Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  Now was not the time to inform Dorning that Rye’s reputation was undergoing one of its periodic whippings at the figurative cart’s tail, but that discussion would have to take place soon.

  “I see your point,” Rye said, “though allowing Hannah to claim that connection might also make her more resented.”

  “Stop it.” Jeanette shook her hand free from her husband’s grasp. “Both of you stop circling each other like tomcats in the stable yard. I have asked Miss Pearson to keep me apprised of Hannah’s progress and spoken to Jules Delacourt myself regarding my interest in this particular apprentice. He has assured me that he will do all in his power to see the girl well educated.”

  And Jeanette, having little acquaintance with a Frenchman in a temper, would have been satisfied with those reassurances.

  “In any case,” Rye said, “you extended a kindness to a member of my household, and I am grateful to you both.”

  “You’re welcome,” Dorning said, the words anything but gracious. “Will you blow retreat now that you’ve done your duty? Scamper off to your club for recluses and reappear seven years hence to thank us again when Hannah’s apprenticeship is complete?”

  “I have promised Jeanette I will not play least in sight again, Dorning, and I keep my word. To that end, I wanted to acquaint my sister with a family matter that might one day concern her.”

  Jeanette passed her husband a knife that had been sitting atop a bound volume on the low table. The blade was designed for throwing, a single dark curve of metal that ended in a lethal point.

  “Rye, are you well?”

  “I am, actually.” Impending cold weather had caused his hip to stiffen up of a morning, but other than that, the headaches were infrequent, and he was sleeping reasonably well. “I haven’t anything truly serious to impart, but I thought you should know that our cousin Jacques’s daughter is here in London, a child of about five. I’ve placed her in the keeping of Lucille Roberts, whose family owned land near Grand-mère’s farms.”

  Jeanette and her husband exchanged some sort of look. “The Roberts family owned quite a lot of land, didn’t they?” Jeanette asked. “They raised the traditional herbs, thyme, basil, rosemary… I forget what else. Mama corresponded with them.”

  Ann Pearson would know each of the traditional herbs of Provence and have her own recipe for blending them.

  “Jacques married one of the Roberts ladies,” Rye replied. “He managed to send the child here before Wellington made it into France. She was an infant at the time and recalls nothing of the journey.” Thank God.

  “I have a cousin in London?”

  “A small cousin at some remove, and like you, she is named for Grand-mère. Nettie looks a little like you.”

  Jeanette’s husband watched her and said nothing. Dorning had come upon little Nettie in Rye’s back garden just the once, months ago, and apparently had said nothing about the encounter.

  “I would like to meet her,” Jeanette said. “Nettie is family.”

  That was the response Rye had been hoping for, and yet, to share Nettie with Jeanette also meant a loss. The upbringing of a girl child would more naturally fall to Jeanette, and Rye would no longer be the only cousin visiting Nettie’s household.

  “I will happily introduce you to her.”

  “Introduce us,” Dorning said, casually hurling the knife in the direction of a cork target on the opposite wall. “I am well versed in the art of doting upon younger female relations, and this Nettie person will benefit from my expertise. She can laugh at my French, and I will let her dance upon my toes.”

  Rye would be doubly displaced then, because a married couple would have more to offer an orphaned child than a military bachelor did.

  “She is bilingual, though French is still her preferred tongue. I don’t want her to lose the French, but neither do I…”

  “You don’t want her to suffer for her heritage,” Jeanette said. “I understand. Are there other relatives lurking on your coattails, Rye?”

  “She is not on my coattails. I have inherited more of the family’s French holdings than is my due, and any number of Frenchmen regard that as a gross injustice. Perhaps one day, some of those holdings can be Nettie’s.”

  “I have a platoon of siblings,” Dorning remarked, “and yet, they collectively do not haul about half of the complications and secrets that Jeanette’s one brother seems to have acquired. When can we meet the girl?”

  That Rye’s visit had achieved its objective should not leave him feeling so empty. “I’ll send a note around to Tante Lucille and see if Friday suits. Please do not think to pluck Nettie away from all that is familiar. She is dear to Lucille and has a circle of little friends among the émigré community.”

