Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  Horace straightened. “She’s a bit more than a scullery maid, if she’s been planning the officers’ dinners.”

  “I plan those dinners, and I consult Ann on the menu.” Also the centerpieces, flowers, music, and presentation of the courses. Truth be told, Ann had even had a few helpful comments on the seating arrangements, her connections at the Coventry having given her a sense of who socialized regularly with whom.

  Horace resumed his place at the desk, something about how he lowered himself into the chair suggesting fatigue.

  “I thought Ann would give up her harebrained adventures in the kitchen,” he muttered, “but she has persisted. The offerings at the Coventry are nothing short of magnificent, particularly lately. It had not occurred to me that Ann had a hand in all that. You are convinced she’ll set aside cooking given half a chance?”

  Melisande was not sure, but she was hopeful. “Ann comes from gentry, Horace, as I come from gentry. We weren’t raised to tolerate the loose morality or wanton excesses of either the lower reaches of society or its most exalted members. We uphold standards, and Ann has allowed youthful rebellion to blossom into a course she cannot quit without appearing to suffer a defeat. She has deviated exceedingly from propriety’s dictates. I’ll fix that for her, and she will one day thank me.”

  One day, after Melisande had gathered up all the lovely recipes and all the clever centerpieces, perhaps.

  “Then I suppose you must do as you see fit regarding Goddard,” Horace said. “I have it on some authority that he’s thinking of a remove to France anyway. I was his commanding officer. If I tolerate his presence at my table now, I suppose that will put paid to any notions that I haven’t been supportive of him.”

  “Precisely,” Melisande said, tying the window sash back, though a chill came off the panes. “I will put Lieutenant Haines to his left and Mrs. Spievack to his right. Between Haines’s chatter and Mrs. Spievack’s bad hearing, Goddard will be the first to leave.”

  “One can hope.” Horace pulled a stack of letters to the center of the blotter. “What have you planned for the rest of the day, my dear?”

  Next on Melisande’s schedule was a cup of tea liberally laced with brandy. She was trying to cut back on her tippling, a slow process.

  “I thought I’d take Daniella to the park. Today is sunny, if brisk, and she does enjoy the fresh air.”

  Horace looked like he had some pontification to offer regarding this mundane outing, but he took spectacles from a drawer and perched them on his nose.

  “Children need activity,” he said, with the sort of prim condescension that conveyed a world of censure.

  Because, of course, if Melisande were to meet Philippe Deschamps anywhere, it would be in the park, where such an encounter could be passed off as a chance mishap.

  Truly, Horace tormented himself for nothing. “Would you like to come with us?” Melisande asked. “You and I so seldom spend time together, Horace, and you are my husband.”

  His smile was inordinately pleased. “Thank you, my dear, but no. The press of business calls me. Perhaps once we have this dinner behind us, we might confer regarding our respective budgets and plan some changes to the household routine.”

  Horace waving a white flag was a fetching—if slightly disconcerting—prospect. “I’d like that.” Melisande would endure that long overdue exercise, in any event, because something had to be done if income was dropping and expenses rising. That Ann had wages to show for her efforts was not lost on Melisande, but what a price to pay for a bit of coin.

  Melisande had a hand on the door latch when Horace spoke again.

  “I know you think I’m heading rapidly into the terrain of the tiresome old warhorse, Meli, but I do take your happiness seriously. Your loyalty means much to me, and I try in my way to be worthy of it.”

  Drat and devil take it, there was the gallantry, the gentlemanly decency that Melisande had always found so attractive about her husband.

  “Thank you, Horace. Tomorrow, if the weather permits, will you drive out with me?”

  He blew her a kiss. “That shall be my pleasure. Enjoy your outing, my dear.”

  He’d likely forget all about driving Melisande in the park, but the thought was still sweet to contemplate.

