“But your lunch, Miss Thornwood!”
“Never mind my lunch,” said Miranda. “I’m not very hungry anyway.”
Harriet continued to protest for some time, but Miranda was firm, and eventually, looking dazed but grateful, the little maid directed Miranda to the kitchen door, though she refused to make an appearance herself.
“He won’t never let me go if he saw me,” she whispered to Miranda.
Before Miranda could respond, the door swung open and another girl burst into the hall, crying hysterically to the accompaniment of shouting from within the kitchen. Miranda waited for her to vanish down the hall before she turned back to Harriet, who looked terrified.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” said Miranda calmly. “I’ll settle everything with Monsieur Leblanc.”
The girl curtsied and hurried down the corridor to her room. Miranda pushed the door of the kitchens open and stepped inside. Monsieur Leblanc, looking no less ill-tempered and Gallic than before, stood at his stove shrieking, “The imbecile must think red mullets come out of the sea with my sauce in their pockets! I resign! I resign absolutely! I go to Crockford’s!”
When he saw Miranda, he turned on her in equal fury. “What are you doing here? Out, out!” He swept the kitchen with a malevolent gaze. “Where is Harriet? Where did that fool Polly go? How can I be expected to cook if no one is here to ’elp?”
“I don’t know where Polly’s present location is,” said Miranda, “but I believe I saw her running down the hall, looking very upset. As for Harriet, she is going home to her family. Her mother is very ill.”
She regarded the Frenchman with interest as he turned first red, and then an exceedingly unusual shade of purple beneath his drooping mustache. For a moment, he looked as though the top of his head might explode entirely.
“What do you mean, Harriet is going home to her family?” he managed to shriek at last, before letting loose a string of furious Gallic invectives. “The stupid little blancmange does not have my permission to leave!”
“I gave her permission to leave,” said Miranda.
Monsieur Leblanc’s eyes rolled back a little, and for the first time Miranda felt genuine alarm. If the man should go into paroxysms and disrupt the supper service, Jason would never forgive her. She had committed enough sins against him not to want to add another to the list.
“You gave her permission to leave?” repeated Monsieur Leblanc. He picked up a wooden spoon and waved it menacingly at her. “You gave her permission to leave? I do not believe it. This is my kitchen, mademoiselle, and I do not care who you are, I do not care if you are the Queen of England, you do not disrupt the workings of my kitchen!”
“Harriet is in quite a state,” said Miranda. “Even if you forced her to remain, she would be of little use to you. It would be better for you if she is not here.”
“But who will make the sauces?” shrieked Monsieur Leblanc. “Who will prepare the vegetables? Who will dress the joints and dishes?”
Miranda plucked up an apron hanging over one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her new gown very carefully and turned back to the little Frenchman, arching a single eyebrow at him.
“I will, of course,” she said.
Jason sat at his desk at the back of his beautifully furnished and well-lighted gaming room, observing the play. Seated in a high chair across the room from him and supervising the game was George Page, who every now and again rose from his seat to make rounds and receive and pay out money according to the luck of the players.
The hazard table itself was large and oval, well-stuffed and covered with green cloth marked with yellow lines. On each side stood the croupiers, the staff members who called the main and chance, regulated the stakes, and paid and received the money from the players. Above the table hung a three-light lamp, shaded to throw its full light on the green cloth.
Jason personally supervised the play for at least part of the day, because he always wanted to know everything going on: who was winning, who was losing and how his staff administered the bank. Tonight, however, he couldn’t concentrate on the scene before him. Instead, his thoughts returned repeatedly to Miranda as she had looked that morning, sitting across from him at his office desk.
Gone was the bedraggled creature that had shown up on his doorstep like a half-drowned kitten. Gone, too, was the vulnerable, barefoot waif in the too-large dress, begging him to save her brother. Prim and proper in her new gown and pelisse, this was Miranda as she was meant to be: cool, calm, composed, every inch the noblewoman. She had looked at him and spoken to him as though he had never flung that insulting bargain into her face, forcibly reminding him once again of the vast gulf between them, which, for all the wealth and power he now commanded, he could never bridge.
