Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  “I know, and I am sorry, but if you’d been content to take a repairing lease in France… You were promoted, and you were knighted, and I meant for those measures to be some compensation for the gossip, but no, you wanted your blasted honor.”

  Were Upchurch not sitting at his desk, looking old and tired, Rye might have hit him. “I go to France frequently, and just when I think I’m finally to be allowed the peace we all fought so hard to secure, my friends tell me I’m the object of talk again at Horse Guards.”

  A burst of laughter came from the other room, reminding Orion that the ladies expected the gentlemen to rejoin them before too much longer.

  And Ann expected him to be gracious in victory, damn the luck.

  “The other culprit in this melodrama is Deschamps,” Upchurch said. “He saw a lonely young woman following the drum for her older husband, and he should have kept his damned Frenchie hands to himself.”

  Deschamps’s hands were not the problem. “What did you do?”

  “My superiors saw an opportunity, where I saw only infidelity. They would send me on reconnaissance to the north, though I was to tell Meli that I was scouting terrain to the west. She would very naturally take advantage of my absence to further her liaison, and in all innocence, she could well pass along to Deschamps the nature of my excursion.”

  “The nature and direction of your excursion, and the French would go pelting off to the west, frantically searching for what drew you there.”

  Upchurch nodded. “I would tell her I was away to secure more ammunition because our powder stores were low when in fact I was scouring the countryside for horses, and well stocked with powder. Another time, I explained that I was off to the coast to buy up medical supplies—we were amply stocked at that point—when I was in truth meeting with shepherds in the mountains to gain a sense of the little-used trails our scouts could take to pass into France unseen.”

  “And all the while, you knew your wife was…”

  “I knew she was in very great danger, Goddard. I had to pass along enough accurate information to Meli that the generals’ ruse was not detected. At the same time, I was to also send the French wrong information when it mattered, through a conduit who to this day has no notion of the extent of the intrigue her little affair engendered.”

  “I still don’t see how I come into it.” Though Orion had to admit that he did not envy Upchurch this contretemps.

  “Deschamps and Meli grew careless, and Meli would sneak out of camp after dark to meet him. Not often, but frequently enough that I feared somebody would notice.”

  Between one tick of the mantel clock and the next, the whole puzzle came together. “Thus you sent me off on goose chases. Whereas some think I sold secrets to the French—hence my evening excursions—others suspect that my transgression was in some ways worse: I cuckolded my commanding officer. Or possibly I did both?”

  Upchurch rose from the desk and took a key from beneath the clock on the mantel, opening the clock face to wind the mechanism.

  “I put it about that you had tempted Melisande to stray and that somebody had passed information to the French, but I could not say you were that person.”

  “Because,” Orion said slowly, “a man who will disrespect his commanding officer would not necessarily also disrespect the crown? No wonder your guests despise me.”

  Upchurch closed the clock face and returned the key to its hiding place. “I made sure, at appropriate times and places, to emphasize that I had only suspicions, Goddard. Nobody was to call you out or confront you directly, because we lacked the evidence to do that, and it’s all getting to be very old news.”

  “But your men nonetheless disparaged me at every turn. You could not let this whole situation simply pass into the great miasma of bad memories we call the war?”

  Upchurch gazed at a portrait of some old fellow in muttonchops and regimentals. “Deschamps haunts me. He comes around once or twice a year, and while I trust Melisande with my life, I do not trust that man.”

  “Because he’s French? Because you turned his encroachment on your marriage against his country and made a fool of him?”

  Upchurch shook his head, and another layer of complications sorted itself out.

  “Because,” Orion said, “the child in your nursery could be half French.” Hence Deschamps lurking in the park, where most of London’s best families would occasionally take their children for some fresh air.

  “Melisande and I don’t speak of it, and I am not a man given to excessive sentiment, but I would hate to lose either Melisande or our daughter. I could not have anybody connecting Melisande to Deschamps, not ever, and you were a handy if unwitting decoy. I do apologize for that.”

  Profanity came to mind and some blunt instructions regarding what Upchurch could do with his apology. “Why steal the champagne?”