  Dorning retrieved the knife from the center of the target. If Ann Pearson ever watched Rye the way Jeanette watched her husband merely stroll across the room, Rye dearly hoped that he and the lady were behind a locked door on that happy occasion. Dorning was somehow preening for his wife’s delectation, even in the way he walked, even in the way he stroked the point of the blade with his fingertip.

  “The situation is more complicated than simply a child fond of her playmates, isn’t it?” Jeanette asked. “You support Lucille Roberts. She probably supports others with your largesse, or aids them. Removing Nettie to dwell with me here would be like pulling a loose thread that unravels half a garment.”

  Rye had forgotten what a noticing sort of female Jeanette was. In a little sister, that trait had been inconvenient.

  “Precisely,” he said. “Lucille does not hire a drawing instructor for Nettie, but a neighbor drops by regularly and provides that service over a full tea tray. Nettie’s clothes are stitched up by another neighbor, because Lucille’s eyesight—which misses nothing—is too dim to manage the chore. The nursemaid sends half her pay back to France and so forth. These people cannot go home, so they make a home here as best they can.”

  Dorning laid the knife on the low table, which was proof positive this household was not ready to receive a child. That thought begged the question of whether the boys had taken a notion to inspect Rye’s sword without permission, for the damned thing still hadn’t been returned to its proper place.

  “We will merely call upon little Nettie,” Jeanette said. “Introduce ourselves. Would she like a new doll?”

  Rye studied the botanical print of some seven-petaled white flowers blooming amid dark green foliage. “She has a half-dozen dolls.”

  “A stuffed pony?” Dorning suggested. “Some mighty steeds for the dolls to charge about on?”

  “She has several of those.”

  “A little tea set?” Jeanette asked. “A hobby horse?”

  Rye shook his head, feeling abruptly very foolish. “She needs books in English, the sort of books girls might like to read.”

  Jeanette acquired a determined expression that Rye recalled from her earliest youth, one that accentuated her resemblance to Nettie. “I will consult my sisters-in-law, and we will make a list.”

  “The child will need a library to house the results,” Dorning said. “Trust me on this, Goddard. I notice you did not answer Jeanette’s question about other French relatives hiding in the hedges. Have we only the one small cousin to spoil?”

  “Yes.” Jacques hadn’t been able to get any of his older children to safety, and his wife had refused to abandon them. “Nettie has siblings in Provence, and they are well provided for.”

  “No parents?” Dorning asked quietly.

  Rye shook his head. “Nor grandparents. I’ll take my leave and send around the direction if Lucille is willing to receive us on Friday.”

  “If not Friday,” Jeanette said, taking up the knife Dorning had put on the table, “you ask her when, Rye. Nettie has lost much, but she has us.”

  Jeanette threw the knife with as much force as Dorning had, and her throw landed closer to the center of the target than his.

  “Please do not think to furnish the child with
weapons,” Rye said. “She’s five, as best I can figure.”

  “No knives,” Dorning said, “yet. I will see you out.”

  The moment turned awkward, for how did a brother take leave of the sister whom he’d all but scorned for several years?

  Rye took the six steps necessary to reach for Jeanette’s hand, but she rose and wrapped him in a hug instead.

  “I have missed you, Rye. Missed you sorely and worried over you. I never wanted you to go to war, and I wish…”

  He gave her a gentle squeeze, and it hit him with a hard pang of the heart that she was not the seventeen-year-old girl who’d seen him off to Spain. He and Jeanette had missed much, while he’d been soldiering and she’d been enduring a difficult marriage. They had missed much since he’d come home as well, and that was also his fault.

  “I wish too, Jeanette. But we have today.” A refrain among the refugees who gathered around Lucille’s pretty tea service.

  “We also have business to discuss,” Dorning said when Rye stepped back. “Come along, Goddard, and tell me when I might have my champagne.”