At the memory, all his anger of the night before returned in a near-blinding rush. He suppressed the emotion with a formidable effort of will and returned his attention once again to the hazard table. George finished making the rounds and approached Jason’s desk.
“Stanhope is out of the ready,” he murmured to Jason. “Do you wish to lend?”
Jason considered the matter for a moment, glad to have something besides Miranda’s kiss on which to concentrate. The young Viscount Stanhope was heir to an earldom, and though the boy’s expensive tastes and appalling lack of skill at the gaming table meant he was constantly in dun territory, Jason knew the father, the Earl of Chesterfield, was not only wealthy, but could be relied upon to pay up rather than face a scandal.
“Yes,” said Jason. He made a series of swift calculations in his head, totaling the rent-rolls of Stanhope’s father and grandfather, the mortgages on their estates, the debts and financial scandals plaguing the family, the codicils added to the wills, and the contents of the will themselves.
Then he said, “You may offer him two thousand pounds.”
George nodded and made his way across the room to where the viscount sat slouched sullenly at the hazard table. The inspector bent and smiled ingratiatingly. “Excuse me, my lord, did I hear you say you had no more ready money? One or two thousand pounds from our bank is at your service, if your lordship shall wish it.”
Stanhope scowled without looking up at George. “I don’t think I shall play any more tonight,” he said. “I’ve had the devil’s own luck.”
At his side, the Earl of Kintray, fat and florid, threw back his prematurely balding head and laughed. “Really, Stanhope, do accept Mr. Page’s liberal offer. Perhaps you may win back what you have lost.”
George said smoothly, “Nothing, I assure your lordship, would give us greater pleasure than to give you the moneys.”
Stanhope sighed. “Oh, very well, let me have two thousand pounds then.”
George made his way to the bank, retrieved the notes, and handed it to Stanhope.
“Perhaps your lordship would oblige me with an IOU and pay the amount at your convenience?” asked George.
“I shall be able to pay it in a couple of months,” said Stanhope.
George smiled. “Your lordship is very kind,” he said, and bowing respectfully, withdrew once again from the table to deposit the IOU with the banker. When he had accomplished this task, Jason beckoned to him once again.
“You may increase the bank to twenty thousand pounds for tonight,” Jason told him. “We’ve been having a good run this month, and we may as well keep this lot happy.”
George nodded. “Very good, sir.”
Satisfied that for the moment everything ran smoothly in the hazard room, Jason checked on the player’s supper room where his staff laid out free wine, as well as Monsieur Leblanc’s incomparable cold buffet, for the gamblers to enjoy gratis before or after their play. Everything looked in order, so he made his way to the large dining room where dinner was still being served to the members of the club who did not care to play.
Having made the rounds, Jason elected to return to his office where he remained for several hours making his dail
y review of the accounts. It was an activity guaranteed to absorb his complete and undivided attention, and banishing once again the thought of Miranda, the curve of her throat as she had looked up at him, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the ledgers Olly had left for him.
When at last he was finished and had placed a new order for the ivory dice that George had told him they would need, he looked up at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly ten and well past the time for supper.
He rose to his feet, stretching panther-like to work the kinks from his shoulders, and found his thoughts, as iron to lodestone, returning once again to Miranda.
How had she occupied herself during the day? She had refused his offer to go shopping or riding, and with most of Blakewell’s off-limits to women, even serving maids, she would have had very little to entertain her. None of his staff had mentioned her in any of their reports to him during the day, so she evidently had not been wandering the halls.
Had she remained in his private quarters, then? She had always liked to read, and there were certainly enough books to keep someone entertained for weeks. Extinguishing the lamps in his office, he made his way up the stairs and toward the back of the club. But when he knocked on the door, he received no answer.
