Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  * * *

  Yesterday’s meeting with Sycamore Dorning had gone well, though Rye had been disappointed to catch not even a glimpse of Jeanette. He needed to see her blooming, needed direct evidence that her second marriage was an improvement over the first.

  Perhaps soon…

  He rapped on the blue door of the house next to the bakery that rendered the entire neighborhood redolent of fresh bread and cinnamon. No wonder Ann Pearson had chosen to bide here. The location was not only close to her place of employment, but her delicate nose would enjoy the ambient scents.

  “Good day, sir.” A small, elderly woman in an enormous muslin mobcap peered up at him through a half-open door. “Deliveries at the rear, and we’re all Church of England here.”

  “Colonel Orion Goddard, at your service. I have come to call on Miss Ann Pearson.” That Rye would come to call on a young lady was a peculiar notion, but he had a debt to repay.

  The door swung open. “Have you now? Have you indeed? Well, stop dawdling on the stoop like a contrary cat, Colonel. Miss Ann never said anything about expecting a caller, but then, my hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

  “I hazard your hearing is quite sharp, ma’am, and your eyesight keen as well.”

  The old dear cackled merrily and made no move to take Rye’s hat or walking stick. “You hazard correctly. You may pace in the parlor for the nonce, looking earnest and gallant, and what shall we do with your pretty basket?”

  “I will guard it myself until such time as Miss Pearson can join me, assuming she’s at home.”

  Faded blue eyes perused Rye from head to foot. “If she’s not at home, my lad, I certainly am, and my sister will be as well. That is a basket from Gunter’s, unless I am much mistaken.”

  Rye leaned close enough to lower his voice. “You have not been mistaken on any matter of serious import since old George first went mad.”

  “Miss Ann has attracted the notice of a man of discernment. Don’t expect me to put in a good word for you, Colonel. If Miss Ann is to start having gentlemen callers, they must stand or fall on their own merits.” She tossed off a spry curtsey and left Rye alone to study the parlor.

  He did not pace, he inspected. The parlor bore the scent of rose potpourri, and nary a cobweb or fleck of coal dust was to be seen. The furniture was sturdy and comfortably faded—no spindly chairs or fussy hearth screens for the ladies—and the rugs a little worn, though freshly beaten.

  A genteel boarding house, then, and Miss Pearson had a pair of sentries guarding her citadel. If Rye had ever needed to take the measure of morale in camp or winter quarters, he consulted the older women, and their intelligence had never failed him.

  “Colonel Goddard.” Ann Pearson paused in the doorway to curtsey. “This is a pleasure.”

  She was balm to a soldier’s eye, all tidy and spruce in an ensemble of chocolate brown. Dark hair tucked into a perfect bun, skirts freshly pressed, hems spotless. Her shawl was crocheted of hunter green wool. Her eyes—a few shades lighter than the shawl—conveyed welcome.

  Her greeting was apparently genuine.

  “Miss Pearson, good day.” Rye swept off his hat, bowed, and mentally scrambled for further pleasantries. I have missed you would probably send the lady pelting for the stairs. You have been much on my mind, while true, was unthinkably bold.

  “I brought food,” he said, hefting the basket unnecessarily. “Coals to Newcastle, I suppose, to bring food to a cook, but I wanted you to have a bottle of my champagne, and good wine should not be consumed on an empty stomach.”

  She advanced into the room, leaving the door open, of course. “You brought me a basket from Gunter’s?”

  “Presuming of me, wasn’t it? Mostly, I am delivering a bottle of wine because I am in your debt.” And because he had wanted to see her, to be with her, to have conversation with a woman of sense and good cheer.

  She grasped his elbow. “Let’s repair to the garden, Colonel. Miss Julia and Miss Diana will enjoy spying on us, and we aren’t likely to be blessed with many more such fine days. We can make a picnic of our noon meal.”

  “That isn’t… I hadn’t intended…” He hadn’t dreamed he’d be invited to picnic with her. “If you insist.”

  “I do. Part of the magic of good food is that it can bring us together with good company. I detect apple tarts, mild brie, butter biscuits…”

  “You can tell all that simply by scent?”

