Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  “Must I have a downfall?”

  Another smile, more piratical. “Frankly, no. The English became fond of champagne before we French saw it as anything other than a failure of proper winemaking, but then, the English had sturdier bottles than we did, thanks to their endless supply of coal-fired furnaces. If enough Englishmen become enamored of effervescent wine, then London will soon be flooded with others like us, peddling their French vintages. France can make a fortune off the Englishman’s thirst. I like this plan very much.”

  “Sparkling wine strikes me as a libation that ladies should enjoy,” Rye said, though what had that to do with anything?

  “Everybody should enjoy champagne,” Fournier said, finishing his brandy. “L’empereur had the right of it in this as in so many things: ‘Champagne! In victory one deserves it, in defeat one needs it.’ Napoleon’s dictum applies to life, does it not, for what is life but a series of victories and defeats?"

  Rye did not want to like Fournier, did not want to find him charming and shrewd, and yet, he was both. “For some, there’s apparently time in life to spread treasonous rumors about me. If I went back to France with my tail between my legs, you could make your fortune that much faster.”

  Fournier took his empty glass to the sideboard and resumed his seat before the fire. “You are still at war, Goddard. You suspect ambushes behind every stirring of amorous hedgehogs in the English undergrowth. The London market has room for us both, and for others besides, but we must each find our place in that market. My tenure at the Coventry was limited by the size of Dorning’s demand. His club prospers, his orders for champagne grew quickly, and now lesser venues are copying his signature gesture of hospitality. Unlike Dorning, those lesser venues do not cater to discerning palates.”

  “You can charge them more for a humbler product.”

  “Precisely, and there are more of them, so I need not rely on the whim of a single customer to whom all my best inventory is promised. I will part from Dorning without rancor, because he has you to meet his demand at prices he can afford to pay. All is well, the customers are happily swilling champagne, and I need not worry that you will accost me in some dark alley with revenge on your mind because I have put you out of business. Am I not a genius among men?”

  “And so humble, Fournier. I do not take revenge in dark alleys.”

  “Neither do I, and if I did manage to destroy your business, I would court the scorn of an army of old Frenchwomen. My grandmother would haunt me, and this is not a fate I would wish on any man.”

  Rye took a final sip of his brandy, not sure what to make of the conversation. “Somebody wants me utterly disgraced.”

  “I am not that somebody, though it strikes me that you should tell your old women of your concerns.”

  They are not my old women. “Why involve them in what could quickly become a matter of honor?”

  “Une affaire d'honneur. Bah. This is how Englishmen attempt to make their drunken stupidity appear brave. The old ladies have granddaughters and goddaughters in service, working as lady’s maids and companions. They hear everything. The nephews and grandsons are fencing masters, dancing masters, and drawing masters in the best English households, and they hear even more. Whoever speaks against you does not want to confront you over pistols or swords, so perhaps your foe is a woman.”

  Not a cheerful thought, but worth pondering. Rye had accomplished what he’d come to do, so he rose and set his glass on the sideboard. “I have been notably careful not to give offense to any ladies.”

  “You are a monk,” Fournier said, getting to his feet. “This is not good for the animal spirits. The French and English parts of you would agree on that. Might your French half do me a favor, Goddard?”

  “If I cannot meet demand at the Coventry, I will tell Dorning to maintain an overflow contract with you.” Rye could make that offer because he knew damned well he could meet the Coventry’s demand, easily.

  “Most generous of you, but that is not the favor I seek. Would you put in a word for me at the Aurora Club?”

  “Is that request an ambush, Fournier?” Though the Aurora already had several Frenchmen on its rolls, as well as the occasional German professor and at least one American whose fortune had origins in trade.

  “I merely make a polite request, Goddard. I must ingratiate myself with the club set if I want such organizations to purchase my champagne. I cannot aspire to the more exalted institutions in St. James’s, but one must make a start. My sons, should I be so blessed, can build on the foundation I lay, but not if I neglect to purchase the bricks.”