He hesitated only a second, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. She was not there. A lunch tray had been left on the small table, the sauce of the fricassee having long since congealed into an unappetizing mass. The fire had died in the hearth; no lamps had been lit.
Had she fallen asleep? He checked inside the bedchamber, but it was empty as well. Where the devil had she gone? He stalked out into the hall and cornered the first footman he found.
“Have you seen Miss Thornwood?” he demanded.
The footman took one look at Jason’s face and shook his head vigorously. “No, Mr. Blakewell. I haven’t seen her all day.”
Jason nodded curtly and took the stairs two at a time to the first floor. He flung the door of Oliver Harvey’s office open with a bang. His steward sat at his desk, bent over a large pile of IOUs.
He looked up as Jason stalked inside.
“Good evening, Jason,” he said, blinking with concern when he saw Jason’s face. “Is everything well? We aren’t out of brandy, or anything equally dire?”
“Have you seen Miss Thornwood today?”
Oliver blinked again. “Not since this morning in your office,” he said. “I assumed she was in your suite.”
“She is not, and from the looks of it, she hasn’t been there since luncheon. You have not encountered her anywhere? None of the other staff have mentioned seeing her?”
Oliver set down his pen. “No, but I did not think to ask them.”
Jason ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Where the devil could she have gone?”
“I have no notion.”
Jason cursed savagely. “Send for me at once if you discover her whereabouts.”
As he made his way down the hall, his irritation rapidly became genuine alarm. Where could she possibly be? Could she have left the club entirely? If Oliver hadn’t seen her, she hadn’t summoned a carriage. Nor could she have left by the front door without attracting attention, an event which would have caused an uproar. Nor could she know about the secret exit in the capacious cellars beneath the building. If she had left Blakewell’s, it had been through the kitchens.
He made his way down to the back of the club. When he reached the kitchen door, he swung it open and stalked inside, prepared to blast everyone to perdition if they had allowed Miranda to slip out this way.
Only to come to a dead halt, nearly paralyzed by a strange burst of mingled shock, relief and anger.
The object of his search stood at the head of the long kitchen table, enveloped in a massive white apron and covered from head to foot in a fine, powdery white substance. Flour. She crumbled pastry like snow beneath her deft fingertips, and as she worked she addressed Monsieur Leblanc.
“You must miss your mother very much,” she said. “It must be difficult, living so far away from her.”
“Oui, oui,” said Monsieur Leblanc on a sigh, stirring a pot of soup with great vigor. “I miss her all the time. She was the one who taught me to cook, yes? Her gateau—light as a feather. I ask her to come to England with me, yes? But she says non, she does not wish to leave her village to live among strangers.”
Then Monsieur Leblanc put down his spoon and sighed again, evidently overcome by emotion and the bottle of sherry he habitually kept on hand.
Jason stared at them. He ought not be surprised Miranda was in the kitchen. After all, how often had the two of them as children “helped” Cook at Thornwood? Jason himself knew his way around the kitchen nearly as well as his chef, and Miranda had always had a knack for delicate pastry.
Jason had, however, been completely unaware Monsieur Leblanc was in possession of a mother, having assumed in a vague sort of way that the little Frenchman must have sprang fully grown into existence, like Athena bursting from the head of Zeus. How had Miranda, in a short a period of time, managed to win him over so completely? Jason had never heard his chef speak so candidly to anyone before.
A strange, hot feeling coursed through him, a feeling he did not at first recognize. Then, with disbelief, he realized he was jealous. Jealous of his fat, balding, temperamental chef. Jealous because Miranda was now smiling sympathetically at the little French bastard, who had the gall to smile back.
Miranda lifted her head and saw him standing in the doorway. Her fingers never stopped their practiced movement, but her mouth parted slightly in surprise.
“Mr. Blakewell,” she said. “Good evening.”
Her quiet tone and her polite words only served to further enrage him. He scowled, slamming the kitchen door shut behind him as he stalked inside.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.
