lard marred an otherwise beautiful morning. Aunt’s cook was probably selling the extra butter out the back door, as many a cook did with her employer none the wiser. Lard could lighten the texture of a piecrust, to be sure, but in shortbread it wasn’t to be borne.

  Ann turned her steps in the direction of Colonel Sir Orion’s abode, her mind consumed with two puzzles. First, Aunt was drinking more, probably gin in her morning tea. Not genteel, but a soldier’s wife brushed up against the ungenteel occasionally, and gin was a discreet drink. Most people would have been unable to detect evidence of its consumption.

  Second, if Colonel Goddard’s military record was so dubious, why had he attained the rank of colonel and then been knighted? That made no sense. None at all.

  Chapter Four

  “Benny has developed a routine,” Rye said, realizing in the same moment that he should have rung for a tea tray. Ann Pearson wasn’t a fancy lady, but Rye needed a substantial favor from her, and she was a lady of the un-fancy sort. “Forgive me, I am out of the habit of entertaining guests. Shall I ring for tea?”

  Mrs. Murphy might well be off at market, in which case Rye would look like a fool for offering courtesies he could not produce.

  “No, thank you,” Miss Pearson replied. “I have already enjoyed my morning tea. Tell me of Benny’s routine.”

  God be thanked for a woman who didn’t fuss. “Benny has taken a room upstairs—the governess’s room, I suppose. The lads helped her kit it out and scrub it down. She rises, attires herself as a boy, and joins the others for breakfast. Her day begins with chores in the stable, and when those are complete, she changes into a dress. She assists Mrs. Murphy for the balance of the day and makes another pass through the stable after supper.”

  Miss Pearson had the gift of sitting quietly. She did not fluff her skirts, twiddle her lace collar, or toy with a bracelet intended to call attention to her graceful hands. She perched on the sofa, perfectly at home in Rye’s guest parlor, which he’d asked Mrs. Murphy to dust and air in anticipation of this call.

  Rye had no use for this room whatsoever. He managed his affairs from his office and retired to his personal sitting room when he was done with the business of the day.

  “Despite this routine, Colonel, you worry for the girl.”

  Rye cast himself onto the sofa beside his guest, then realized he ought to have taken a wing chair, and then realized he ought to have asked her permission to sit.

  He rose. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to presume.” Though he was about to presume mightily. For Benny’s sake, he must.

  Miss Pearson patted the sofa cushion. “Please do join me, Colonel. I am frequently a puzzle to my betters. My speech is that of a finishing school graduate, and my anteceden
ts are genteel enough, but to the consternation of all, I delight in beating egg whites into meringue. Experimenting with spices is my guilty pleasure.”

  Rye sank into a wing chair. “I do not number among your betters.”

  “A lady refrains from arguing with a gentleman, else I should correct you, Sir Orion.”

  She looked so prim and serene in his parlor, and yet, he’d seen her scamper up a barn ladder while holding a basket. She’d known his kitchen at sight better than he knew it, and she wasn’t too proud to look in on Benny.

  “What makes you think I’m a gentleman?”

  “You care for Benny and the lads. You came at once when your sister was in peril. You labor mightily to retrieve your family holdings from the brink of ruin. You receive me here—a room recently treated to a thorough dose of beeswax and lemon oil, unlike the rest of your abode—rather than in your office.”

  Rye seized on the least bothersome observation. “You noticed the scents of beeswax and lemon oil?” He certainly hadn’t.

  Miss Pearson tapped her nose, which shaded a trifle on the bold side. “A competent cook pays attention to the senses of taste and smell.”

  Ann Pearson paid attention to much more than that. Her perspicacity was at once troublesome and reassuring. Benny would thrive under her tutelage, if Rye could persuade the woman to take on that challenge.

  “You are more than a competent cook,” he said. “You are second-in-command to one of the foremost chefs in London. That a woman holds that post is most unusual.”

  “Unusual, but neither illegal nor unheard of. Most cooks are women.”

  “I was trying to pay you a compliment, not incite a skirmish. Will you take Benny on as an apprentice? I have racked my brains for a subtle approach to that request, but subtlety has ever eluded me. Besides, you strike me as a woman inured to plain speaking.”

  Though not quite that plain. Truly, Rye had been away from polite society, and from ladies of any sort, for too long.

  Miss Pearson’s brows rose, then drew down. “You flatter me, Colonel, and Benny would doubtless make an apt pupil, but I cannot take on the responsibility for an apprentice. I haven’t the authority, and the introduction of an assistant to the undercook without prior permission from the chef would be akin to petit treason.”

  Well, damn. Protocol had been the very devil in the army. “Benny cannot stay here much longer, and she cannot be cast upon the charity of the employment agencies. As soon as her gender becomes apparent, the talk will start.”

  Miss Pearson rummaged in her reticule and produced a small tin with flowers etched on the lid. “Would you care for a pastille, Colonel? I make them myself.”

  Rye avoided sweets, but all this infernal talking had left him parched. He took two. The flavor was a smooth peppermint, refreshing without bitterness. Miss Pearson took two as well.

  “Could Benny not simply remain here as a maid-of-all-work, Colonel? This is her home, after all.”

  Precisely what Rye had told the girl, more fool he. “First, my housekeeper does not prefer to bide here overnight, but is doing so only as a temporary favor to me. She has a follower and will not be denied his company indefinitely. Second, a maid-of-all-work holds a precarious and grueling post. If Benny must labor for eighteen hours a day, then she should at least have a trade or profession to show for her efforts. Third, Benny adores your blueberry crepes.”

  Miss Pearson’s smile was unexpected and luminous. “She does?” That smile would inspire new recruits to babbling and seasoned officers to gawking and flattery. Such a smile held secrets and wishes come true and dreams brought to life.

