“The colonel was a good soldier, ma’am. I believe he regards his years of service with pride.”
“Then why is somebody implying that he blundered, Miss Pearson? My own in-laws were guilty of spreading unkind talk regarding my brother, but now I find others are doing worse than that. Why is Minerva Dennis, who has nothing better to do than experiment with new coiffures, slandering Orion over her glass of punch?”
“Perhaps you should ask her.” Somebody should. For military men to mutter and murmur among themselves was one thing, but for the talk to spread to female ears was another and an altogether worse development.
“I am tempted to. I am tempted to call upon her with Mr. Dorning at my side. Sycamore has a way of charming and threatening at the same time, and he takes any slight to family seriously.”
Ann had heard Mr. Dorning and his brother Ash going at each other with raised voices on any number of occasions. Ash Dorning was far less in evidence at the Coventry since he’d married, while
Sycamore Dorning’s marriage had resulted in his greater involvement at the club.
“Might you not first call upon the colonel?” Ann asked. “My guess is he’d rather you confront him than resort to stratagems involving Mr. Dorning.”
“Orion is aware of the talk, then?” Mrs. Dorning sprung that trap as she casually topped up Ann’s tea cup.
“You’d have to ask him, ma’am.”
Ann’s hostess set down the teapot and sat back. “He already has your loyalty, doesn’t he? He does that. Rye has the gift of commanding respect, which makes this slight from Minerva Dennis all the more alarming.”
“You really ought to talk to your brother, ma’am.”
“Mr. Dorning says the same thing, and he has long practice dealing with family in difficult situations. Sycamore will find positions for Rye’s household infantry, but Sycamore will not offer that help until it’s clearly needed.”
That help was needed. If Ann knew anything about Orion Goddard, besides that he was a highly skilled kisser, she knew he worried over those boys, even more than he worried for his own standing.
“Call on him, ma’am. He won’t ask for help. That he asked me to take on Hannah was a matter of dire necessity and because Hannah herself had him send for me.”
Mrs. Dorning turned a curious gaze on Ann. “Did she? Did she really? Have another piece of shortbread, Miss Pearson. This recipe is my favorite, and I am something of a connoisseur of shortbread.”
It’s my recipe. Ann took a bite rather than make that announcement. “Will you call on your brother, Mrs. Dorning?”
“I don’t want to offend him, but Sycamore has heard that Orion’s champagne is not much in demand, despite its superb quality. I suspect Rye might have to remove to France purely for the sake of economy, and six growing boys must be a drain on his exchequer.”
Remove to France? Well, that made sense, and yet… Ann did not want Rye Goddard removing to France. Not yet, not when she’d only recently stumbled upon him. His kisses were delightful, but she thought, too, of how he’d tried to shelter his fading roses from the harsh wind, of his distress at Hannah’s discomfort, of his unwillingness to put Ann to the trouble of a tea tray.
He was a good, dear man, and he should not have to leave behind all he valued because of some mean-spirited military prattling.
“Six growing boys are likely a drain on the colonel’s patience as much as they are on his exchequer. What specifically do you like about this shortbread?”
Mrs. Dorning considered the two pieces remaining on the plate. “Other than the flavor being a perfect balance between short and sweet, the texture is superior. Shortbread can quickly become as hard as a clay brick, suitable only for dipping, but this shortbread stays light and delectable.”
Precisely. “The secret is to cut the biscuits out and set them on a sheet to bake, but to let them sit for a time first. The dough dries out so the baked shortbread is lighter, and the sweetness concentrates. I also use brown sugar instead of white, and you mustn’t forget a dash of salt.”
The variations from that point were endless—vanilla, lavender, cinnamon, orange, lemon… Rather like Orion Goddard’s kisses, each one unique and more delectable than the last.
“It’s your recipe, isn’t it, Miss Pearson?”
“Yes.”
“What should I do about my brother?”
Why ask me? Except Ann suspected she knew why: Mrs. Dorning hadn’t any other siblings of her own to consult, and Rye had prevailed on Ann to solve Hannah’s situation. That he would ask Ann for that consideration had been extraordinary.
