Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  “Send them to me too,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “And I’m sure Mrs. Haines would like them as well. You have quite outdone yourself with this meal, Melisande, but then, you always outdo yourself with your menus.”

  Across the table, Ann sipped her wine and said nothing. At a formal meal, one conversed exclusively with the dinner companions on one’s left and right, but the wine had been flowing for well over an hour, and this was a company of officers.

  Formality was slipping by the wayside as each course was removed and more wine was poured.

  “I commend Upchurch for inviting you, Goddard,” Lieutenant Haines said as the main dishes were taken away and the greens brought out. “The war is over, I say. We were all a little mad back then, all happy to flirt with anything in skirts, but we showed Boney our mettle, and that’s what ought to matter most.”

  He lifted his glass of claret, toasting his own sentiments. Across the table, Ann had apparently heard him, her expression a cross between veiled curiosity and not-as-veiled ire.

  Mrs. Spievack, a widow whose husband had been struck down by a carriage a year after Waterloo, leaned closer. “The military has always excelled at two things, fighting and talking, and the less it does of the first, the more it does of the latter. You seem a perfectly agreeable sort to me, Colonel. Heaven knows some of the younger wives weren’t always circumspect on campaign.”

  Rye was spared a response to that odd comment by the arrival of the vegetable dishes, beautiful, colorful, spicy individual servings that put Rye in mind of the baked tians served in his mother’s native Provence.

  The meal went on, with conversation eventually flowing in all directions, and again, somebody offered a compliment, this time to the cheese course.

  “Can’t say I usually care for fig jam,” a tipsy captain observed, “too grainy, but this is outstanding. Makes the Camembert… more cheesy. My missus loves the fruit-and-cheese bit and would love to have the recipe.”

  That profundity merited a toast to smooth fig jam, and then the toasts to the ladies began, the toasts to His Majesty, Wellington, and fallen comrades having already been dispensed with. Rye dutifully lifted his glass and pretended to sip, all the while calculating how many bottles of wine were being consumed and what profit could have been made off them if Upchurch had deigned to place his wine order with Orion.

  A petty sentiment. By the time the dessert course arrived, Rye’s only thought was to say his good-nights and take full advantage of a long, slow carriage ride back to Ann’s house.

  The world’s best pear compote was the finale to a grand meal, the flaming brandy sauce earning a round of applause.

  “Melisande is a genius at this sort of thing,” Emily Bainbridge said. “I vow her dinners would put the great Carême to shame, and she concocts all these recipes herself. To our Melisande and her exquisite menus!”

  A round of hear, hear and to Melisande followed with the more inebriated banging spoons against glasses and fists upon the table.

  Across the table, Ann’s expression became a blank mask. Rye had seen the same shock on the faces of men wounded in battle, when the mind could not grasp the reality of the blow despite both pain and welling blood proving that a wound had been suffered.

  The din died down, and Rye decided to fight one more battle before he withdrew to France.

  “Mrs. Bainbridge,” he said, rising with his wineglass in hand, “I would never argue with a lady, but you are much mistaken. The recipe for this most delicious sweet, in fact all the recipes we’ve enjoyed tonight, are the creations of Melisande’s niece, Miss Ann Pearson. I know this because I have seen the recipes written in Miss Pearson’s own hand. I’ve had the pleasure of sampling this very compote on a previous occasion, and I can assure you, Miss Pearson has put much consideration and effort into the food we’ve enjoyed this evening. To Ann Pearson, ladies and gentlemen, the true culinary genius.”

  He lifted his glass and waited for the other guests to do likewise. Only then did he take a taste of the champagne served to accompany the final course of the meal.

  * * *

  The fine meal, one of the best Ann had ever devised, sat in her belly like so much bad ale. All heads turned in her direction, save for Uncle Horace, who was glowering dire retribution at Orion.

  “Perhaps you are confused, Colonel Goddard,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “I know for a fact that Melisande puts enormous effort into planning these dinners. She has even assisted me with a menu or two. If there’s a culinary genius at this table, then that honor goes to Mrs. Upchurch. Tell the colonel he has misspoken, Melisande.”

