Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  “Guilty as charged. My childhood was mostly happy, though I cannot say Jeanette’s early years were as sanguine as my own. I was the indulged only son, the apple of my papa’s eye. We lost our mother too soon, though that took a harder toll on Jeanette than on me. You must not let your drink get cold. I believe you promised me biscuits, Miss Pearson.”

  “And I always keep my word.” Ann wanted to make a circuit of the study, to handle the three little netsukes on the mantel—an elephant, a tiger, a horse—and to open the delicate cloisonné box on the windowsill to see if it held snuff, mints, or nothing at all.

  The usual office accoutrements were in plain sight—abacus, paper, wax jack, pen tray, ink, quill pens, blotter, pounce pot, correspondence—but the small touches made the room as much a haven as a place of business.

  The colonel brought her drink to her. “What does that look portend? Does the sight of my slippers offend?”

  “Not at all.” His scuffed slippers were tidily placed before the hearth, where they would stay warm until he had need of them. “I’m asking myself why the Coventry’s kitchen has no small touches. Why not display a pretty painted tray on the deal table, or bring in the occasional flower from the garden?” Ann’s own kitchen wasn’t any more welcoming than her place of business.

  The colonel touched his mug to hers. “To your health, Miss Pearson.”

  “And yours.” Ann cradled the warm mug in her hands, a pleasure in itself, as was the spicy scent. She tried a cautious sip. “That is a powerful brew, Colonel.”

  “I’ll fetch the teakettle if you’d like to add some water to yours.”

  Ann took another sip. “Warms the innards, which I believe was the point.” The toddy also delighted the tongue with its smooth texture and spicy flavor.

  “My grandmother liked hers with a dash of raspberry liqueur and fewer spices,” the colonel said. “Shall we be seated?”

  “My imagination will gallop away with that idea—raspberry liqueur and rum—and you will make a sot of me as I concoct my recipes.”

  The colonel took one of the chairs before the fire, Ann took the other.

  “Raspberry liqueur makes a nice addition to champagne, according to some,” he said. “Others like to blend the juice of oranges with a humble champagne, or even lemonade. I can’t see it myself.”

  Ann could taste these ideas and smell them and see the pretty results. “You mentioned cold weather earlier. Can you truly predict the weather with your old injury?”

  “Yes. Bad weather bothers both my hip and my head. Do you mind if I remove my eye patch? The day is gloomy enough that I need not fret over the light.”

  “Don’t stand on ceremony on my account, Colonel. Tell me about that manor house. The landscape looks like Surrey to me, or possibly Kent.”

  “The ancestral home,” Colonel Goddard replied. “I let it out, but the lease is coming up for renewal, and I’m considering selling the place.”

  “It’s not entailed?”

  “My father broke the entail—with my consent as the heir—because we were in dire financial straits, and Papa was considering liquidating. Then Jeanette bagged her marquess, and disaster was averted for Papa and me, not so for Jeanette.”

  The fire blazed merrily, but the dreary weather—a brooding, leaden overcast chased by a chill wind—made the room dark.

  “Forgive me,” the colonel went on, stripping off his eye patch and tucking it into a pocket. “I ought not to burden you with ancient history.”

  “Your sister’s first marriage was unhappy?”

  “Utterly miserable, though I did not know that until I could do nothing for her. Papa bought me a commission with a portion of the largesse Jeanette had earned us, and off I went to play soldier. When I came home on my first winter leave, I realized I had made a serious mistake, but by then, the senior officers had decided my French antecedents were useful. Mustering out was not possible.”

  Ann tried another sip of her drink, this taste going down more easily, as did the next and the next. Her immediate superior was overly fond of spirits, and had Ann limitless access to the colonel’s toddies, she might engage in the same folly.

  Somebody had, in fact, nearly drained her glass.

  “My aunt plagues me,” she said, apropos of nothing. “Wants me to become her companion, to take my place in polite society. She fails to realize that I’ve seen much of that society at the Coventry, many of them not at their best. I like what I do, I make a difference to those who work with me.”