  Rye had already sent Dorning a specific date by letter, and Dorning had provided a deposit as a show of good faith by return post. Dorning kept silent until Rye was at the front door, coat buttoned, walking stick in hand, and the butler had withdrawn belowstairs.

  “You did not tell Jeanette you’d come upon Nettie in my garden months ago,” Rye said. “I appreciate your discretion.”

  “The encounter slipped my mind until recently,” Dorning replied. “I have been preoccupied with getting off on a sound marital foot with my wife. Which I am, by the way. A splendidly sound marital foot.”

  Rye peered through a spotless window to study the traffic passing on the street beyond. “Your foot has nothing to do with Jeanette’s air of contentment, Dorning.”

  “Noticed that, did you? Jeanette does seem to be truly content. She’s learning the bookkeeping for the club from my brother Ash, she’s a dab hand at correspondence, and she talks recipes with Miss Pearson. Even Delacourt seems to like Jeanette. They speak French so quickly I cannot tell if they are arguing or teasing, but Jeanette says I need not worry, so I don’t.”

  “You worry,” Rye said, finding a backward humor in the realization. “You worry like a commanding officer worries for his recruits and a mama bear worries for her cubs.”

  Dorning smiled, all charm and self-satisfaction. “A papa bear, please. Shall Jeanette and I take little Nettie driving in the park if the weather’s fine?”

  “No, you shall not.”

  Dorning’s smile became a smirk. “Don’t be peevish, Goddard. You have neglected to show the little dear the wonders of London, but Jeanette and I can correct your oversight and take her for a treat or two at Gunter’s. The menagerie would doubtless delight a child of such tender years, and one must not neglect to feed—”

  “Pour l'amour de Dieu, chut.”

  Dorning looked Rye up and down. “And why should I hush?”

  “Because a discreet call upon the girl is one thing, but now is not the time to announce that Jeanette has established ties with a long-lost French cousin.”

  Dorning glanced back in the direction of the parlor and heaved a put-upon sigh. “This is complicated?”

  “The matter requires discretion.”

  “Shall I call on you this afternoon?”

  Nothing and nobody—least of all Sycamore Perishing Dorning—would come between Rye and the afternoon’s call from Ann Pearson.

  “Join me at the Aurora for dinner. We can dine early in deference to your responsibilities at the Coventry.”

  “We will dine at the usual hour, lest Jeanette fret because you and I are off in the corner being discreet. I have no secrets from my wife, Goddard.”

  A state of affairs about which Dorning was inordinately proud. “Nor would I ask you to keep any, but you do apparently claim a modicum of discretion, despite all press to the contrary. I will see you tonight.”

  Dorning held the door for him. Rye checked the street to ensure Louis was in sight, then trotted down the steps and made for home.

  Chapter Eight

  “We are de trop, Colonel.” Ann tugged gently on Orion Goddard’s arm. “Leave the infantry unsupervised for a moment.”

  He tarried in the doorway to the servants’ hall, his gaze on the children clustered at the end of the table nearest the hearth.

  “She looks happy,” he said, gaze on Hannah and the boys enjoying the butter biscuits Ann and Hannah had brought from the Coventry’s kitchens. “She looks rosy and proud and happy. Thank you.”

  “She was even happier to make her first batch of butter biscuits this morning,” Ann said. “The cinnamon aroma in the kitchen, the taste of the first batch warm from the bake oven, the longing glances from the waiters and footmen… She reveled in all of it. Hannah will make an excellent cook, if early days tell the tale.”

  Though they often did not. The absconding apprentice was a caricature in British humor, but all too often a reality as well.

  “I am in your debt,” Goddard said, “and you are correct. My hovering presence isn’t necessary. I would invite you up to the guest parlor there to lament the weather with me, except I forgot to light the fire until you were on my doorstep, and the room is quite chilly. My office is warmer, if you can bear the slight to good manners.”

  “I am too pragmatic to value manners over comfort, Colonel, and I did not surrender all of the biscuits to the children.” Then too, Ann wanted to see his office, a space where he would not normally welcome a social caller.

  He’d seen her kitchen, after all.