  “I am desperate to have you gone, Goddard, and that Frenchie cook at the Coventry occasionally has wine for sale at bargain rates. I strongly hinted to him of an opportunity, and his greed did the rest.”

  “You put a boy up to stealing my sword?”

  Now, finally, Upchurch had the grace to look ashamed. “He was bragging to one of his mates at the intersection about your sword being nearly as long as he was tall, about how he guarded your stables at night. I made some inquiries at the corner pub. The lad’s father has been taken up for sedition, and I agreed to look into the matter.”

  “Have you looked into the matter?” Of all the offenses Upchurch had committed, and he’d committed many, putting Victor at risk to hang was the worst.

  “The man will be released at the end of the month. The boy was torn, Goddard, but loyalty to his family won out. I assured him the sword would be returned to you and that this was a prank between officers.”

  Some prank. The clock ticked on the mantel, the hum of conversation came from the library, and Rye mentally scheduled a difficult discussion with young Victor.

  “You should call me out,” Upchurch said. “I’m not the dead shot I was as a younger man, but I could still give a good account of myself, if that’s why you hesitate. My affairs are in order.”

  “My affairs are not,” Orion said. “Much to my surprise, I am entangled with everybody from little old French ladies to street urchins to in-laws connected to an earldom. Besides, you would delope, noble old hypocrite that you are, and you’ve already apologized.”

  Then too, Rye had promised himself to eschew attempting to solve problems with violence, and the noble old hypocrite was Ann’s uncle.

  “My apology is sincere. I concocted the scheme of scapegoating you years ago, Goddard. The whole affair took on a life of its own when Deschamps kept circling the camp, as it were, and certain generals recalled you by name. I am glad we’ve cleared the air.”

  All personal vows aside, Orion dearly, dearly wanted to meet Upchurch on the field of honor, but if the choice of weapons were swords, a bad hip and an eye sensitive to bright light could see him killed. Then too, Upchurch had been caught up in a war, spying, marital difficulties, and the demands of command.

  And finally, if all went according to Rye’s wildest dreams, Upchurch would become family.

  “We have not cleared my name,” Rye said, “but you can tend to that detail now.”

  “I refuse to compromise Melisande’s reputation, Goddard. Her socializing is all she has. But for Ann’s kindness earlier this evening, even that could have been taken from her. This ends now, between us as gentlemen.”

  “If you had been more attentive to your wife when she was a new bride, you could have spared us all years of stupidity. I have no intention of dragging Melisande’s reputation anywhere, but neither will I have my own bride inconvenienced by your schemes.”

  “You and Ann intend to marry.” Upchurch sighed a defeated man’s sigh. “Melisande and I will leave Town, then. Meli won’t like it, but winter approaches and—”

  “You can leave Town if you like, though retreating to France never did anyt
hing to resolve my own troubles. Before you tuck tail and run, however, you will impart a few salient facts to that pack of sots and buffoons in your library. Listen closely, for I don’t intend to repeat myself.”

  * * *

  Midnight approached, the magic hour at the Coventry when guests who’d put in a duty appearance at Godmama’s ball or musicale came to treat themselves to some wagering and flirtation in less genteel surrounds. The champagne became free at midnight, and the laughter became freer.

  Because Ann Pearson was not on the premises, Sycamore Dorning’s anxiety also rose as the evening hours advanced, and the club’s gambling floor became more crowded.

  “The buffet needs attention,” he said to a passing footman. “The roast won’t last another quarter hour, and the sculpted potatoes are nearly gone.”

  The footman, one Henry Broadman, was young and fit, and yet, he looked exhausted. “Apologies, Mr. Dorning, but the kitchen isn’t at its best tonight. Nan is trying to get the potatoes to look like those little ducks Miss Pearson makes, and it’s not going well. Pierre didn’t put the second roast on until about an hour ago, so we might well run out of beef. Hannah has a ham in the bake oven that should be ready to go soon.”

  This was not good. A scullery maid sculpting potatoes, an apprentice tending the ham, the sous-chef forgetting to spit a roast…

  “Come along,” Sycamore said, heading for the kitchen.

