Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  Rye instinctively rejected that theory, though he’d have to examine it in detail later. “You could put a stop to the speculation, if that’s the case.”

  “No, Goddard, I cannot. If I protest too loudly in your defense, you will only look that much more guilty. I cannot abide that a loyal officer is being subjected to slander, but trust me, towering indifference is your best weapon against this foe. That, or a timely remove to your French holdings.”

  Agricola stamped a hoof, apparently ready to return to his stall and the pile of hay awaiting him there.

  “If I abandon London now, I lose what custom I have remaining and gain no orders for next year’s Season. Autumn and winter are when I most need to be tending to business, or by summer, I will be in dire straits.”

  “Conduct your business by correspondence.”

  Rye had tried that. His letters generally went unanswered or merited only a pro forma response doubtless drafted by a clerk.

  “If I knew why I am the object of such aspersion, I might more readily stop it.”

  Upchurch nudged his horse a few steps away. “Goddard, you were a fine officer, so perhaps you can consider this by way of a direct order: Give it up. Somebody has nothing better to do than fan the flames of gossip where you are concerned. Don’t dignify that campaign with return fire. March right past and continue on to France.”

  “If I do that,” Rye said slowly, “I confirm my guilt. I abandon the land of my birth and appear to seek safety in the society of my vanquished enemy.” Would the boys adjust happily to France, the boys born and left to make shift on London’s streets? Would they abandon Hannah, so new to her apprenticeship, to ramble around the French countryside?

  Rye did not want to abandon Hannah, did not want to abandon Jeanette when he and she were so new to their rapprochement, and most assuredly did not want to abandon his prospects with Ann Pearson.

  “You won’t leave England, even for a time?” Upchurch asked.

  “I cannot. I am only recently returned from a prolonged visit to France.”

  “Then I will continue to do my duty by you, Colonel, discreetly of course, and Melisande will add her quiet word or two in your favor. I wish you a pleasant day and every success with your vineyards.” He touched his hat brim and spurred his horse into a brisk trot up the path.

  Agricola swung his nose around to sniff at the toe of Rye’s boot.

  “I’m as puzzled as you are,” Rye said, giving the horse leave to walk on. “Upchurch makes sense—he’s always made sense—but he also knows more than he’s saying.” And Upchurch had ever been one to ignore troublesome realities—men brawling outside the mess tent, a lack of adequate grazing where he’d chosen to make camp, Melisande’s more determined admirers…

  Rye was pondering the whole exchange as Agricola paused in his progress to leave a steaming pile of manure on the path. Had the horse not stopped, Rye might have missed the horseman half hidden along a row of plane trees.

  “Deschamps, good day.”

  The Frenchman rode forth on an elegant bay. “Goddard, bonjour. Comment allez-vous?”

  “I am well enough, but when in England, I speak English.” Mostly. He’d probably slipped into French when kissing Ann.

  “Very well, then we speak English. How was your chat with yon brigadier?”

  “Pleasant. Were you eavesdropping?” Deschamps was dressed in the first stare of London fashion, but he was no longer the charming young aid-de-camp. His eyes held a coldness, and the left side of his riding jacket lay slightly askew at the waist.

  He was armed, when merely hacking out in a public park in broad daylight.

  “I was trying to avoid an encounter with Upchurch, if you must know. He has aged, and old soldiers are prone to tiresome reminiscences. I hear you peddle champagne these days.”

  In a former life, Rye had known exactly how to deal with Deschamps. The Frenchman had been the open spy, the delegate given safe passage into the enemy camp by the exigencies of war. Rye himself had performed that office on occasion, though infrequently.

  In that former life, Rye could commiserate with a French counterpart about the horrors of war without in any way compromising either party’s determination to win that war. But this version of Deschamps was a puzzle. He had no charm, no warmth, no sense of toiling along parallel paths that were likely to intersect mostly on a battlefield, to the manly regret of all concerned.

  His dark good looks were turning sharp-edged, his gaze bitter.

  “What brings you to London, Deschamps?”

  Deschamps cocked his head, a ghost of his old insouciance in the gesture. “The fine weather. The excellent company. The magnificent entertainments.”

