Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  “What have you heard?”

  She waved a delicate hand sporting a fingerless, crocheted glove. “You were a bumbler as an officer. You made foolish decisions. Your men suffered needlessly.”

  Mere grumbling. Persistent grumbling. Like every officer, Rye had made mistakes. Understandable, well-intentioned mistakes. Blunders even, or he’d followed stupid orders.

  “Nothing more than that?”

  Tante was spared a reply by Marie arriving with the tea tray, Nettie gamboling at her side. The maid set the tray down carefully, curtsied and left, while Nettie eyed the tea cakes. The service was Sèvres, and Lucille had famously secreted it in the trunks of her negligees and stockings when she’d fled to London. She’d been smart enough to bring fancy snuffboxes, vanity sets, and jewels as well, and her foresight had saved lives.

  Her wealth had long since been dissipated when Rye had found her dwelling among London’s émigrés. Lucille had allowed Rye to compensate her for Nettie’s upbringing—and house her and a half dozen of her aging friends—in exchange for that assistance.

  He sipped a cup of tea to be polite and ate a small slice of the tarte aux pommes he’d brought from Tante’s preferred French bakery.

  “The tart wants something,” he said, dusting his hands over his plate. “It’s good, but too well behaved.”

  “Calvados,” Tante replied, sipping her tea. “In the cream, in the filling. A touch only. Monsieur Roberts would not waste his stores of good brandy on everyday preparations, but still, the tart is good.”

  The tart was French, and that sufficed for Lucille, despite its prosaic flavor.

  “The tart is very good,” Nettie declared. “May I have more?”

  Tante went off into a scold entirely in French.

  “You may be excused,” Rye said, untucking the table napkin from beneath Nettie’s chin. “I want to hear an English poem from memory the next time I visit, Nettie.”

  Nettie scrambled out of her chair. “I will find something from Mr. Wordsworth. He likes France.”

  Nowhere near as much now as he had earlier in his career. The Terror and ensuing wars had cost France many of her English admirers.

  “You choose the poem,” Rye said, “and it must be English.”

  She made a face and trotted off without sparing him a curtsey.

  “There is time to make her into the perfect English schoolgirl, Orion. Have another slice of tart.”

  Had Ann made that tart, she would have known exactly how much calvados to add, when to add it, and how to flavor the cream.

  “Tell me more about these rumors, Aunt, and please don’t prevaricate.”

  She sniffed, she adjusted her shawl, she generally exercised an old woman’s right to make company wait upon her pronouncements.

  “They say you sold secrets to the French. That you did so in exchange for promises that the retreating French army would not loot your farms in Provence.”

  “The fighting remained west of Provence.”

  “The looting went on all over France, my boy. The Grande Armée made off with our sons and husbands, then it made off with our livestock, and eventually, our very buildings were ripped down to feed its campfires. Thank the merciful God I was not in France to see that.”

  The émigrés endured a torn existence, longing for home, mistrusted in England, bitter toward France’s democratic violence, and unimpressed with the recently restored monarchy.

  “Who says I sold secrets to the French?”

  Lucille gave him an imperious stare.

  “I know Deschamps is back in London, Lucille. He has reason to dislike me, and I most assuredly do not like him.”

  Lucille glowered down an aquiline nose. “If we slandered all whom we dislike, we would have no time for laughter. Besides, what Frenchman would boast of having relied upon a spy? Dirty business, spying. War is at least honorable, no sneaking about involved.”

  Many a Frenchman would boast about having compromised an English officer’s honor. “Very well, I will confront Deschamps myself.”

  “Vous avez l'intelligence d'un mulet.”

  “The stubbornness of a mule, perhaps. Mules are actually quite smart.” Rye rose and gathered up his coat. “Wordsworth wrote a lovely little verse about a rainbow. Nettie might consider starting there. It’s only eight or nine lines.” The child is father of the man…

  That sentiment put him in mind of Ann, longing for her father’s notice, looking forward to each meal in hopes she might gain a moment of his attention.