  Every Frenchman was a philosopher at heart, according to Tante Lucille. “I will vouch for your business integrity and gentlemanly demeanor. I will not criticize your champagne.”

  Fournier clapped him on the back. “You will damn with faint praise, eh? I will not attempt to sell my wine to the Aurora, you understand, but I will learn of the house parties, who has a daughter making a come out, and so forth. Then I send a short letter humbly offering my wares, and business does not intrude on a social venue. The English must have their crotchets, non?”

  Much business transpired in the clubs, which Fournier would soon realize. Rye suspected, however, that Fournier’s motivation was subtler than mere mercantile ambition. He would offer his wares, but he would also inch closer to acceptance in the middling level of English society where much of the work was done, and increasingly, much wealth also accumulated.

  “I will walk out with you,” Fournier said, escorting Rye to the front door and passing him his greatcoat. “I have an appointment at Angelo’s. Do you fence, Goddard?”

  “I do not.” Rye did not have time, and—might as well be honest—he had no taste for turning a lethal pursuit into mere sport, nor any longing for the company of those who did.

  “So sérieux, Goddard.” Fournier donned a flowing black cape and tapped a top hat onto his head, which made his height even more formidable. He tilted the hat at a jaunty angle and wrapped a maroon silk scarf about his neck. The embroidery on the scarf echoed the pattern of his waistcoat, a detail few Englishmen would have aspired to.

  His finishing touch was a cherrywood walking stick with a dark red gemstone set into the top.

  “Garnet,” Fournier said, winking. “I cannot afford rubies, but the garnet is said to bring peace, health, and prosperity to the home. Perhaps if I acquire those blessings, a wife won’t be far behind.”

  He led the way out into the dreary day, tipping his hat to passing ladies and generously rewarding the crossing sweepers. Rye stalked along at Fournier’s side, wondering why an exponent of a foreign and defeated nation should strut around London as if he’d been given the freedom of the city, while a knighted soldier endured slander and falsehoods.

  “You don’t miss France?” Rye asked as they waited for a phaeton to rattle past.

  “I miss France every day, but I thank the good God that I have a livelihood and my health. Too many men brood for too long, Goddard, and that is not my nature. I go to fence with Philippe Deschamps, a former officer in the Grande Armée. Perhaps you know him? He was once a charming young rascal, and now he’s all sour and silent. Woman trouble, one supposes, along with a surfeit of bitter regrets. He should drink more champagne.”

  “Is that your solution to all woes?”

  “You have a better one?”

  A quiet hour with Ann Pearson had done much to restore Rye’s sense of pleasure in life. “Not at the moment. Give Deschamps my regards.”

  “I will do that, and, Goddard?” Fournier stepped close. “The bottling technique of Madame Clicquot, with turning the bottles and the ice?”

  “Icy brine. What of it?”

  “You do this with your champagne?”

  Champagne had fizz, but it also tended to muddiness, due to the dead yeast that remained after the first fermentation. Madame Clicquot’s technique, turning the bottles upside down to allow the sediment to settle in the neck, where it was more easily remove
d, was only a few years old.

  “We use her technique,” Rye said, “and see much less waste as a result. We immerse the neck of the upside-down bottle in freezing brine. The frozen lees are disgorged naturally before the sugar is added for the next phase.”

  Fournier was listening intently, also—for once—scowling. “This undertaking is complicated.”

  This undertaking, and the desire to learn the details of the new process, were also at least half the reason for Fournier’s jovial welcome. To have that motive in plain sight was something of a relief.

  “I will send you a letter of introduction, Fournier, so your winemakers can pay a call on my own and discuss the innovations in detail. Turning the bottles and so forth is tedious, but the results are worth it.”

  Fournier took his hand. “My grandmother would have liked you. Good day, Goddard, and thank you.”