  Rye glanced up at the sunny sky. “You have a knife in each of your boots, a pistol at your side, and a pocket full of sand, the better to blind footpads who think to take you unaware. That horse is blood stock, fast enough to outdistance any who give pursuit. You have enemies in London and would not come here but for dire necessity.”

  Deschamps urged his gelding forward, so Rye allowed Agricola to toddle on as well.

  “This is why I lost my enthusiasm for warfare,” Deschamps said. “The generals can hold all the peace conferences they like, but that doesn’t create peace. It only creates terms of surrender and a means of enforcing an armistice. Your champagne is quite good, I’m told.”

  “The best to leave France.” What game was Deschamps playing?

  “Then I wish you every success in that venture, Colonel, and in all of your endeavors. Our paths had best diverge before we break from the trees, non? London has eyes and ears, and not all of them are loyal to you. Some of them quite the opposite, I believe. But then, you know that and know to be careful as you navigate the streets of this fair city.” He tipped his hat and turned his horse down a smaller path leading off to the left.

  What in blazing hell was that about? Rye turned Agricola for home and wished that he’d spent his morning sipping coffee in his office rather than let himself be lured into the park on a promise of sunshine and fresh air.

  * * *

  Jules had gone quiet, and the whole kitchen felt the tension. For the third day in a row, he was at his post shortly after noon, sending Ann—and Hannah—the sort of brooding looks that boded ill.

  “Pardon me, ladies,” Henry said. “Mrs. Dorning is asking for a word with you, Miss Pearson.” Hannah looked up from the bushel of peas she’d be expected to shell before sunset. The object of the exercise was not only to prepare a sufficient quantity for the evening buffet, but also to give Hannah so much practice at a simple chore that she became efficient at it.

  Already, her nimble fingers had the pattern down: twist off one end of the pod, twist off the other, split, run a thumb down the middle to dislodge the peas, discard the husk into a slop bucket.

  “I won’t be gone long,” Ann said, untying her apron. “When the bushel is done, you will have some bread and butter, Hannah.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I can help for a bit, shall I?” Henry offered.

  “Wash your hands before you touch one of my peas, Henry Boardman,” Hannah replied, “and you’re to help, not shirk your own duties while you gabble my ear off.”

  How well Hannah knew the adolescent male. Henry saluted with mock seriousness and marched over to the sink.

  “Mrs. Dorning is the colonel’s sister, isn’t she?” Hannah said.

  “She is.”

  “He worries about her.”

  Very likely, Orion worried equally about Hannah. “You can visit the colonel and the boys again on our next half-day afternoon, Hannah. Or you could write a note, and I’m sure Henry would be happy to deliver it for you.” Henry was all of sixteen to Hannah’s thirteen or fourteen. The exercise would do him and his esteem in Hannah’s eyes good.

  “I could send them a recipe for Mrs. Murphy,” Hannah said. “The crepes, maybe?”

  “The boys would love your crepes. Perhaps you could make them a ba
tch when next you visit, but ask Mrs. Murphy to help you with the pear compote.”

  Ann hung her apron on a peg in the hallway, grabbed her cloak, and descended the steps that led to the tunnel passing between the Coventry and the Dorning dwelling on the opposite side of the street. The wine cellar and pantries ran most of the length of the street, and during the day, the passage was kept unlocked for Mr. Dorning’s convenience.

  “Thinking to introduce your protégé to a fine claret?” Jules emerged from the shadows between two rows of wine bottles.

  “I’m thinking to heed a summons from Mrs. Dorning. Perhaps you’re the one introducing himself to the claret.”

  With Jules, to show weakness was to invite constant harassment. Ann had taken nearly a year to figure that out. He wanted only the ruthlessly focused in his kitchen, and he wore down the rest or taught them to keep their distance. Ann understood his methods, though she neither liked nor respected him for using them.

  Perhaps the military was like that, harsh by design because the stakes were so much higher than a successful torte or roast. Ann would have to ask Orion when next they met.