  Part of Ann was reeling under the realization that Melisande had played her for a fool. For years, Melisande had apparently taken credit for Ann’s work, all the while insisting that Ann should leave the role of professional cook. Years when Ann had been putting in eighteen-hour days, subsisting on limited wages, enduring Jules’s spite, and Melisande’s sniping.

  How could you do this to me?

  But then, Ann knew how.

  What did Melisande have? One child she visited in the nursery, this exceedingly tiresome company, an aging busybody of a husband… No wages, no freedom, no rogue officer willing to take on the regiment for the sake of her compote. What Melisande and the Emily Bainbridges of the world had was an insipid, bland, tepid frustration of a life, and they were supposed to be happy with it and even grateful.

  Those thoughts swirled through Ann’s mind in the time it took Mrs. Bainbridge to offer her taunt. Emily Bainbridge was the mean girl at boarding school, the young lady who convened the gossip sessions in the retiring room, and the regimental wife who caused more trouble than Napoleon.

  A wise general was generous in victory. Orion had said that. If Ann claimed ownership of the recipes, Emily Bainbridge would win another skirmish, while Melisande would be humiliated before the regiment.

  “Perhaps you can shed light on this conundrum, Miss Pearson,” Mrs. Bainbridge went on. “We are all agog to know whose gustatory expertise to commend.”

  If Ann took credit for the menu, she would lose the family she had. She wanted and deserved to have her ability publicly acknowledged, but was it justice to humiliate a woman because she longed for some recognition in life? Because a husband and child weren’t the sum of her ambitions?

  “Colonel Goddard is correct that the initial ideas are mine,” Ann said, “but you are also correct, Mrs. Bainbridge, in that Aunt Melisande and I collaborate. I send my recipes to Aunt before I show them to anybody else, and the first to prepare them for company dinners is her cook, under her supervision.

  “One cannot simply toss together ingredients,” Ann went on, “and know a dish or a meal will be successful. A sense of the guests, of their preferences and tastes, is invaluable when planning any menu. One has to know what’s popular this Season, what has been overdone by other hostesses. Aunt Melisande has an instinct for such matters, while all I know are the sauces and spices. We make a formidable team. Uncle, perhaps you would lead us in a toast to Aunt Melisande.”

  Emily Bainbridge looked as if somebody had flung mud on her pinafore, while Orion was beaming at Ann. Beaming at her. When Uncle had offered a long-winded panegyric to Melisande’s myriad virtues, all glasses were lifted, and Melisande blushed prettily.

  Ann had hoped that by having Orion included on the guest list, she could see him sent off to France with some vestige of regimental acceptance. If her wildest dreams were to be exceeded, perhaps a gracious welcome by his fellow officers would prevent the need for him to decamp to France altogether.

  The sly glances and sniffy asides weren’t being aimed at Orion at the moment, but for Ann, that wasn’t enough.

  Uncle resumed his seat amid much cheering and smiling.

  Ann dove into the moment before another tipsy cavalier could offer an even more long-winded toast. “Uncle, while we are commending deserving members of the company, we must compliment you on your choice of champagne. Colonel Goddard’s wine is by far the be
st of its kind I’ve tasted, and I have tasted many.”

  Lieutenant Haines, who had imbibed his way to a state of great jollity, raised his glass. “To Colonel Goddard’s champagne. Best thing to come out of France, if you ask me.”

  Up and down the table, glasses were raised once again, though in Uncle’s case, the gesture was a bit slow and devoid of conviviality.

  Orion’s great good cheer had also left the table, for he was peering at his glass as if it contained wormwood and gall. Melisande called for another round of champagne before the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, and still, Orion remained silent.

  “You must escort me to the parlor, Colonel,” Ann said when the ladies rose to take their leave. “Lieutenant Haines is too busy communing with his wineglass.”