  He sauntered away, exuding great good cheer, while Rye turned his steps for home and pondered the encounter. Ann might be able to make sense of it, while Rye was puzzled. Fournier had presented himself as more of an ally than a competitor, and yet, he was off to frolic with Deschamps. Was that a casual connection? A warning?

  Could a woman be behind Rye’s troubles?

  Rye was arguing with Otter over the need to learn Latin—the boys, with the exception of Victor, were already fluent in French—when another aspect of the meeting with Fournier dawned upon him.

  Fournier had not once referred to Rye as either Colonel or Sir Orion. The entire conversation had been conducted with last names only, and Rye had been comfortable with that.

  He’d been simply Goddard to Fournier, no rank, no title, and he’d preferred to do without them—a realization he would also discuss with Ann when next he called upon her.

  * * *

  “I did not know if offering a tea tray would be coals to Newcastle for a professional cook,” Mrs. Dorning said, smiling serenely from her corner of the sofa, “but you must enjoy the occasional cup.”

  For Ann to take tea with Mrs. Dorning would be to cross a social boundary, though not one of unprecedented dimensions. In modest homes, the lady of the house might enjoy a cup of tea with her housekeeper or cook while considering menus or reviewing ledgers. In modest homes, the lady of the house was not the widow of a marquess or married to an earl’s brother.

  “I enjoy any chance to get off my feet, ma’am,” Ann said, scooting forward a little on the chair cushions, “and a cup of tea is always welcome.”

  Her ladyship—Society would probably afford Jeannette Dorning that courtesy, though she was strictly speaking no longer entitled to it—poured from an exquisitely decorative Sèvres service, all gilt and pink and blue flowers.

  “I was hoping you might bring Hannah with you, but then, I did not make that apparent, did I?”

  “Shall I fetch her?” The tea was fragrant and piping hot, with a rich reddish hue. Hannah would have enjoyed a cup, though Ann suspected she’d enjoy more catching up on Henry’s endless store of gossip.

  “How is Hannah adjusting to her new station?” Mrs. Dorning asked when Ann had been offered good shortbread—her own recipe—and finished her first cup of tea.

  Ann knew the civilities expected over tea in part because she’d gone to a proper girls’ school, but also because Grandmama had insisted. Gentry could be higher sticklers than the nobs, or so Papa had often grumbled.

  Ann was gentry, landed gentry as it happened. How easy it was to forget that, after two years of Jules’s carping about everything from how thickly Ann sliced a ham to how long she left her croissants to bake.

  “Hannah is taking to the kitchen with cautious enthusiasm,” Ann said. “She’s a hard worker, pays attention, and wants to excel. Barring a mishap, she ought to make an excellent cook someday.” Not a chef, of course. Women could not be chefs. They fed the vast majority of George’s loyal subjects, and had from time immemorial, but they could not be chefs.

  No matter how competent such a woman might be with both French and English cuisine, no matter that she’d read every word Carême had written, and tried many of his published recipes too.

  “Are more apprentices needed?” Mrs. Dorning asked. “I don’t mean to pry, but Mr. Dorning’s approach to the Coventry is to hire good people to manage the various domains and to stand back unless asked to intervene. He focuses on the patrons because that is a host’s singular duty.”

  Ann nibbled her shortbread and pondered the possibility that Mrs. Dorning was attempting to spy on her husband’s business operations. That made no sense, when husband and wife were reported to be very much in each other’s pockets.

  “The kitchen is always busy,” Ann said, “but your question would be better directed to Jules Delacourt, ma’am. He oversees the whole kitchen.”

  Mrs. Dorning made the sort of face that Ann reserved for sour milk. “Monsieur Delacourt has an entire arsenal of flattery to aim at me, but when I want an honest answer, he turns up vague and philosophical. ‘Who can say what is enough, madame?’” She’d taken on Jules’s accent and deepened her voice to mimic him.

  “You have him to the life.”

  “You should hear Mr. Dorning’s impression,” Mrs. Dorning replied. “As a boy, Mr. Dorning excelled at aping his older brothers. May I tell you something in confidence, Miss Pearson?”