  The colonel set aside his drink. “No question of mustering out? Aren’t you ever lonely, Ann?”

  “All the time.”

  Had the colonel not used her name, she might have scrounged up a reply with pretensions to wit or charm. He’d spoken softly, though, and in his question lurked an admission that he was lonely, and had been for some time.

  “I was an only child,” Ann went on, because with Orion Goddard, she saw no point in dissembling. “I did not realize that most children have playmates, siblings, schoolmates… until I was nine years old, and my grandmother took me to some village celebration. She told me to go play with a group of children kicking a ball around, but I could not ask them for permission to join the game because I knew none of them by name. They knew each other’s names, but I knew no other child in the whole shire by name. Watching them play, I realized my situation wasn’t normal.”

  Colonel Goddard rose and took Ann’s mug from her hand. She had no idea what he was about, but when he scooped her into his arms and settled back into his wing chair, she did not protest.

  “Go on,” he said, as if Ann weren’t curled against his chest like an oversized feline. “You were sent away to school, and surely you learned some names there.”

  “How did you know?” And how did one conduct a conversation when cuddled up against so much male muscle and warmth?

  “Settle, Ann. I harbor no untoward designs on your person.”

  “And if I have designs on yours, Orion?”

  “With a horde of banshees ready to interrupt at any moment, your designs are doomed to failure, alas for me. My friends call me Rye. Tell me about school.”

  They were to be friends, then? Cuddling friends? Ann would ponder that mystery later, when she wasn’t so comfortably ensconced in such a sweet embrace.

  “My grandmother died. I was dispatched to the Midlands, where all good girls go to learn how to gossip, flirt, and tipple. The other students were busy making sheep’s eyes at the drawing master, while I spent my free time in the kitchen. My classmates thought me odd, I thought them tedious, and if there’s one thing young ladies do not tolerate, it’s being considered tedious. You will put me to sleep if you keep that up, Colonel.”

  He was rubbing her back in slow circles that spread a warmth as insidious as that offered by the toddy.

  “Call me Rye. That’s a direct order. We’re drinking companions now, and we’ve made pear sauce together. How did you come to be apprenticed?”

  “My father died. My aunt—the only person who might have dissuaded me—had married and was no longer in England. I wrote a letter purporting to be from her informing Headmaster I was to spend the summer with her friends in London. I had enough samples of her penmanship to copy her hand. I applied to every agency that placed apprentices until a situation arose that suited me. By the time my aunt’s next letter reached the headmaster months later, I had signed my articles and was delighting in my new profession.”

  The colonel’s caresses moved to Ann’s neck and shoulders, the pleasure of his touch exquisite. “You had made your bed, and you were determined to lie in it as only the young and foolish can be determined.”

  “That too. Aunt was a new wife. She and my uncle protested by letter, but they weren’t in a position to undo the damage, and besides, I was happy, after a fashion.”

  “Pleased with yourself, you mean. Close your eyes, Ann. Rest. I’ll keep you safe from invading forces.”

  He would keep her safe
from designs on her person, too, drat the luck.

  Ann could feel the colonel’s heartbeat beneath her cheek, while the fire was a steady warmth at her back. She could not in seven eternities have predicted that her call upon Orion Goddard would end up in this cozy embrace by the hearth, nor would she have said she was particularly fatigued if asked.

  And yet, she was so very tired, now that he held her like this. As her eyes drifted closed and her breathing slowed, she gave in to an exhaustion of more than the body, and to the very great comfort to be had in Orion Goddard’s arms.

  * * *

  “So this is the most notoriously unassuming club in all of London?” Sycamore Dorning asked, glancing about at the Aurora’s wainscoted foyer. “Nobody even knows who the members are.”

  “To learn who the members are,” Rye replied, “you’d merely have to lurk across the street and watch who comes and goes. Secret entrances are for those with something to hide.”