  What was not so sweet to consider was how Ann could be a guest at the officers’ dinner without everybody at the table knowing the recipes, flowers, centerpieces, and even the choice of what roast to bring in on which platter had been Ann’s rather than Melisande’s.

  But no matter. Nobody ever asked about those details anyway, and Ann would know better than to bring them up in company.

  * * *

  “Somebody stole four hundred cases of very good champagne from my warehouse,” Rye said, watching Ann pour the tea. She was of a piece with the genteel domesticity of this cozy parlor, also of a piece with the Coventry’s enormous, bustling kitchen. He liked seeing her both places, and liked seeing her replete with pleasure beside him in bed most of all.

  “The thieves plotted this crime carefully,” he went on, “drugging an old man, picking the lock, and having enough labor on hand to make off with the goods before anybody was the wiser.”

  The details made the transgression worse, made it a matter not of spontaneous greed, but of malice aforethought. Malice and determination.

  “That’s a lot of champagne,” Ann said, passing him a steaming cup. “Will insurance cover the loss?”

  “No, because I cannot prove the champagne was destroyed, and thus it is regarded as mislaid. I am encouraged by my solicitors to hire runners to track down the stolen cases. I reported the problem to the relevant magistrate’s office, and they condoled me on my bad luck.”

  Ann poured out for herself, but didn’t take a sip. She had permitted Orion to arrange her hair in a chignon gathered softly at her nape—not the ruthlessly tidy braids mandated by kitchen work—and the look of her enchanted him.

  Enchanted him more than usual.

  Whoever had said parting was such sweet sorrow had never contemplated parting from Annie Pearson. Orion’s heart was breaking, and after years at war, that should not be possible.

  “You don’t see such bold larceny as bad luck,” Ann said.

  “The docks are notoriously riddled with crime, and that’s part of the reason my warehouse is well back from the river. Then too, the wine prefers the dryer air, and I want my inventory as close at hand as possible. The neighborhood isn’t fashionable, but I thought it safe.”

  Ann held her tea cup before her, and Rye knew she was having a discreet sniff. To take the olfactory measure of food and drink was second nature with her, and she probably did not realize she did it.

  He would miss that, miss how her awareness of any sort of sustenance made him more aware as well.

  “No place in London is safe,” Ann said, “but something in particular about this theft worries you.”

  Everything about the theft worried Rye. “I keep my cavalry sword hanging over the fireplace in my office at the house,” he said. “That weapon is a reminder of where fighting leads—to death, dismemberment, and worse, lingering disabilities for men toward whom I bore no personal ill will. When I was assigned the management of mules and prisoners, Ann, I was relieved. The longer I fought, the more the whole undertaking struck me as stupid.”

  Ann sipped her tea, while the cat was eyeing her lap. Orion scooped the beast up rather than risk hot tea all over Ann’s dress.

  “Should we have allowed Napoleon to invade England?” she asked.

  “Once Nelson scuttled the French fleet at Trafalgar, that was unlikely. Britain started the campaign on the Iberian Peninsula knowing there was little risk of France invading our shores.”

  “But Bonaparte stopped our trade with the Continent. He forbade even delivery of British mail.”

  “And this interfered with your correspondence exactly how? We blockaded his ports far more effectively than he stopped us from smuggling our goods into Continental mar
kets. In any case, I kept my sword in plain view to remind me that war for those fighting it isn’t about markets, political theories, or the benefits of monarchy over representative governments. It’s about killing, violence, and destruction, and I want no more of any of it.”

  “Thus you take in ragged children and sell your champagne, when nobody is stealing it from you.”

  “The children just… They come along, and I have more room than I need, and that has nothing to do with anything.”

  Ann smiled at him, and the idea that he must bid farewell to her, and to those sweet, knowing smiles… He pet the cat, who commenced rumbling.

  “What has your sword to do with the stolen goods?”