  “You must not confront Deschamps,” Lucille said, rising. “He is no fool.”

  “Somebody is interfering with my business, attacking my good name, and going to great lengths to do it. Selling secrets to an enemy is treason, Aunt, and a hanging felony. If I could in any way see how the charges might be justified, I’d withdraw quietly to France and ponder how to atone for my error, but I cannot.”

  Rye had had opportunity after opportunity to betray his command—officers on all sides of the conflict faced such temptations—but he’d made his choice for England and kept his word.

  “If you are determined to die of male stupidity, you should first bring your sister around to meet Nettie. They are family.”

  “Jeanette doesn’t even know Nettie exists…” Well, that might not be true. Sycamore Dorning had chanced upon Nettie and her nurse paying a call upon Rye’s household. Dorning was entirely in Jeanette’s confidence.

  “Jeanette should know of Nettie’s existence, Orion, because you are soon to be spitted upon Deschamps’s sword, and I will not live forever.”

  “I fence well enough.”

  “Deschamps is a former French officer. He will fillet you comme un maquereau.”

  Like a mackerel. “I merely want to talk with him, Aunt.”

  She snorted as only a disgusted elderly Frenchwoman could snort, and she had a point. Jeanette and Nettie were related, and keeping Nettie’s existence secret served no one. Rye had promised his sister he would make an effort to socialize with her, but the rumors—the intensifying rumors—bothered him sorely.

  Jeanette, and even Sycamore Dorning—damn it all to hell—were owed an explanation.

  “I will take my leave of you, and you have my ongoing thanks for all you do for Nettie. I will call again next week and expect to hear my poem.”

  Aunt made no move to accompany him into the chilly hallway. “If you are alive next week. Do you dislike the French countryside so much, Orion? You could take Nettie to live with you in Champagne or Provence, and she would have no need of silly English poems.”

  Wordsworth was sentimental, not silly. “I delight in the French countryside, but the market for my wine is here.” His boys were here, Jeanette was here. His parents were buried in England on the Surrey property where he’d been raised.

  “Deschamps is biding with his cousin, Mullineau,” Tante Lucille said, “the cloth merchant. Deschamps rides out on fine mornings and frequents La Retraite of an evening. You will be careful, Orion. If you can be neither intelligent nor sensible, you will at least be careful.”

  “I am always careful.” He took his leave, using the walk home to mentally rehearse his discussion with Jeanette. How to explain Nettie, and more to the point, how to explain his failure to mention her to Jeanette previously?

  Upon arriving home, Rye took up his daily battle with the ledgers in his study, the fire’s feeble efforts to dispel the chill abetted by a decent glass of brandy. Rather than pour another, Rye bestirred himself to build up the fire.

  He’d added half a bucket of coal, poked some air into the flames, and was replacing the hearth screen before he noticed that his cavalry sword no longer hung in its assigned place over the mantel.

  No matter. He kept the thing on display as a reproach and a warning, not because he cherished it as a memento. He’d killed with that sword and intended to finish out his days without ever killing again. If Mrs. Murphy had taken it down to give it a dusting, she’d soon have it back up
again.

  He resumed his tallying and came to the same conclusion he usually did: Without substantial new custom, his best vintages were destined to spend the next several years gathering dust at his expense.

  * * *

  “Another invitation?” Horace asked.

  Meli would reproach the butler later for bringing the note to her at the breakfast table. “Ann’s duties do not permit her to call on me this morning.”

  Ann further promised to send along the menu and recipes for Deidre Walters’s buffet by the end of the day—and that assurance was none of Horace’s concern. Deidre’s youngest was enthralled with the harp, and nothing would do but half of Mayfair must delight in the girl’s talent while her mama cooed and clapped after each piece.

  And because Miss Walters’s talent wasn’t likely to impress the audience all that much, Deidre wanted stellar offerings on the buffet at the interlude.