  “Mr. Dorning, I don’t mean to get above myself, sir, but you’d best not… That is…”

  Sycamore pushed through the swinging doors, and where the happy bustle of a busy kitchen should have been, all was pandemonium. Somebody had spilled flour near the pantry, and white tracks formed random patterns on the floor tiles.

  The girl trying her hand at potato sculpture also looked as if she’d been crying, and the new fellow—Pierre—was washing wineglasses at the wet sink.

  Hannah, Miss Pearson’s apprentice, was at the cook stove, stirring something that at least smelled enticingly like ham gravy.

  “What is he doing here?” Sycamore asked. One of Orion Goddard’s half-grown reconnaissance officers sat on a stool by the window, paring apples with a knife that did not look to be standard kitchen issue.

  “I’m helping,” the boy replied. “Colonel said to keep an eye on things, and I took that t’ mean I was to keep an eye on Miss Ann’s kitchen. Hannah put me to work.” He bit into a pale apple quarter. “I like this kinda work.”

  “Theodoric,” Sycamore said, the boy’s name popping to mind. “Did you at least wash your hands before you took up that knife?”

  The boy pushed off his stool and came close enough to hold out two exceedingly clean hands. “Hannah said everything in the kitchen starts with washing. I wasn’t keen on that notion until she made us some crepes.”

  The sous-chef, who should have been bringing some order to the chaos, remained bent over the tub of glasses as if praying for their souls.

  “Where the hell is Jules?”

  Hannah, Theodoric, and Henry all glanced in the direction of the cellar door.

  Unease climbed closer to panic. “How long has he been down there?”

  A waiter came dashing through the doors. “Bloody guests are hungry tonight, and we’re already out of soup.”

  “You,” Sycamore said, “please trot across the street and ask Mrs. Dorning to join us here in the kitchen. She’s to come as she is as soon as she decently can. You three,” he went on, gesturing to Henry, Hannah, and Theodoric, “come with me.”

  Hannah set her pot to the side of the burner and followed him, Henry came next, and Theodoric helped himself to another quarter of apple before falling in line.

  “What the hell is going on in my kitchen?” Sycamore asked when they had gained the marginally cooler surrounds of the corridor.

  “Miss Ann isn’t here,” Henry said. “We manage better when Miss Ann’s here.”

  “Miss Ann asked to have the night off a week ago,” Sycamore retorted. “Why hasn’t Jules stepped in?”

  “’Cause he’s a drunk,” Theodoric said. “And a mean drunk. He goes to the wine cellar, and the rest of the kitchen would just as soon lock him down there. He helps himself to your wine, by the way, and anything else he pleases to have around here. If Henry so much as took some day-old bread home without permission, he’d be sacked, but old Jules isn’t even earning his wage and—”

  Hannah elbowed her friend in the ribs. “It’s worse than Otter says.”

  “What could be worse than a buffet that offers only mashed potatoes shaped to resemble horse droppings?”

  “We can serve the mashed potatoes en casserole garnished with parsley, ham gravy on the side,” Hannah said. “Miss Ann told me that before she left, but Jules ordered the tatie pigeons, and we haven’t anybody to make the tatie pigeons.”

  “Henry,” Sycamore said, “tell Nan to do what Hannah said. Make a casserole of the damned potatoes, sprinkle parsley on top, and set the ham gravy on a warming light beside them. What else did Miss Ann say?”

  “Tell him what Jules said,” Otter prompted, finishing his apple quarter. “Or I will.”

  Hannah wiped her hands on her apron. “I understand French. Otter does too. We heard Jules talking to Pierre, bragging about having a lot of excellent champagne in his personal inventory, and telling Pierre it’s for sale at very attractive prices.”

  “Champagne magnifique,” Otter muttered. “I know where he got it, too, because I recognize the cases.”

  “He’s keeping stolen property here?” Sycamore asked.

  “Nah.” Otter stepped back to allow a footman to rush past with an empty platter. “I followed him. He keeps it at his place, in the cellar, which is bloody stupid. His cellar is damp and stinks of coal.”