Any member of his staff would have had the good sense to search for cover, perhaps under the kitchen table, but Miranda merely looked at him and raised both her delicate eyebrows. “I am helping Monsieur Leblanc prepare supper, as you can see.”
“And why are you helping Monsieur Leblanc prepare supper? Does Monsieur Leblanc not have enough people of his own?” He glared at his chef. “I give you carte blanche to keep this damned place fully staffed. How is it you require Miss Thornwood’s help tonight?”
Monsieur Leblanc’s mustache quavered like an angry caterpillar as he opened his mouth to produce a retort. But Miranda spoke first, her voice tranquil. “I am helping Monsieur Leblanc because Harriet has gone home to take care of her mother, who is ill,” she said. “Is there any reason I should not?”
“Yes, there is a reason,” snapped Jason, and when he was unable to produce one, he added with great force, “There are dozens of reasons!”
When he did not continue, Miranda regarded him expectantly. “Well, sir?”
“You are a lady,” he growled. “A lady does not work in the kitchens of a gentleman’s club.”
“A lady does not enter a gentleman’s club at all, and yet, here I am,” said Miranda, picking up a pitcher of cream and pouring a quantity into her bowl. She kept her head lowered, and as she worked the pastry, tendrils of her silky hair escaped from its knot to curl around her face. She was flushed from the heat of the kitchens. “If you wish to argue the proprieties, sir, I fear it is rather too late for that.”
Jason opened his mouth to argue, but Monsieur Leblanc, crossing his arms over his protuberant belly, settled the argument.
“You take her away, you serve your own supper,” he said. “Now get out of my kitchens.”
Jason set his teeth. Abruptly, he became aware of the kitchen maid cowering in one corner and the three male cooks who had also beaten a hasty retreat to the other side of the kitchen. They regarded him with the mingled fascination and terror generally reserved for madmen in the final stages of lunacy.
He was making an ass of himself, yelling at Miranda in his own kitch
ens. Sanity returned, and he drew a deep, steadying breath before forcing himself to speak lightly.
“I beg your pardon for interrupting,” he said. “Miss Thornwood. Monsieur Leblanc.”
Bowing ironically, he stalked back out into the hall.
The door slammed shut with a satisfying bang behind him.
Miranda could not sleep. It had been midnight before the supper preparations ceased, and nearly two in the morning when she finally made her way back up the stairs to Jason’s suite, but though she was physically exhausted, she remained wide awake. All day, keeping herself busy with Monsieur Leblanc, laughing with the staff members of Blakewell’s who inevitably made their way to the kitchens for a cup of tea or a quick bite to eat, she had managed to keep her anxiety about William at bay.
Alone now in the darkness, she could not escape the chaos of her thoughts.
What if Jason’s men were too late? What if she had been too late? By now, a week had passed since she had left Hertfordshire. What if someone remembered Hannah lived in Middlesex and managed to find and arrest William? Was he even now being dragged before the local magistrate?
The local constables in Hertfordshire were generally inept, inexperienced and disinclined toward chasing down a criminal to the next county, but if her aunt offered a generous reward, as the obnoxious woman had probably done—with William’s money—they would be inspired to greater diligence in their search.
She tried to tell herself that even if William had been arrested in the week since she had seen him, murder was a grave enough crime to merit a hearing before the assize judges of the King’s Bench. Not even Aunt Beatrice with all her determination could get him safely to the gallows and hanged before he had had a proper trial, in which Miranda herself was prepared to lie with great earnestness and conviction if necessary. In the meanwhile, Jason had promised to help them, and he could no doubt be counted upon to produce a competent lawyer.
But the thought of Jason did not help calm her nerves. When she had first returned to the suite, she had wondered what she would do if she found Jason inside of it. She hadn’t had to worry, however, since the room had been empty, though it had evidently been cleaned at some point, the untouched luncheon tray cleared away, the chamber pot emptied and the ewer of water exchanged for a fresh pitcher.
Lily Lang Page 5