  “I’m making room for the next shipment of champagne,” Jules said, sauntering forth. “The footmen lose and break too many bottles, or claim to.”

  Jules helped himself to the cellar’s inventory without limit and occasionally ordered some bottles opened for the rest of the kitchen staff. The footmen, dealers, and waiters never imbibed during working hours, because the customers came in close proximity to them.

  Jules’s sporadic largesse was part of any tyrant’s strategy for maintaining control. Bread and circuses between battles and tantrums. When the wine did flow in the kitchen, Ann abstained. A mug of porter with the midday meal was fine, but to add alcohol to a long evening of work around knives, flames, and boiling saucepots was asking for trouble.

  One of the first lessons any apprentice learned.

  “I have never quite satisfied myself as to what sort of wine you would be, Pearson.” Jules prowled from between the racks, gazing down at Ann as if she were a plucked pullet that had yet to be consigned to a particular recipe.

  “I am not a wine, I am a busy undercook, and Mrs. Dorning has requested a moment of my time. I’ll bid you good day.”

  “It is a good day,” Jules said, taking up a lean against the wine rack. “My new sous-chef de cuisine starts this evening. Pierre comes very highly recommended.”

  The wiser course would have been to bustle away, to pretend to have not heard that comment. “Your new assistant?”

  “My new sous-chef.” Jules smiled as if he spoke about his firstborn son. “Pierre DeGussie has worked in Paris. He’s very ambitious, very competent. He claims to have more recipes in his head than Carême could dream of, each one more delicious and beautiful than the next. You might have to help him with his English cookery books.”

  “A man with that many brilliant ideas will hardly need to read the humble recipes we publish here in London. Are we so shorthanded that you need another assistant?” And a sous-chef, not an undercook. How much was the talented Pierre to be paid, and was his lodging included in his remuneration?

  Jules gave Ann a look designed to infuriate her—pitying, patient, a little sad. “You have been with me for more than two years, Pearson. I have seen your recipes, tried your wine pairings. You work hard, but the Coventry’s kitchen requires the sort of sophistication only a true chef can bring to the job. It’s as well you have an apprentice to train, for I’ve no doubt you will leave us soon enough for the joys of motherhood and domesticity.”

  He waggled a bottle of wine. “That is always the way with les femmes. A few good years in the kitchen, then your true nature must have its due. There is no shame in this. No less authority than the good God Himself has ordained that it must be so.”

  Jules turning up pious was absolute proof that he was scheming, if ambushing Ann with news of a new assistant chef hadn’t all but declared his intentions.

  “I will look forward to meeting Monsieur DeGussie later today,” Ann said. “And if he needs any help with his English, I will instruct Hannah to provide it. She’s quite literate, and her French is good.” Hannah had those skills thanks to her own hard work and Orion Goddard’s ability to see the day when France and England were neighbors instead of former enemies.

  Jules saluted with his bottle. “Ever gracious of you, as always, Pearson. Please give my regards to Mrs. Dorning.”

  Ann dipped a curtsey and left, though even that minor display of manners sat ill with her. She did not work for Jules, she worked for the Coventry. Jules had not hired her, the previous owner had, and Ann hoped only the current owner could fire her.

  Not a theory she wanted to test. She mentally left the exchange with Jules in the cellars, where it belonged, and presented a cheerful greeting to Mrs. Dorning.

  Chapter Ten

  “Goddard.” Xavier Fournier rose from a wing chair before a blazing hearth, his hand outstretched. “This is an honor and a surprise. You must sit and join me for a cup of tea. Or would brandy suit? One knows not whether to approach you from your English side or your French side.”

  Fournier treated Rye to a charming grin and a crushing handshake. He was a dark-haired bear of a man who had taken to English fashions like a recruit to his grog. Fournier wore three watch chains across an exquisitely embroidered waistcoat. The fabric was maroon satin, the stitching blue, green, purple, and gold in a fantastic array of birds and flowers.

  The pin in his cravat was gold tipped with nacre, which strictly speaking was allowable for daytime, though unusual. Rye felt about as well turned out by comparison as a raven would next to a peacock.