  Ann wanted to sprint for the door rather than find herself caught up in a marital intrigue. “Of course, though you must know my first loyalty is to the club.”

  “My second loyalty might well be to the club, given what it means to my husband,” Mrs. Dorning replied. “Jules has asked that another undercook be hired, a Frenchman, and they do not come cheaply. Mr. Dorning assented on a trial basis, because he felt that sop to Jules’s dignity necessary after taking on Hannah at my brother’s request. My question relates to the boys in my brother’s household. Has Hannah said anything about them?”

  What manner of intrigue was this? “She mentions them by name from time to time. Theodoric—she calls him Otter—likes buttered turnips. Bertie forgets to wash his hands.” John knew all manner of filthy songs. Louis was their scout. A new boy, Victor, seemed to have Debrett’s off by heart as a result of watching from his street corner and memorizing the crests of passing coaches.

  “Would they make passable clerks?”

  “Mrs. Dorning, I hardly know. Hannah describes the boys as lively. Colonel Goddard has them attend to various chores and activities in the morning because they can’t sit still for lessons in the afternoon otherwise. They are not scholars by nature, to hear her tell it.”

  Mrs. Dorning rose and went to the window, which overlooked the street running between her home and her husband’s place of business.

  “I want to lighten my brother’s load, Miss Pearson. Orion would never confide in me, never hint that I might be of use to him, but I hear things.”

  Orion Goddard confided in Ann, some. She hoped as time went on, he’d confide in her more, but then what? He had domesticity written all over him, while Ann’s ambition was to run the Coventry’s kitchen some fine day. Passion was lovely for an interlude or an affair, but where did Ann see her dealings with Orion Goddard ending?

  “What have you heard, Mrs. Dorning?”

  She twitched at the curtain sashes, though the two sides of the drapery hung in perfect symmetry. “I haven’t been Jeanette Goddard for ten years. Ladies new to Town know me only as the Marquess of Tavistock’s widow, recently married to the youngest Dorning brother.”

  And thus they did not know of her connection to the colonel. “Somebody cast aspersion on Colonel Goddard within your hearing?”

  Mrs. Dorning left off fussing the curtains and faced Ann. “Somebody referred to him as the disgraced colonel, which occasioned knowing glances and a slight shake of the speaker’s head, as if to say, ‘What a pity, about poor Goddard.’ Minerva Dennis has no business spreading talk like that, but everybody else in the group appeared to know what and whom she alluded to.”

  �
�Minerva Dennis has been pretending to know all the latest talk since she first flirted with the drawing master at finishing school. She comes around the Coventry with her brother and claims her papa doesn’t mind in the least.” Jules would say such a woman needed marrying, but from Ann’s perspective, Minerva would have been better served with a cauldron and some otherworldly familiars.

  “Miss Pearson, how do you know her?”

  “We are to trade confidences, then?”

  Mrs. Dorning nodded once.

  “I attended two years of finishing school with her. She is a cat, and she likely knows nothing about the colonel save some snippet she overheard her brother repeat. Dexter Dennis was in the military, as were many of his friends.” Dennis came to the Coventry to lose money, in the opinion of the waiters, for he was more skilled at draining the champagne glasses and decimating the buffet than placing his bets.

  “You took Hannah to call upon Colonel Goddard’s household last week,” Mrs. Dorning said. “Have you any idea what disgrace Miss Dennis might have referred to?”

  The colonel himself did not know, but it wasn’t Ann’s place to reveal that. “You should ask your brother, ma’am. In my experience, he is both honest and honorable.”

  Mrs. Dorning returned to the sofa. “He is also my brother and unfailingly careful with me. Rye blames himself for my first marriage, but Rye had nothing to do with it. Papa wanted his darling daughter to have a title, and I wanted to make my papa proud of me. If I’d known my vows would result in my brother spending years at war…”

  What was wrong with English fathers that their daughters longed so desperately for paternal approval?