  “He never did have much of a head for spirits,” Orion said, coming around the table to offer Ann his arm. “Brave, though,” he muttered. “Foolishly brave. I commend your compassion, Miss Pearson. Mrs. Upchurch did not deserve it.”

  The company made a slow procession along the corridor to the guest parlor, some of the ladies not very steady on their feet. Orion Goddard, however, exuded all the sobriety of an officer facing massed armies in the morning. He was once again the remote, burdened man Ann had met months ago at Mrs. Dorning’s bedside.

  The evening had doubtless been trying for him in the extreme, while for Ann, it had gone surprisingly well. Not as expected, but well.

  “Melisande,” Ann said, “did not deserve to be told at the ages of six and eleven and sixteen that her only chance for happiness lay in enticing some man to offer for her. I did not exactly lie, and if I do publish a cookbook someday, Melisande can ensure it has many subscribers. What is wrong, Orion?”

  They waited for the assemblage to thread the bottleneck into the guest parlor.

  “I all but begged Upchurch to buy my champagne,” Orion said quietly. “I could have supplied most of the wine consumed at this supper—at all of his fancy dinners—but he refused. I badly need the business, and he disdained to send it my way. But somehow, a considerable quantity of my champagne found its way to his table.”

  Mrs. Spievack glanced at them, as did Dexter Dennis. The lady’s expression was merely curious, while Dennis was again glaring daggers.

  “Uncle Horace did serve your champagne,” Ann said. “I am sure of that.”

  “I was too busy wanting to throttle the Bainbridge woman,” Orion said, “to notice that I drank my own vintage. Had you not said anything…”

  Mrs. Bainbridge, who was fixed to the brigadier’s arm like a barnacle clinging to the last ship in the harbor, chose then to laugh.

  “Orion, listen to me,” Ann said, keeping her voice down as well. “I will make my peace with Melisande—she owes me an apology, at least—but if I had to choose between the man who noticed my recipes and the relatives who’ve spent years being ashamed of me while exploiting my talent, I would choose the man.”

  The footmen had neglected to light enough candles in the guest parlor, and the entire company remained milling about in the corridor, escorts and ladies alike.

  “I cannot ask you to choose between France and England, Ann. I know how hard you’ve worked, and—”

  “I’m not choosing between France and England,” Ann said, the words coming slowly. “I sat among these people tonight, watching them pick at food the cook spent hours concocting from a menu I’ve spent years crafting. Some of the guests noticed a particular dish, some of them even complimented a course here or a wine pairing there, but, Orion, to them it’s merely food. Most plates went back to the kitchen more full than empty. A guest might recall a particular dish if they see something like it again, but it’s not… A menu doesn’t mean what I thought it meant.”

  What she’d hoped it meant.

  “They appreciated the meal, Ann. I certainly did. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  The crowd resumed shuffling toward the parlor door. “And your appreciation matters. For the others, this was a passing pleasure, and for some of them, the gossip provides more sustenance than the food. I see that now.”

  Orion peered down at her by the flickering light of a mirrored sconce. “You are blowing retreat?”

  “No, Orion. I am transferring to a different regiment, if you’ll have me. I don’t want to end up like Melisande or like Jules, and those are not my only choices. I want to end up like your sister, well loved by a worthy, if occasionally vexatious, man. I want to be an extremely busy woman who enjoys most of what she does.”

  “Dorning is more than occasionally vexatious.”

  “You like him, and you respect him, and I more than like and respect you. What will you do about Uncle Horace’s thievery?” For that had to be how the champagne had found its way to his table.

  “There’s more to it than thievery, Ann. Horace Upchurch has much explaining to do.”

  “Then have your explanations from him, Orion, but know that my loyalty and my heart are yours and always will be.” Ann kissed his cheek. “Be gracious in victory, for Uncle is surely facing defeat.”

  Orion bowed and left her at the parlor door. Ann sent up a quick prayer that Uncle was smart enough to surrender to superior forces before the battle turned into a complete rout.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I want to know why.” Orion chose to accost Upchurch in the library rather than give the brigadier time to concoct defenses or take evasive maneuvers.