“What would your husband tell you to do, ma’am?”
“He’d tell me to risk offending Rye by offering support before it’s needed, except if I do offend my brother, he will never ask for my help. I am not Sycamore, to take six rejections as evidence that I must apply myself harder on my seventh try.”
“Then don’t offer your help,” Ann said, rising. “Apologize for being the reason he was sent to war. He won’t see that coming.”
“I was the reason he was sent to war.”
“Tell him that, and go from there. I must return to my duties at the Coventry, but thank you for the tea.”
Mrs. Dorning rose, her smile slight but mischievous. “And for the shortbread?”
“Especially for the shortbread. Good day, ma’am.”
They exchanged curtseys, which felt curiously appropriate, and Ann returned to the kitchen just in time to see Jules bump into Hannah’s bucket of pea pod shells. The mess went everywhere, Jules went off into a flight of French insults, and Henry’s gaze became a careful blank.
“No matter,” Ann said, sailing forth before she’d even removed her cloak. “Your clumsiness is easily remedied, Monsieur, and we will have the mess you’ve created cleaned up in a moment. These little blunders are nothing to be upset about.”
Henry blinked, Jules fell silent mid-curse, and Hannah scurried off for a dustpan and broom. Ann set the bowl of shelled peas on the counter—Jules had doubtless been aiming to spill those too—and knew that war had been declared in the kitchen.
And if he hadn’t been before, Jules was surely her enemy now.
Chapter Eleven
Orion Goddard showed up on Ann’s doorstep on her half day exactly as he’d promised, and she nearly sent him away.
“Something has vexed you,” he said as Ann closed the door behind him. “Tell me.”
He made no move to take off his greatcoat, but stood in her foyer, hat in hand, gazing down at her. He looked as if he’d wait until spring, did she ask it of him.
“I fear I will be poor company today, Colonel.”
“Rye. The war is over, I’m told. I will leave you in peace if that’s what you want, but allow me to pass this along first.” He withdrew a bottle from one inside pocket and a paper-wrapped parcel from another. “A token of my esteem and a snack.”
“Brandy?” Excellent brandy, judging by the label, the kind Mr. Dorning kept in his office rather than behind the bar. “And gingerbread, still warm.” The aroma alone gave away the nature of the snack.
“The weather turns disagreeable, and you have a professional’s interest in fine spirits. I thought Miss Julia and Miss Diana might appreciate the occasional nip as well. The gingerbread is because I found the scent enticing on such a chilly day.”
“The ladies do have a medicinal dram,” Ann said. “Nightly, when Miss Julia’s rheumatism is acting up. Thank you.” The cordiality of the gestures—brandy and warm gingerbread—interrupted the rhythm of Ann’s bad mood, as did the colonel—Orion’s—delicacy.
He had the gifts of silence and patience.
“I am at peril for losing my post,” Ann said, taking Orion’s hat from him and hanging it on a hook. “I have failed to be meek and submissive, failed to treat the addition of one needed apprentice as the great imposition on Jules Delacourt’s generosity that it isn’t. Your coat, please.”
“Just because I am
here doesn’t mean you have to receive me, Ann. For the past two years, my own commanding officer has been out when I call upon him. This is your home, not Delacourt’s kitchen.”
And that was why she wanted Orion Goddard to stay, because she needed a reminder that life wasn’t all about Jules’s moods and tantrums, because she needed fresh gingerbread she hadn’t had to make herself.
“Surrender your coat, sir. I have looked forward to your visit, and you are right: This is my home, and here at least I should be safe from the drama at the Coventry.”
He passed over his coat, so much heavier than the cloaks Ann and her housemates wore. She took a whiff and smiled. Lavender, gingerbread, horse.
“How is our Hannah?” Orion asked when Ann had shown him into the parlor. “And no, you need not get out the tea tray. The gingerbread is for you and the ladies. I’ll pick up another loaf for the boys on my way home. Greetings, your highness.” He offered Boreas a friendly scratch on the shoulders and left the cat purring on the desk blotter.