  Dorning passed his greatcoat to the footman. “You doubtless did not join this august establishment until your scouts had monitored the comings and goings long enough that you knew the company to be had here.”

  “My scouts are good,” Rye said, “but they don’t move in exalted circles freely enough to know a viscount from a vintner. I simply asked for a list of the members and gave my word the information would go no further. Here at least, my word is still good. Table for two, Tims, where we won’t be overheard.”

  “Very good, Colonel. I’ll tell Lavellais, and he will find you in the lounge. Welcome to the Aurora, Mr. Dorning.”

  Tims glided off, moving soundlessly across the parquet marble floor.

  “He knew who I was,” Dorning said, frowning. “I like to think I enjoy a certain cachet, but he’s a footman, and I’m nearly certain he’s never seen me before.”

  “Why would you think that? You swan about at the Coventry like the king at a royal levee, you bear a resemblance to no less than eight siblings, one of them titled, and you are a stranger to any form of subtlety. Then too, you hold the vowels of half of polite society, and until recently, you also had a bachelor’s welcome.”

  Rye led his guest to the Aurora’s lounge, which could have served as the library of any Mayfair town house, right down to the bookshelves along the inside wall and a scattering of the week’s newspapers on end tables and sideboards.

  “You make me sound like a cross between a communicable disease and a meddling auntie,” Dorning muttered. “Your dear sister finds me charming.”

  So did Rye, in the odd moment. “Jeanette has always enjoyed a challenge. She set out to dam up a stream once, and half the shire was soon complaining of the terrible drought. My father’s steward didn’t want to get her in trouble, so I had to help him unbuild what Jeanette had spent a week constructing.”

  “She simply built it up again?”

  “I explained the problem to her—sheep will turn up thirsty under all that wool—and she settled for re-creating the Pool of London. She was six years old and intent on joining the Royal Navy.”

  Dorning scowled at one of Rye’s fondest recollections. “I don’t like that you know things about my wife that I don’t know.”

  Rye had the same curiosity where Ann Pearson was concerned. How long was her hair? Who was her favorite poet? If she could be served any meal in the world, what would the menu be and with whom would she share it?

  He’d learned one thing about her: She wasn’t a sot. Her toddy had hit her like a mortar blast, knocking her literally off her feet.

  Well, no. Not exactly. Rye had swept her off her feet—a first for him—and she had cuddled up like a weary kitten. She was small, nicely curved, and sturdy, and holding her had been balm to Rye’s heart.

  Also damned distracting. “Your siblings know things about you that Jeanette will never know,” Rye said, choosing a pair of wing chairs in a corner of the room. “In your case, that is doubtless a mercy. I haven’t the luxury of keeping you in ignorance about my own circumstances.”

  Dorning settled into a chair and crossed his legs at the knee, dandy-fashion. “This is where you explain why flowers wilt when you pass and songbirds are struck mute?”

  “To the extent I can explain. Some of it is mysterious even to me.” Before the lounge acquired any more occupants, Rye took a seat and sketched the particulars.

  At his father’s urging, he’d bought his colors. His knowledge of French language and military history had marked him for attention from the generals. His career had advanced rapidly, until the final push into France.

  At that point, his commanding officer had tasked him with occasional casual reconnaissance, and nothing had felt right since.

  “What does that mean?” Dorning asked. “Nothing has felt right?”

  “I was told from time to time go have a look around beyond the camp, to assay the mood of the countryside, to mingle with the locals and hear what I could hear. My Spanish is not as good as my French, but by then, it was certainly serviceable.”

  Dorning withdrew a knife from his boot. “But wasn’t an officer out of uniform—?”

  “Considered a spy if captured, and thus subject to torture. I was careful, my French was that of a native. I could spy with much less risk than most, but it struck me as odd that I was an ineffective spy.”

  “Ineffective. Is that how you admit you made a poor job of listening at keyholes?”

  Explaining the situation to another officer would have been difficult enough, but Dorning lacked military experience. He had no frame of reference for the story Rye was trying to relate.