  The other officers filed past, some going immediately to the chamber pots set out by the sideboard, others settling into the comfortable chairs before the roaring fire. Two footmen stood at the ready, holding trays of port by the window.

  “Not now, Goddard.”

  “You make my life a misery for years, bring shame upon my name, and try to destroy my business. You will explain yourself now, Upchurch, or you will find this gathering turned into a drumhead court martial.”

  Orion could do it too. He had Ann’s support, though he also had her admonition to be gracious in victory.

  Upchurch nodded at the footmen, who began passing out servings of port. “It’s complicated. Call on me tomorrow, and I will explain all.”

  “Not good enough.” Not nearly good enough, when Orion considered that he’d almost walked away from Ann, from the children, from his sister, from the émigrés, his cousins… “Your lies and scheming have brought me to the brink of ruin, Upchurch, and involved innocents in your battles. You owe me not only the truth, but justice.”

  “I’ll buy your damned champagne, if that’s what you want, though the expense will beggar me. You were never supposed to attend this dinner.”

  “I was never supposed to dine in company with a fellow officer again.”

  Across the room, Lieutenant Haines had embarked on the retelling of some vignette that had doubtless become a fixture of the after-dinner port session. Most of the other guests clustered around him, but for the few cadging naps before the fire.

  “You were supposed to slink off to France,” Upchurch said. “I thought when you went this summer that you were gone for good. Your own in-laws had joined in the talk, and I believed I had finished you at last.”

  “They are my sister’s in-laws, and they only rode the coattails of the scandal you created for me. For the last time, tell me why you betrayed a fellow officer, Upchurch, one who never showed you anything but loyalty and respect.”

  The group across the room descended into laughter, while Orion’s temper was threatening to slip the leash. He cared nothing for the bonhomie Haines and the others were enjoying. He simply wanted peace, a future with Ann, a chance to raise excellent grapes, and an opportunity to live out his life with dignity.

  “I did it…” Upchurch waved a footman away. “I did it for Melisande, of course. What other motivation could possibly justify so much unbecoming conduct? She was young, she was foolish, and I… I was foolish too.”

  Orion thought back to years of boredom and battles. “You flirted with Mrs.
Bainbridge, among others.”

  “I more than flirted, and that was badly done of me. Melisande retaliated accordingly, as any worthy opponent would.” Upchurch scrubbed a hand across his brow. “Let us repair to the office, shall we?”

  If a lady’s good name was to be under discussion, that was the only gentlemanly course. Orion followed Upchurch through a paneled door into a stuffy room adorned with portraits of stuffy fellows in overly decorated uniforms. The fire had been lit, but none of the candles, adding to the sense of gloomy masculinity.

  “Melisande was charming,” Orion said, choosing the word carefully, “but I never played you false with her. None of us did, that I know of.”

  Upchurch used a spill to light a branch of candles, though they did little to dispel the shadows. “You fellows knew better, but Deschamps did not. He was exotic, gallant, and forbidden, and if a woman is determined to twit her husband for neglecting her—and Melisande was devastated by my errant ways—how better to do that than to sleep with the enemy? She had no idea—no earthly intimation—of how serious a transgression that was. She liked his accent and his kisses, and he was simply a lonely fellow whose army was being defeated, mile by mile.”

  Were the situation not so sad, it would be ridiculous. “What have your past marital woes to do with me?”

  “My superiors became aware that I was dealing with an unhappy wife.”

  “Because Emily Bainbridge could not keep her mouth shut, even in defense of the realm.”

  Upchurch sank into the chair behind the desk. “Emily is troubled, and she is not to blame. I am.”

  The air of wounded gallantry was too much. “And yet, it’s not your champagne being stolen, or your good name that receives an annual trip to the regimental latrine. I have held my only sister at a distance because of you, lost substantial business, and nearly parted from friends and allies here in London.” And as bad as all of that combined, he’d nearly parted from Ann.