  “I can. The linen has been pressed with only a hint of starch and dried in a baker’s kitchen overnight, would be my guess.”

  She led him to a back hallway that opened onto a small flagstone terrace. Grass tried to wedge its way between the stones, but somebody had waged the battle to contain such intrusions. The garden itself consisted of a white birch sapling in one corner, a few square yards of grass, a birdbath—unoccupied at present—and some potted pansies along the brick walkway.

  Rows of what Rye presumed were spices grew up along the stone walls, and a tall wooden gate led into the alley. A grouping of wrought-iron furniture occupied the center of the terrace, four chairs and a table. The flagstones were dotted with dead leaves, though Rye would have bet Agricola’s new bridle that the whole terrace was thoroughly swept each day.

  “The ladies like to read out here,” Miss Pearson said, leading him to the table and chairs. “Natural light is easier on the eyes, and fresh air is good for us.”

  “To the extent London has any fresh air.” What this little garden did have was privacy. No tall trees bordered the garden, meaning no enterprising spy in the alley could peer down onto the terrace. The wings of the house sheltered the grouping, such that Miss Julia and Miss Diana might keep watch from an upstairs sitting room, but no neighbors would learn that Miss Pearson had picnicked with a caller.

  Better that way for all. Rye held the lady’s chair, a courtesy with which he was out of practice, but managed adequately. He put his hat and walking stick in an empty chair and set the basket on the table.

  “We get a good breeze off the river for much of the year,” Miss Pearson said, “but I agree. On a bad day, a rainy day, a cold day, London is a tribulation for the olfactory—oh look. The apple tarts are still warm.” She unwrapped the red-checked cloth. “If I am not mistaken, a bit of anise has crept in beneath the cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg.”

  She sniffed the tart the way some women might have sniffed a bouquet of roses. She sniffed everything, in fact, from the roast fowl to the herbed butter, to the linen-wrapped bread. Rye took the chair at her right elbow and enjoyed her enjoying the food.

  “You will think me odd,” she said, setting aside the apple tarts. “I am odd. I didn’t realize other people ignored scents more effectively than I do until my father referred to me as his little hound puppy. He joked about housing me in the kennel.”

  Rye did not find the joke humorous, but then, he was famous at the Aurora Club for his lack of levity.

  “Perhaps other people don’t ignore scents so much as we are scent-blind or scent-deaf,” he said. “I could not have told you what was in the basket beyond a suspicion that it held something freshly baked. May I open the wine? I have an ulterior motive for bringing it by.”

  Miss Pearson looked up from unpacking her treasures. “You announce this ulterior motive before the bottle is opened?”

  “Subterfuge is not my gift. I want your professional opinion of my champagne.”

  Before leaving his house, Rye had debated whether to pluck the last blooms from the rosebush in his garden. His French roses were bedraggled this late in the season, but Miss Pearson had remarked their scent. He’d not brought the roses—bad enough he’d brought the picnic basket—but apparently, asking Ann Pearson to taste his wine was a finer gift even than exotic roses.

  “You want me to taste your wine?”

  “I very much do. Your palate is refined, your knowledge of cuisine sophisticated. I am but a soldier who happened to inherit vineyards and farms. I made changes to my cousins’ w
ineries, and one wants… That is… I think I have made improvements, but my opinion is hardly expert.”

  “Open the bottle,” Miss Pearson replied, her smile fading. “I promise you honesty, Colonel, but if a tasting is your ulterior motive, what was your main objective?”

  Rye’s folding knife included a corkscrew. He extracted the knife from his boot and tended to the wine.

  “You come armed to a picnic,” Miss Pearson said.

  “I come armed nearly everywhere. I have enemies, Miss Pearson. Their preferred weapon lately is gossip and tattle, but they might tire of wounding with a thousand whispers and resort to more expeditious means of seeing to my ruin.”

  Miss Pearson set about arranging their feast, and she had a knack for the task. The cloths used to wrap the biscuits and tarts became table linen, the plates and cutlery a still life. When a shower of golden birch leaves drifted onto the table, the effect was perfection.