  “My sword was left at the warehouse in place of the purloined champagne. The stolen sword tells me that somebody violated my household, where I billet those self-same children. The watchman who was drugged was old and frail, Ann. He’s not fit for anything more vigorous than sounding the alarm, and whoever took the champagne could just as easily have tossed Nicolas into the river. I am being warned, repeatedly, that I and those I care about are in danger.”

  “And thus you are leaving for France?”

  She posed the question calmly, while presiding over her pretty tea service in this genteel parlor full of the contented purring of an overfed feline.

  This is what I thought I was fighting for. England’s domestic tranquility; the good, dear people at home; the quiet, honorable values that made John Bull the equal of any man the world over.

  “In Spain, I gave up my field command without complaint and contented myself with battling reams of paperwork, Ann. When the Hundred Days came, I accepted that I was not welcome to rejoin the fight. As I tried to establish my business here in London, I grasped that doors to certain regimental homes were closed to me. I have accepted my lot and tried to be grateful for it.”

  “You deserve none of those slights.”

  “So fierce, and you don’t deserve Jules Delacourt’s meanness, but you aren’t wasting your powers taking him on, are you?”

  “I cannot, or somebody wholly innocent of wrongdoing could end up gashed by an accidental knife, burned with a spilled pot of glaze, or out of a job because Jules considers that sort of cruelty an expedient means of punishing me.”

  “Punishing you for being good at what you do. And I sense that somehow I have stumbled into the same sort of trap, Ann. Horace Upchurch was my commanding officer when that board of inquiry was convened. He did what he could for me, and even he is telling me to leave London.”

  Ann petted the cat, who’d draped himself across Rye’s thighs. “Uncle isn’t one to advocate retreat, but he’s put distance between you?”

  “Yes.” Orion watched her hand stroking gently over soft, soft fur.

  “You did not want me to know that my own uncle has suggested you leave Town.”

  “I was surprised to learn that Upchurch was your uncle. I should be grateful he hasn’t disparaged me in your hearing.” If Ann did not cease petting the damned cat, Orion would have to continue this discussion upstairs.

  “This is all so unfair and awkward.”

  Wasn’t it just? “Complicated,” Rye said. “I have retreated and retreated, and every wise general knows to be gracious in victory. Somebody is determined to see me not only defeated, but routed and hounded from the field.”

  Ann lifted the cat onto her own lap, and the beast, after peering about with a disgruntled air, settled in to knead her skirts.

  “You fight,” Ann said. “You fight for those boys, Orion. You fight for that old lady among the émigrés. You fought for your sister in as much as you could, and you have fought for Hannah. By hiring old Nicolas, you struck a blow against the prejudice he faces in London, and I am certain his wages are generous.”

  “That’s not fighting.”

  “I fight too,” Ann said, stroking the cat, who peered at Orion with feline smugness. “I fight for the scullery maids and footmen, for the idea that a woman’s recipes are as valuable as a man’s. I fight for my own independence, or I have tried to.”

  “You have been victorious for ten straight years, Ann. A setback is not a defeat.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” Ann said, setting the cat on the floor. “But I know exactly what you are doing, Orion.”

  “Then please tell me, because my perspective on the whole situation is far from clear.”

  “You are punishing yourself,” Ann said, “because your sister had to marry to get your family out of debt and so your father could afford to buy a commission for you. Now you think that somebody who would drug an old man, commit a hanging felony, and menace children would also come after me. Perhaps these malefactors are already in league with Jules. We don’t know.”

  “Hush,” Rye said. “Please hush.” She’d named his worst fears and had done so calmly.

  “You are leaving England rather than risk embroiling me in your troubles, and I could become embroiled all too easily. I am a squire’s daughter plying a lowly trade at an arguably improper venue. I have family who would be tainted by any scandal, family you have reason to respect. You leave to protect me and to protect them.”

  “I have a few allies,” Rye said. “My cousins will keep their eyes and ears open, particularly among the former military. I may be able to return in a year or so.” By then, Ann might well be cooking for some baron in Derbyshire or a retired general in Somerset.