  “I won’t take up much of your time,” he said, “and you need not trouble with the hospitable displays. I come on a matter of business.”

  Fournier’s smile dimmed. “You want to buy my champagne. You have your foot in the door at the Coventry, but lack the inventory to meet the demand. I congratulate you on your good fortune, but that is no reason to neglect the civilities.”

  “Brandy, then.” The day was chilly and gray, as the next five months were likely to be chilly and gray.

  “Brandy is the French choice. One applauds.” Fournier poured from cut crystal decanters on a rose marble-topped sideboard. The scrollwork and ornate brass fittings proclaimed the piece an example of Louis XIV cabinetry.

  The rest of Fournier’s office was furnished with a similar blend of tastefully displayed wealth and understated style. His carpet was Savonnerie, his curtains delicate Brussels lace. His andirons were topped with brass fleur-de-lis polished to a high shine.

  Ann would notice the scent, though all Rye could detect was a faint fragrance of sandalwood that probably emanated from his host.

  “To a world that adores our champagne,” Fournier said, touching his glass to Rye’s, “and pays a good price for it. I hope Dorning is not getting too much of a family discount from you?”

  The brandy was excellent, mellow and fiery, complex and satisfying. Ann would enjoy it for the nose alone. She might also enjoy Fournier’s gracious good cheer, though Rye found his host’s expansive charm unsettling.

  “Dorning isn’t getting any family discount, not that my arrangement with him is your business.”

  “Good for you,” Fournier said, sipping his drink. “And Dorning pays on time and doesn’t play games about broken bottles or mislaid cases. I was never successful getting Jules Delacourt to develop recipes to flatter my champagne, but then, Jules is a cook, not a sommelier. Shall we pace around one another hissing and spitting like lovesick tomcats, or sit before the fire like gentlemen?”

  Rye took a seat before the fire, for good brandy ought to be savored. “My errand is actually somewhat insulting—to you.”

  “Not very English of you, to offer insults to my face. The Scots will insult a man openly, but so cleverly he doesn’t notice until the whole room silently mocks him. The Irish speak eloquently with their fists, b
ut the English murmur in their gilded tents.”

  A biblical allusion, and apt. “Somebody is murmuring about me and my past, Fournier. Is that somebody you?”

  Fournier took the opposite wing chair and crossed his legs at the knee, like the Continental dandy he pretended to be.

  “Non. You do not deserve ill treatment from me, and—quel dommage—your champagne doesn’t either. I serve a good wine, you serve a fine wine. The question is, can the English tell the difference, and are they willing to pay for quality when they bother to notice it? You hope yes, I hope no.”

  That query was, in fact, the pivotal point upon which Rye’s business would prosper or flounder. Would the English pay more for higher quality? The temptation to explore the topic further with Fournier was distracting.

  “You aren’t putting it about that I sold out to the French while yet wearing a British uniform?”

  Fournier’s dark gaze lost any hint of jovial bonhomie. “You famously did not sell out, which is why you now support half the old women among the émigrés. This is common knowledge in certain quarters.”

  “I do not support half the old women among the émigrés.”

  Fournier held up his glass, the amber liquid reflecting the flames dancing on the hearth. “Lucille Roberts, as is known to all the world, presides over a henhouse full of elderly ladies and their various impecunious nephews and un-dowered nieces. The grannies would canonize you if they could, and because you look after them, their families are in your debt. The most common reason to curry favor among people who have neither wealth nor influence is guilt, though the English call this charité. Ergo, you remained loyal to the English half of your heritage, and you are atoning to the French half with your generosity.”

  The brandy made a good first impression and improved upon that with further acquaintance. “You don’t consider basic decency a reason to look after the elderly?”

  “Basic decency is fine for one’s immediate family and donations to the poor box, but it does not sell many cases of champagne. Tell me of the slander, Goddard. I like to think of you suffering, for God has surely blessed your vineyards to an unfair degree. I prefer that you suffer for some heroic fault—vanity, perhaps—which does not appear to afflict you, if your tailoring is any indication. Maybe stubbornness will be your downfall. I can but hope, non?”