  “Shall I pour?” Rye asked. “I brought the basket as a thanks for your willingness to take on Hannah’s education. The primary reason for my call is to inform you that Sycamore Dorning has agreed that the girl will be answerable to you, starting Monday. She’s to be properly articled, though we’ll start with a three-month trial period.”

  “Was that your condition?”

  “Dorning’s. Either you or Hannah can decide you don’t suit and abandon the arrangement without penalty.”

  Miss Pearson brushed at the fallen leaves. “Monsieur won’t like it.”

  “Does Monsieur ever like anything?”

  She made up a plate for Rye of two tarts and a butter biscuit with a generous portion of cheese on the edge of the plate. Her hands were competent, the nails blunt and clean, a pink, irregular scar across the back of one thumb. A burn, doubtless, a hazard of her profession.

  “Monsieur likes his brandy and his fits of pique,” she said. “I should taste your wine before I eat.”

  Rye poured out, passed her a serving, and touched his glass to hers. “To new ventures.”

  She sniffed the wine before sampling, her expression intent, as if listening to far away music. Rye ought not to stare at her as she rolled the wine on her tongue, but she was so focused on her investigation, he doubted she noticed his rudeness.

  “Lovely texture,” she said. “Light, just the right effervescence. The nose has a hint of toast with butter and honey. The palate is orange with overtones of almonds.” She took another taste. “Maybe an insinuation of vanilla or orange pastry crust. I’d have to think about it.”

  “Do you like it?”

  She set down her glass. “I do, Colonel, and I would not offer you anything but the truth when it comes to food and wine. That is top-quality champagne, far above the insipid pinkish business served at the Coventry. Mr. Dorning should exert himself to acquire as much of your inventory as he can, for it would make an excellent complement to our private dinners.”

  Rye wanted to toss his eye patch in the air and whoop with glee. “You truly like it?”

  “You neglect your own glass, Colonel, and yes, I truly like it.”

  He took a sip, not because of the fruity, toasty, vanilla whatever, but because he and Ann Pearson were in accord, and she liked his champagne.

  “I have no sophistication in polite matters,” he said, “but my champagne fortifies me. To me, it captures all the sunshine and vigor of the French countryside, the tradition and abiding resilience of my mother’s people. Joy and elegance, determination and humor. I taste that.”

  “Well said,” Miss Pearson replied, lifting her glass a few inches. “You bring poetry to your picnics along with your other weapons, Colonel.”

  She smiled, and for no earthly reason Rye could articulate, he chose that moment to taste her. He kissed her on the lips, a presumption and an act of hope. France and England had both survived the wars, so had Rye.

  When he was with this woman, he was glad of his victory. Battles remained to fight, but what was a soldier if not a fighter? Perhaps for a moment, he could be a little bit of a lover as well, or an affectionate friend.

  Something sweet and fine.

  Ann’s lips were soft and yielding, though Rye could taste surprise in her response. When he would have desisted, she cupped his cheek, her palm and fingers callused and warm.

  “Whenever I sample this fine vintage,” she said, “I will recall the man who introduced me to it, and I will smile at the memory.” She caressed his cheek and brushed his hair back from his brow, then sat back.

  Rye wished he’d brought a second bottle. As Ann turned the discussion to the curriculum Benny would pursue, he wished he could lay his entire champagne inventory—and his heart—at Ann Pearson’s feet.

  Perhaps someday, but today was not that day.

  Chapter Six

  Aunt Melisande’s letters to Ann from Spain and Portugal had always painted a gay and adventurous picture of life following the drum. The scenery was dramatic, the regimental entertainments frequent and merry. The battles were passingly vexatious but exciting.

  Melisande had clearly been a regimental favorite, much doted upon by her husband and his fellow officers.

  Even as Ann had pored over recipe books, pestered the cooks at her boarding schools, and dreamed of spun-sugar castles, she’d envied Melisande. All those gallant soldiers, all those new sights and valorous deeds…

  As Ann had matured, she’d realized how little of wartime reality Melisande had conveyed in her letters. Unless Uncle Horace had been very protective, Aunt had seen death and horror, injustice and tragedy. The scent of a battlefield had to have been a nightmare.