  “I thought Wednesday was Ann’s half day,” Horace said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Half days are for walking in the park and calling upon acquaintances. Shopping for bonnets and gloves. What at the Coventry could possibly come between a young lady and her opportunities to shop?”

  Why would Horace recall Ann’s half day? But then, his mind worked like that. He had the memory of a homely spinster keeping track of social slights, a talent that had served him well when negotiating myriad military procedures and rules.

  “You are correct,” Meli replied. “Today is Ann’s half day, but she has taken on an apprentice, a girl from Colonel Orion Goddard’s household. Ann has some errands to run with her new protégé. Will you attend the Walters’s musicale with me?”

  Horace paused with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “Goddard’s household hasn’t any females, other than a daily housekeeper and a maid-of-all-work. Perhaps he’s taken to foisting his émigré connections off on his in-laws. Who is this protégé?”

  And this was the inconvenient side of marriage to a man who recalled details and expected his every question to be respectfully answered.

  But then, familiarity with the exact make-up of a former direct report’s household went beyond recalling a stray detail.

  “I hardly know who she is.” Meli used the honey whisk to trail a skein of sweetness into her tea, though what she truly longed for was a slosh of brandy to settle her nerves. “The Walters’s musicale is next Thursday, and while I understand that you are no great fan of the harp, you do have a good opinion of Captain Walters. His baby sister will entertain us.”

  “Walters married the Glenville girl.” Horace refolded his newspaper and pressed it flat beside his plate. “Flighty thing, but she bore up cheerfully enough on campaign.”

  Horace slurped his coffee, a habit that increasingly grated on Meli’s nerves. Horace had always slurped his coffee and his tea, but since settling into London life, that singularly ungenteel noise struck Meli as proof of his increasing years.

  “Who else will be there?” he asked, perusing his newspaper.

  Melisande rattled off a guest list rife with military acquaintances, a few bachelors to make up the numbers, and the usual sprinkling of wallflowers to swell the audience ranks.

  “I suppose we must show the colors,” Horace said, taking another slurp. “Truly, my dear, I do not fathom how your niece can prefer the drudgery of a cook’s life to genteel entertainments and your own company. Ann isn’t bad looking, and she has some means. She would make you a perfect companion. Is there some reason she disdains to join our household?”

  “Stubbornness, I suppose.” Though Meli almost—almost—understood the allure of having a skill for which a woman would be paid a decent wage. If that woman was unmarried and of age, she also had the legal standing to keep her wages for her own use.

  No hoping her husband had instructed the solicitors on the matter of her monthly pin money. No economizing on candles to replace a pair of slippers that had become unfashionable in a single Season.

  Still, to work all day, dealing with animal carcasses, coarse company, and manual labor… That was much too high a price to pay for a loss of standing in genteel society.

  “You can be stubborn too,” Horace said, “and I must tell you honestly, Melisande, I do not care for any association between my family and Orion Goddard. I stood by him through all the rumors and even the official inquiry, but that there was an inquiry was most unfortunate.”

  The military was always convening boards of inquiry. As best Meli recalled, Horace himself had requested that Goddard’s situation be investigated, claiming that was the only way to clear the colonel’s name.

  Goddard had been knighted, suggesting somebody had been convinced of his worth. To observe as much would doubtless send Horace off onto one of his diatribes about military justice, appearances, the honor of the regiment, and necessary compromises for the greater good. As a younger wife, Meli had heard that speech more often than any other in Horace’s substantial repertoire.

  “I can hardly persuade Ann to give up her cooking if she’s no longer permitted to call on me, sir.”

  Horace set down his coffee cup and folded his paper up. It never occurred to him that when he marched off to his club every morning, he might leave the Society pages for his wife to read. Meli was reduced to paying for a second subscription that was sent to her sitting room at noon, after the maids had had a chance to iron the pages.

  That precaution was necessary, because Horace would notice ink-stained fingers and doubtless inquire as to how Meli had acquired them.