“Our Hannah is a hard worker,” Ann said, setting the brandy bottle and gingerbread on the mantel. “She takes direction well, doesn’t complain or chatter, and is already making friends with the underfootmen.”
Orion went to the window, taking a sniff of the last bud to bloom from his bouquet. Ann had saved the roses that had faded, though the scent of dried petals wasn’t nearly as vivid as that of a fresh flower.
“What sort of friends are these underfootmen?”
“The kind who know I will take it very much amiss if they presume on Hannah’s innocence.”
“Hannah will take it very much amiss, as will I. She can give a good account of herself in a fair fight. Shall we sit?”
Ann took a wing chair, though she wanted to pace. She wanted, actually, to cook something complicated. Double consommé, perhaps. Time consuming, with lots of heat and loud chopping.
Orion took the other chair and passed Ann the shawl that had been draped over its back. “For your knees.”
“I’m not…” Except she was a little chilled. “Thank you.” The shawl was a soft merino and warm from having been near the hearth. “Jules was in rare form last night, and when I ought to have been sleeping, I was instead thinking of all the things I should have said or done differently. He is angry with me, and I must be made to suffer.”
“You doubtless threaten him. Reliving battles is a soldier’s particular burden. Is Hannah the problem?”
What exactly was the problem? For all her lost sleep, Ann hadn’t put that question to herself. “The conflict has been brewing since the day Jules arrived. Jules demands competent assistants, but only if they lack ambition. He wants the blind respect due a despot, and like a despot, he rules with a combination of charm and cruelty.”
“The army had officers like him. They sometimes met with accidents.”
“Accidents?”
“A gun misfiring, a girth breaking in the heat of battle, tainted meat.”
“A war within a war?” Ann had never considered that military life and a London club kitchen might have some similarities.
“Justice, of a variety enlisted men understood well and officers learned to respect. The average recruit went to war because he had few other options, or in some cases, he was choosing between transportation and war. The army expected foot soldiers to cover thirty miles in a day, carrying up to sixty pounds of gear. The average soldier became as tough as old shoe leather, and such men can be pushed only so far.”
“How did you deal with them?”
The cat rose from the blotter, stretched luxuriously, and leaped onto the arm of Orion’s chair.
“Permission granted,” Orion said as the wretched beast took up a place on his lap. “My mode of command was to keep the men focused on fighting the enemies rather than among ourselves.”
“Enemies?”
“The opposing army, of course, but also cold, disease, bad rations, mud, rain, heat… Moving an army across Spain was a challenge in itself, much less with the occasional siege, battle, or ambush thrown in. Wellington understood that and was fanatic about supply lines, and about commending every possible soldier who deserved notice in the dispatches.”
Ann toed off her slippers and curled up in her chair. “Jules seldom praises anybody. His words of thanks or encouragement are more precious than rubies.”
“Then he’s an idiot. Praise should be given honestly and often. What happens if you lose your post?”
Another question Ann hadn’t managed to face. “I am in disgrace. Jules can see to it that I never again ply my trade this side of Hadrian’s Wall.”
“You’ve tried to make peace with him?”
A pragmatic solution. “I’ve been making peace with him for more than two years, Orion. Last night, he tripped me when I was carrying a full platter of sliced meat. The platter broke, the meat was ruined, the whole kitchen heard the noise and saw me fall…” That was the part that had cost Ann the most sleep.
“Go on.”
“There I was, on my knees on the tiled floor, and nobody would help me up. Those tiles are hard, the floor was slippery, and my knee hurt. Jules stood by, barking at the footmen to clean up after me, at the scullery maid to see to the mess I’d made, and at me to get back to work slicing more meat. My knee needed ice, my apron was a mess, and yet, I knew—I knew—that if I so much as put on a clean apron, he’d trip me again, and the next time, I might be carrying a pot of boiling water.”
For a moment, the only sound was the cat’s purring and the soft crackling of the fire. Contented, peaceful sounds. Ann was far from at peace, but this conversation was helping to organize her thoughts.
“What does Jules want from you, Ann?”