  “Cider and biscuits?” he asked, detouring into the kitchen. “Or could I tempt you to try my hot buttered rum, in deference to the weather?”

  “Is the recipe yours?”

  “My grandfather’s, then my father’s, and now mine.”

  Ann was torn between the notion that a lady did not take strong spirits and a burning curiosity to know his recipe.

  The colonel leaned closer, as if the children laughing and carrying on in the hall might overhear him. “I’d take it as a kindness if you’d say yes. My hip is predicting colder weather, and a medicinal tot would enliven my afternoon considerably.”

  “In the interests of facilitating your good health, I will accept a small serving of your hot buttered rum.”

  The ingredients were few and readily at hand: dark rum, butter, brown sugar, water, spices, and—Ann would not have thought to add this—a precious dash of vanilla.

  “You don’t measure the spices?” she asked, itching to take notes regarding the order in which the nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and allspice went into the mix. No ginger, which was sensible. Ginger had a pungent quality the other warm spices lacked.

  “A pinch per serving,” he said, giving his melted butter-and-spice mixture a stir. “The real question is how much hot water to add, and that’s a matter of personal taste. Shall we take our drinks to my office, where we can enjoy them without the sound of pitched battle from across the corridor?”

  “A happy battle,” Ann said, taking the steaming teakettle off the hearth swing. “I’d like my drink to resemble yours as nearly as possible.”

  He poured off his mixture into two sizable, plain mugs. “I prefer mine at what we used to call marching strength.”

  “If I’m to learn to make this concoction to serve at the Coventry, then I must acquaint myself with the version that will appeal to a robustly healthy male in his prime.”

  “About as much water as rum,” he said, stepping back. “And I will cheerfully carry you home if the dose is too extreme for the patient.”

  He could do it too. Toss her over his shoulder and march back to her house, there to delight Miss Julia and Miss Dianna with his manly vigor.

  Ann poured the hot water into the mugs, creating the most delicious scent imaginable. Buttery heaven, redolent of exotic spices and a rich, rummy undernote.

  “I will ca
rry the drinks,” the colonel said, “and you will leave the mess for Mrs. Murphy to tidy up.”

  “If Mrs. Murphy is smart,” Ann replied, leading the way to the steps, “she’ll pour a dollop of rum into the dregs of the butter mixture and make herself a midafternoon treat.”

  “Mrs. Murphy is smitten.” Colonel Goddard collected the mugs and followed in Ann’s wake. “She has a swain of recent acquaintance, and I fear she will soon trade the glory of keeping my house for the joys of holy matrimony.”

  “Don’t you mean the bonds of holy matrimony?”

  “Left at the head of the stairs,” the colonel said. “Bonds are not always a bad thing, Miss Pearson. Soldiers who’ve bonded with their comrades will fight more fiercely than those who do battle simply to earn the king’s shilling. You are employed by a pair of siblings, and if I were to offend one Dorning brother, I have no doubt the remaining six would see me taken to task. That door,” he said, nodding. “You are sworn to secrecy regarding unpaid bills and personal correspondence.”

  Colonel Goddard’s office was, like the man himself, tidy and unassuming. The scent was leather, books, ink, and a hint of pipe tobacco. A manly space, and—as promised—well heated.

  “You spend a lot of time in here,” Ann said, inspecting the artwork. No military portraits or battle scenes. Instead, a landscape hung over the mantel, pastures and tilled fields under a pretty summer sky, a Tudor manor off to the side with red roses climbing halfway up one wall.

  Opposite the windows hung a pair of portraits, the first of an older gentleman in the finery of the previous century. The second portrait was of two children, a boy and girl, the boy several years older than the girl. She had russet braids and a serious gaze that put Ann in mind of Jeanette Dorning. The dark-haired boy, who stood with a hand on the girl’s shoulder, bristled with mischief and high spirits.

  “You were a rascal.” Ann set her reticule on the desk that faced the hearth. Two wing chairs stood between the desk and the fireplace, a hassock before one of them. “That has to be you and Mrs. Dorning.”