  And yet, as the leaves scraped across the sunny flagstones, and Orion Goddard refilled Ann’s champagne glass, she had reason to envy Melisande her years with the army. The colonel had listened to Ann’s prattling regarding Hannah’s education. He’d held Ann’s chair for her.

  He’d kissed her, and when she’d kissed him back, he’d accepted her overtures with a sweet, easy confidence that put her in mind of his French antecedents and his champagne. Heady and light, delicious and fine.

  “How soon will you know if Benny has a cook’s vocation?” the colonel asked, dabbing cheese on an apple tart and setting it on Ann’s plate.

  “You are eating only the one?” she asked.

  “I suspect Miss Julia and Miss Diana will see to the leftovers.”

  “They can afford to order their own baskets from Gunter’s, but they prefer my cooking most of the time. On occasion, my experiments are fit only for the slop pail.”

  “I cannot believe that.” The colonel swiped a finger through the drizzle of apple filling crossing his plate. “Perhaps when you were less experienced, you had the rare unexpected result, but by now, you know the terrain blindfolded.”

  Ann knew sauces, she was making good inroads on desserts and side dishes, but Jules jealously guarded his dominion over the roasts and entrées. Ann did not want to spend this impromptu picnic boring the colonel with a recitation of kitchen skirmishes.

  He eyed his hat, as if he were thinking of making an escape.

  “Tell me about your eye patch, Colonel Goddard. I suspect you don’t wear it merely to appear dashing.” Ann took a bite of tart to cover her mortification. She should never have pried like that, never have been so blunt. Fine white lines radiated from the colonel’s eye, scars so delicate they would be invisible by candlelight.

  “Nobody asks,” he said, considering his wine, “but everybody stares. The tale is simple: Early in Napoleon’s military career, while he was tossing the Austrians out of Italy, his artillerymen had a few lucky shots, managing to land a mortar directly upon the wagon holding his opponent’s powder magazine. In addition to creating one hell of an explosion, he depleted the other side’s store of ammunition and raised morale on the French side. This became something of a sport among French artillerymen thereafter, to blow up powder magazines.”

  “A deadly sport.”

  “Warhorses become inured to much, an
d the mules favored by the artillerymen are even more stoic, but that much noise and mayhem… The disruption is as bad as the actual injury and destruction. I happened to witness a lucky French volley at too-close range. I raised my arm to shield my face, but was only half successful. For days, I had little hearing. For weeks, I was blindfolded.”

  “Your hearing came back?”

  “For the most part.”

  Ann waited, hoping he’d tell her the rest of it, because clearly the tale was unfinished. She had missed the empty pleasures of a young woman of means—a London Season, flirtations, pretty dresses—and those had been easy to pass up.

  But toiling away in a hot, busy kitchen night after night, Ann also missed any hope of conversations like this, personal and genuine, with a man of substance. She in fact had no real female friends either, outside of Miss Julia and Miss Diana, and suspected her weekly calls on Melisande were as much about disseminating menus and recipes as they were about maintaining a family tie.

  “When a storm approaches, I have headaches on this side,” the colonel said, tapping his left temple. “I am grateful to see and hear as well as I do, because for far too long…. The wounds were slow to heal, and the surgeons kept me in the dark. The blast had knocked me off my feet, and I was nursing broken ribs and a very sore hip as well.”

  Ann did not like to think of this hale, fit man condemned to a cot in some stinking infirmary tent. “How did you remain sane?”

  “The army teaches a man patience, perhaps too much patience. After following all manner of daft orders for a few years, if a soldier is told to remain abed and wear a blindfold, he remains abed and wears the blindfold. I thought about my family’s process for making champagne, the grapes we use, the method of aging in the bottle. The medical officer was French-born, oddly enough, and he promised me even the damaged eye would have some sight if I behaved, and he was right.”

  Ann suspected Orion Goddard had not told this tale to anybody, not even his sister. “For you, it would have been worse to lie obediently on that cot in the dark than to take on the French army with nothing but your sword.”