  “We all listened at keyholes as boys,” Rye said, “but spying for military purposes is a different matter. You note the condition of pastureland—has a large herd of hoofed stock recently grazed down and trampled what should be a hayfield ready for scything? Is the tavern out of summer ale well before harvest? Are the women particularly nervous, and have the children all been confined indoors?”

  Dorning flipped the knife from hand to hand. “I do not think I’d enjoy the business of war.”

  “We all half hope and half fear we’re ill-suited to it, but then you survive a battle or two, and it’s like a drug. Nothing makes you feel as alive, and nothing corrodes your soul as effectively. I reported back to my superior officer after every excursion, never having seen anything of any great value. The war was going well for us by then, and everybody—including the Spanish locals—knew it.”

  “But the war did not go well for you?”

  The war was still not going well for Rye. “Talk started in camp, probably from the pickets who saw me leaving after dark in civilian attire, then returning hours later. I was not a womanizer of any repute, my facility with languages was common knowledge, and my orders were to be kept secret.”

  “With the entire camp ringed by sentries, whose sole purpose is to keep watch?”

  “Precisely, and when the French began to have better luck ambushing our patrols and supply wagons, my name was brought up in a very unflattering context. To protect me, my commanding officer convened a board of inquiry. French desperation was blamed for our misfortunes, but the cloud over my reputation never entirely dissipated.”

  Dorning slipped the knife back into his boot. “Is the crown in the habit of knighting spies?”

  “I attributed that mishap to some general or other hoping to reward me for service that could not be acknowledged. After the board of inquiry, I was tasked mostly with interviewing prisoners and managing supplies, which is exactly where you’d billet a man whose loyalty was suspect. I offered to resume active duty during the Hundred Days and was politely told to go to hell.”

  “Your name was not, then, cleared by the board of inquiry.”

  “Far from it. Any measure taken to exonerate me—the board of inquiry, the promotion to colonel, the knighthood—has only made me look more guilty. My commanding officer has insisted that ignoring the whole problem and going quietly about my business is the only prudent course, but the
scandal could well ruin my business. I am nearly certain I know the French side of this equation, but who the British traitor was, I cannot say.”

  The maître de maison appeared in the doorway, a slim, immaculately groomed man of indeterminate years and African descent.

  “Lavellais summons us,” Rye said, rising. “There’s more to the tale, but it can wait until we’ve eaten.”

  “Colonel, Mr. Dorning.” Lavellais bowed, exuding the dignified good cheer of a duke. “Your table is ready, though, Colonel, you should know that Major MacKay and Captain Powell have just arrived. If you’d rather remove to a private dining room, I can take you through the cardroom.”

  Dorning was family, Dylan and Alasdhair were more than family. The notion of serving as a social nexus for unrelated parties was novel for Rye, but probably a bit like translating between languages.

  “If Powell and MacKay are amenable,” Rye said, “my cousins can dine with us.”

  “Cousins,” Dorning said as Lavellais led them down the corridor. “My wife has grown, male cousins in Town at this unfashionable season, and this is the first I’m hearing of it. Should Jeanette plan to receive these cousins?”

  “Dylan and Alasdhair only bide in London for part of the year. They ask after Jeanette, but until recently, she was a titled widow with a limited social calendar.”

  “Widows need family more than most, Goddard. I begin to think you were raised by wolves or, more likely, by some sort of reptile that lays its eggs in the sand and then crawls off to devour feckless rabbits.”

  Papa had spent hours tramping about the hedges in search of feckless rabbits. “From what Jeanette tells me, your titled father disappeared for weeks at a time to commune with ferns and orchids. Do not attempt to annoy my cousins for your amusement, Dorning. They are former military, and their patience, compared to my own vast stores, is limited.”

  Rye managed the introductions, knowing full well that both Dylan and Alasdhair were keeping questions about Dorning behind their teeth for now. While the meal was served, the talk remained general—who had taken a bad fall following the hounds, who was hiding from creditors.