“He might simply want me to leave, a vanquished foe who will never trouble another chef with her upstart ambitions. He might also want me to admit defeat, to apologize for my clumsiness, my incompetence, and my stupidity. To meekly accept all the deductions he makes from my pay as a result of my many shortcomings…”
Orion petted the cat, who squinted serenely at Ann. “And if you left, where would you go?”
And therein lay the real problem. “To my aunt. I am not yet of an age to credibly claim spinsterdom. I have some property from my father, but I cannot bide there on my own. Not yet. I’d have to hire a companion, and my aunt’s feelings would be hurt, and she is all the family I have.”
Then too, Melisande was an ally of sorts, disseminating Ann’s recipes and menus in a strata of society Ann had eschewed.
“It seems to me,” Orion said, “that you face two bad options: You can fight on and hope that the next skirmish doesn’t involve a lethal or disfiguring mishap. You can quit and go to your auntie, all your years of hard work, your considerable expertise, for naught. What about going up the chain of command?”
“Jules is my commanding officer.”
“And Dorning is the general in charge of the whole army. Can you go to him?”
That course of action had not occurred to Ann. “Go to him and ask him to fire one of the most renowned French chefs in London? The customers adore Jules, and he makes certain to keep the kitchen drama out of Mr. Dorning’s sight.”
“Are you sure of that? Dorning regularly grouses about the chronic uproar in the Coventry’s kitchen. He intrudes on Jules’s domain from time to time, according to Hannah, and sees the pandemonium first hand. My guess is, if Dorning had to choose between injury to you or turning a blind eye to Jules’s tactics, Jules would be the one looking for work.”
“That is your guess. In your own situation, has going up the chain of command served you well?”
The question earned her half a smile. “Not exactly, but then, if my immediate superior won’t receive me, that leaves only Wellington himself as a court of appeal. His Grace and I have not been introduced. A mere knighthood wasn’t sufficient to effect that miracle.”
And yet, there Orion sat, the picture of calm. “You don’t care?”
�
��Why should I? I have champagne to make, boys to keep out of trouble, and a lovely woman haunting my dreams.” The half smile became something softer and sweeter. An invitation, perhaps, or a memory of simmering desire.
“You raise an interesting point. I had not considered taking my situation to Mr. Dorning.” That would require assembling witnesses and proving that accidents had instead been ambushes. Not an easy case to make.
“Consider it, and be careful, Annie. If anything were to happen to you…”
“Yes?”
“I would take it very much amiss, and with your permission, I will convey that sentiment to Monsieur Delacourt.” The threat was all the more reassuring for being conveyed softly, between one languid stroke over Boreas’s fur and the next.
“Please don’t antagonize Jules on my behalf,” Ann said. “Not yet. Do you truly dream of me?”
Orion gently deposited the cat on the hassock nearer the fire, took Ann’s hand, and pressed a kiss to her wrist. “Je te désire.”
Not quite I want you. Closer to, I yearn for you. “I should lock the door.”
“No, you should not.”
* * *
That Ann was also facing a campaign of undeserved ill will drove Rye nearly to shouting, except that if he marched over to the Coventry and beat some respect into Delacourt, the result would be more danger and hardship for Ann.
Rye might consult Jeanette, however, or even have a word with Sycamore Dorning. At present, considering strategy that far ahead was beyond him. Ann had removed her slippers and drawn her feet up under her shawl. He adored that she’d be so informal with him, but the sight of her stocking-clad toes peeking out from beneath the fringe of her shawl stole his wits.
Now she offered to lock the door, and Rye had to think.
“This is a parlor, Annie, and while I will cheerfully enjoy whatever liberties you grant me wherever you grant them, might another location serve us better?” He ran his thumb over the smooth skin of her wrist, feeling the pulsebeat of her life’s blood.
He could pleasure her on the sofa, in a chair, or against the damned wall, but if it was pleasure she wanted from him, then a bed would be ideal. Besides, he wanted to see her bedroom, to know the scent of the sachets she hung from her bedposts, to learn what tales she read before bed.
Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One Page 18