  When Miss Pearson smiled like that, she wasn’t merely pretty, she was alluring.

  Rye crunched his mints and mentally kicked himself. “Benny is a notably reticent creature, but about your blueberry crepes, she becomes as voluble as Otter discussing the finer points of mud larking. Benny dreams of those crepes.”

  “I fed her one just as the crop was ripening—weeks and weeks ago. I was experimenting with spices. Everybody assumes blueberries should be consigned to the same old cinnamon and nutmeg routine, or perhaps—for the adventurous—a dash of lemon zest. But I thought basil deserved a try, and lavender adds unexpected complexity. It’s a pairing that makes people stop and wonder what exactly that little extra something is. Benny didn’t gobble hers up either, but rather, savored every bite. I am babbling. I do apologize, but fruit flavors want a careful touch.”

  “You are passionate about your profession.” At one time, Rye had been passionate about the profession of soldiering. Now he was passionate about his vineyards. Though, when had passion become dogged determination?

  “You have the right of it, Colonel. I am passionate about cooking. I am supposed to want nothing more than a spouse and babies, my own household, and a domestic table to set every evening. Alas, I am more interested in pièces montées and sauces.”

  Rye liked Miss Pearson’s honesty, though he saw little point in spun-sugar castles. “Wait until a spouse and babies are beyond your reach, Miss Pearson, and you might revise your assessment of their worth.”

  She glanced around the room, which had been well appointed by somebody. The wallpaper was flocked, the draperies lace, the andirons adorned with brass lions sejant.

  “Your means do not limit your marital prospects, Colonel.”

  Perhaps her honesty had its drawbacks. “My past limits my marital prospects. My former commanding officer is no longer at home when I call. I make a tidy income, God be thanked, but rumors of misconduct from my army days haunt me and limit my business prospects. Now that my sister is comfortably remarried, I am free to rehabilitate my reputation.” Perhaps then, Rye might find a woman equal to the task of turning a field command center into a home.

  Miss Pearson produced her flowered tin again. “Have another mint.”

  They were good, as mints went. Pleasant. “You can see how Benny’s situation becomes complicated.”

  Miss Pearson did not take a mint for herself. “Complicated, how?”

  “If word gets out that I house a very young female without proper chaperonage, the worst conclusions will be drawn, about Benny and about me. For my sake as well as hers, I must find another solution.” And soon. Talk spread through polite society faster than flame burned down a dry fuse.

  “Surely you exaggerate, Colonel? Benny should be beneath the notice of the gossips.”

  “Benny’s antecedents are not…” How to put it? “Benny is apparently not legitimate, and I gather her mother’s profession…”

  “Oh dear. That is unfortunate.”

  Silence crept into the conversation—embarrassed perhaps on Miss Pearson’s part, thoughtful on Rye’s. Miss Pearson held an unusual position, and she was ambitious too. That’s what all that lemon zest and basil was about—ambition, a thirst for recognition, a desire to excel.

  “What could I offer you, Miss Pearson, that would tempt you to take Benny on in your kitchen?”

  She rose and pretended to study the cutwork yellowing behind glass near the window. “It’s not my kitchen and will never be. The Coventry needs the cachet of a French chef.”

  “What do you need?” Rye grasped strategy, and he’d been an adequate officer as a result, though nobody would believe that now. He knew how to motivate his subordinates and how to brangle with his superiors such that they weren’t offended, and all the bright ideas ended up being theirs.

  Miss Pearson slanted a glance at him over her shoulder. She was petite but well formed, and her garb was fancier than that of a cook on her half day. Who were her people, and how had she come to be the Coventry’s undercook?

  “I need nothing, Colonel, but what I want is hard to explain.”

  “Try.”

  This time when she sat, she took the second wing chair, next to his, and perched on the edge of the cushions.

  “I want menus, Colonel. I want to plan the most talked about, impressive, enjoyable formal dinners. I want to be the g
enius behind the buffet that is too pretty to eat, but too delicious to resist. I want my Venetian breakfasts to be the delight of all who attend because they are breakfasts, not mere excuses to flirt away the afternoon in Godmama’s conservatory.”

  She spoke with the fervor of British officers who’d contemplated the conquest of France. Neither mountains, nor blizzards, nor bad rations, nor disease had been allowed to stand in their way, and Rye had shared that ambition.

  Now rumor, the most insidious force of all, thwarted his plans.

  “And if I could give you menus to plan?” he asked. “Would you take on Benny then?”

  Miss Pearson swiveled her gaze to Rye. “I would if the decision were mine, but I would still lack the authority to hire her, sir. I am an employee at the Coventry, an underling. I have no more authority to hire staff there than a footman has authority to hire the boot-boy. You, however, are a family connection to one of the Coventry’s owners.”

  Rye was brother to an owner’s wife. “I do not expect my sister to publicly acknowledge me.” In fact, Jeanette’s former in-laws had done their part to cast aspersion on Rye’s good name. The offending parties had left London several months ago, and yet, Rye was still the object of nasty rumors.

  “You came when your sister was suffering with food poisoning,” Miss Pearson said. “Dropped everything and would not leave until you knew she was safe. Will you not allow the marchioness to exert a small degree of influence to aid Benny? The kitchen needs more hands, Colonel, and the club can well afford another apprentice on its books.”

  Asking Jeanette for a favor was… Rye would sooner campaign across the whole of Spain in his bare feet.

  “Crepes are simple to make,” Miss Pearson went on. “Start with five basic ingredients, always sift the flour twice, and allow the batter to rest before cooking. That’s important, the sifting and the resting.”

  She sounded like Rye on the topic of Burgundian grapes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”