  Resolving that situation would require Orion Goddard’s participation. The immediate challenge was the buffet.

  “Hannah, what else did Miss Pearson say about tonight’s menu?”

  Hannah withdrew a wrinkled paper from her pocket. “She left a list, but Jules tore it from the pantry door and crumpled it up. I picked it up when he wasn’t looking. I was about to start on the apple cobbler. It’s simple and quick.”

  “Start on the cobbler, get Nan to help you when she’s done with the potatoes. What can we do about the roast?”

  “You can make those curled-up things,” Otter said. “You slice off strips of meat from the part of the roast that’s done and roll them up on little skewers. Looks fancy, fills a plate without using up much meat, and you don’t have to wait for the whole roast to cook.”

  “How long have you been lurking in my kitchen?” Sycamore asked.

  “We did that last week,” Hannah said, “when Pierre got here late. We used a cooked ham that only needed heating. I could use the ham in the oven, and Miss Ann says thyme, rosemary, and tarragon can wake up a plain ham.”

  “Go wake up the damned ham, then,” Sycamore said, “and tell the waiters to make double the rounds with the champagne, starting immediately.”

  “It’s not midnight yet,” Otter replied as Hannah marched off. “The champagne ain’t free until midnight.”

  “Isn’t,” Sycamore retorted, “and I’m the owner of the place, so if I say it’s free, then it’s free starting now. Jeanette, my dearest, thank you for coming.”

  Sycamore’s wife emerged from the kitchen in an old morning dress, slippers on her feet, thick shawl around her shoulders.

  She peered at the flour tracks leading to and from the kitchen. “The footman said you were well, but you should know that Jules is nigh insensible down in the cellars. I left him there singing French Christmas carols.”

  “The kitchen is a rudderless ship without Miss Pearson, apparently, and Jules disdained to follow the instructions she left.”

  “What of the sous-chef?”

  “He don’t know a butter knife from his arse,” Otter said. “Beg pardon for my language, missus. Pierre’s a nice enough chap, and his papa were a butcher, s
o he can cook a roast, but he ain’t no chef.”

  “Go make yourself useful to Hannah, please,” Sycamore said. “I need privacy if I’m to be reduced to tears.”

  Otter sauntered off, while Sycamore tried to read Miss Pearson’s crumpled list by the light of a flickering sconce. “She left instructions. Half the words are French. My French is pathetic.”

  “Mine is excellent,” Jeanette said, taking the list from him. “Tend to the guests, I will see what’s to be done in the kitchen.”

  “I love you,” Sycamore said, gathering her in a quick hug. “I love you and adore you, and I owe you a pineapple feast for this, Jeanette. I have a club full of hungry guests and apparently no chef worth the name.”

  Jeanette smoothed her hand down his back, and half the worry in Sycamore drained right out of him, but only half.

  “Has Miss Pearson found another post yet?”

  Sycamore made himself step back. “Not that I know of.”

  “Then we aren’t without a chef. Not quite. Go flirt with the dowagers, and I will man the saucepots.”

  Sycamore kissed his wife, sent a silent curse in the direction of the cellars, and adopted the relaxed smile of a host without a care in the world. Tomorrow, he would promise Ann Pearson the sun, moon, and a new set of knives.

  Tonight, he would be as cocky and charming as that dreadful little rascal Goddard had assigned to patrol the kitchen.

  * * *

  “Gentlemen, your attention,” Horace Upchurch said, striding into the library. “You must all take part in a celebratory round with me and Colonel Goddard before we rejoin the ladies. I’ll be brief, but the occasion is too important not to remark in the company of good friends.”

  Rye had to concede the old warhorse was putting on a convincing show of manly good cheer. Maybe Upchurch was that intensely relieved to have his scheme unravel, or maybe he’d learned while at war how to put on creditable performances.

  “What could the likes of Goddard possibly have to celebrate?” Dexter Dennis sneered. “He’s the next thing to a traitor, and yet, he struts around with a damned knighthood.”