  “Ann is family,” Horace said. “We would never turn her away, but neither should you ignore the risks she runs to her good name and to your own by association. You might remind her that Goddard is not well regarded among his fellow officers, and perhaps she will choose her next apprentice with more care.”

  Actually, Orion Goddard had been well liked by his peers and respected by his subordinates. He’d been mentioned in the occasional dispatch—a high honor—and there was that knighthood.

  “I don’t think Ann had any choice about taking the girl on,” Meli said. “Goddard is Sycamore Dorning’s brother by marriage, and the Dornings are notoriously loyal to family. If Dorning told Ann to take on an apprentice, Ann could not have refused that direct order.” Then too, the Dornings boasted an earldom among the family treasures, and Sycamore Dorning’s wife was the widow of a marquess.

  That Horace, who well knew the value of influence and social standing, would eschew Goddard’s company when the colonel could claim such connections was a puzzle.

  And a worry.

  Horace rose and tucked the newspaper under his arm. “Enough about Ann and her misguided notions. I’m off to hear all the news at the club, my dear.” He came down to Meli’s end of the table and bussed her cheek. “What have you planned for today?”

  “I must begin the preparations for our officers’ dinner in earnest. Choose the flowers, inventory the linen, ensure the Portuguese silver is polished. The staff looks forward to those dinners, as do I.”

  She didn’t, actually—the same stories, the same jokes, the same sly winks—but Horace did, so Meli would make the effort.

  Horace caught her hand and bowed over it. “Truly, I am well blessed in my wife, Melisande. I will happily escort you to the Walters do, and I am sure you will be the prettiest lady of the whole gathering.”

  He smiled, kissed her knuckles, and took his leave of her, ever the gallant officer, though Meli was no longer the blushing young wife who thrived on flummery and flirtation. Philippe Deschamps had disabused her of much silliness, then war, polite society, and the passing years had done the rest.

  Meli waited until she heard the front door close before she slipped her flask from her skirt pocket and tipped a quarter of the contents into her tea. She had downed a fortifying swallow of Dutch courage when the footman returned to clear away the empty place at the head of the table.

  She’d meant to use Ann’s weekly call to ask her to finalize a menu for the
officers’ dinner. The task could not wait another week, so Meli would have to send a note around to Ann’s lodgings. How to do that without Horace getting wind of it was yet another puzzle.

  A commanding officer’s wife had to be good at solving puzzles and intrigues. Meli would solve this one too.

  * * *

  “Orion, do come in.” Jeanette’s smile was hesitant, and that alone shamed Rye. He’d kept his distance from his only sibling, hoping that his troubles would not become her troubles. Thus Rye had been nowhere nearby when Jeanette had acquired troubles of her own, and Sycamore Dorning had charged into the breach.

  “Jeanette.” Rye bowed, an awkward courtesy between brother and sister, but with Dorning hovering at Jeanette’s elbow, courtesy was the safer alternative. “You look well.”

  “I enjoy great good health, thank you. Won’t you have a seat?”

  And that was another courtesy, to treat her own brother to the manners due a caller. Rye took the wing chair facing the parlor door, which seemed to amuse Dorning.

  “Shall I ring for a tray?” Jeanette asked, resuming her place on the sofa. Dorning, of course, took the place beside her and possessed himself of her hand, as if Rye might presume so far as to ask his sister to stroll with him in the garden.

  “A tray won’t be necessary. I don’t want to take up much of your time, but I did want to thank both you and Dorning for your kindness toward Hannah.”

  Dorning left off stroking Jeanette’s wrist. “Miss Pearson’s apprentice has been entered on the wage books as Hannah Goddard. Jeanette saw no reason to keep the girl’s family connection quiet.”

  This was not good, and a problem Rye should have foreseen. “As I have never married, and Hannah bears my name, the inferences might redound to Hannah’s discredit.”

  Dorning linked his fingers with Jeanette’s. “Not in the kitchen, they won’t. In the kitchen, an association by marriage with the Dorning family will keep my chef from being unduly stupid where the girl is concerned.”