  Ann rose, and thus Rye was on his feet as well. She slipped her arms around his waist. “I esteem you greatly for protecting the whole world, Orion. Me, the children, my family, émigrés, very likely your friends as well. I only wish there was a way I could protect you.”

  He gathered her close and silently cursed fate in four languages at once. “I can protect myself.”

  She shifted back enough to look him up and down, her gaze lingering on the scars around his eye.

  “I have done something, Orion, and I hope you will not castigate me for it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Before you leave London, there is one more invitation you must accept. I insist upon it, for I would not ride into this battle with anybody else at my side.”

  * * *

  “Ann Pearson has given notice.” Sycamore Dorning handed the tidy little missive to his wife, but no matter who read it, it would say the same thing. “I own I am surprised.”

  “You are horrified.” Jeanette glanced at the letter, then set it on the side table. She passed Sycamore one of the throwing knives that adorned their private parlor. “I am none too pleased myself.”

  Sycamore took the place beside his wife on the sofa. “If Goddard has enticed Miss Pearson into the bonds of holy matrimony, I cannot object to her decision.”

  “You could ask for Miss Pearson to stay on through winter so you have time to hire and train a replacement.”

  Sycamore tossed the knife at the cork target across the room, but the throw—smacking the bull’s-eye decisively—brought no satisfaction.

  “I very much fear she cannot be replaced.”

  Jeanette picked up the embroidery she’d been working on when Sycamore had interrupted her. “You are only realizing that now?”

  “I’m realizing it in a new way now. Miss Pearson is the ballast that allows Jules his dramatics. He is the fire and spice, while she is the…”

  Jeanette stabbed at the linen with her needle. “He is the expensive advertisement. She is the hard work, common sense, and actual skill necessary to run a busy kitchen.”

  Sycamore tucked an arm around Jeanette’s shoulders. “What aren’t you telling me, darling lady?”

  “Much, of course. Jules is a sot.”

  Sot was a harsh word, and Jeanette was not a harsh woman. Pragmatic of necessity, but not harsh.

  “I am aware that he samples the inventory. How could he prepare fancy dinners without knowing wines and spirits?”

  “I overhear the footmen and waiters talking, Sycamore. Jules helps himself to anythi
ng and everything in the cellars and blames the results on breakage or accounting errors.”

  Sycamore had wandered home from the club at this daylight hour because Ann Pearson’s notice bothered him, and thinking through a bothersome problem was best done with Jeanette’s guidance.

  “Jules intimates that the footmen and waiters help themselves to the occasional bottle.” Jules made those accusations out of the hearing of the staff, of course, and with apparent reluctance.

  You must not blame them, Mr. Dorning.

  They work hard, Mr. Dorning.

  In a private home, Mr. Dorning, the remainder of any opened bottle would be consumed in the kitchen.

  “Theft can get a man hanged or transported,” Jeanette said. “Rather than bring scandal down on the club by having Jules arrested, you’d let him slip quietly away to France. He knows that.”

  And therein lay the bothersome problem: scandal and the club, the club and scandal. In a minor way, the Coventry was a scandal, being technically illegal as all gaming establishments were illegal. But the Coventry was also entirely different from a dimly lit den of thieves where crooked cards presaged ruin for the unsuspecting.

  “I miss Ash,” Sycamore said. “He would know to the penny if accounting errors bore any responsibility for an inaccurate tally of our wine and spirits.”

  “I can do an audit, Sycamore. Winter approaches, and Ash has done much better since spending less time in Town.”

  Ash, dearest of brothers, suffered periodic, paralyzing bouts of melancholia. “He’s done better since taking a wife, as have I. He’s after me to finish buying him out.”

  Jeanette set aside her stitchery. “Tell me the rest of it.”

  And there was the magic of marriage to Jeanette. Sycamore hadn’t known he needed to discuss the rest of it until Jeanette had parsed the topic with him.