by Lynn Kerstan
Jillian trudged upstairs to her room, tossed the stationery on the dresser, and sprawled facedown across the bed. Damn Mark Delacourt. He was suspicious—she’d seen it in his eyes—and he’d watch her like a hawk from now on. Well, there was no help for it. She’d have to find an ally right here in the house, someone she could trust, and it was a small field to choose from.
There was Polly, but she was as empty-headed as she was good-natured and seemed to adore the despicable Earl. It wasn’t at all clear she’d be willing to sneak around behind his back, and if he ever quizzed her, she’d confess everything in a rush. Who else? Jaspers was out of the question, and Foxworth was too loyal.
Marcel! She hadn’t seen him since her first visit to the kitchen, but perhaps she should go down and renew the acquaintance. It couldn’t hurt, and if things didn’t look promising, she’d give Polly a try. First, though, she’d write the letter and have it ready. His Abominable Lordship would be watching to see what she did next, and it was better if she stayed in her room a while to lull his suspicions. Then she could drift casually into the kitchen and arrange a tray for her dinner, because she’d rather be strung up by her toes than sit across from that self-righteous prig for two hours. He probably just wanted to check up on her table manners. See if she had any.
When the letter was ready to go, Jillian slipped it into her reticule along with the few coins she’d been hoarding for her return. For a change, luck was with her. She passed a chambermaid dusting in the hall, but the woman didn’t look up, and when she got to the kitchen Marcel was there, stuffing a brace of capons. With a quick glance around to be sure they were alone, she pasted on her brightest smile and swept in. “May I watch for a few minutes?” she asked cheerfully. ‘‘I love to cook and am always looking for new ideas.”
“Eh, the leetle girl, feeling much better, I theenk.” The Frenchman’s chubby face with its thin moustache beamed up at her. “I make something special for tonight, for your dinner with His Lordship.” She plopped on a chair next to where he was dicing carrots. “He told you I was dining with him?”
“He said perhaps. It will be nice, je crois. Since he brought me here, I have seldom the chance to show my skill because he rarely invites anyone to the house. Already I have sent my assistant for fresh salmon, and the sauce”—he kissed his fingers—“the sauce is from heaven. You will very much like it. Also the cheese soufflé, which will melt in your mouth.”
Jillian began to suspect she’d be forced to sup with the Earl, if only not to disappoint this roly-poly little man. “It sounds delicious, all of it,” she said. “Can I help?”
“Oh, no. Voyons, you should not be here at all. Mr. Jaspers has many fine notions of what is proper for the keetchen.”
“Mr. Jaspers is a lizard,” she said flatly. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to stay a while. It gets lonely upstairs in my room.”
He didn’t mind at all, and they chatted inconsequentially about the ingredients for his oyster-chestnut stuffing and plans for a gateau St. Honore for dessert. Jillian was enjoying herself, watching him work and waiting for an opening to bring up the business of delivering her letter, but once he started talking, Marcel never closed his mouth. She finally broke into a discourse on the proper amount of butter for frying eggs. “Marcel, the truth of the matter is, I came down here because I need help with something very important, and you are the only person in this house I thought I could trust. Well, except for Polly, but I know you can handle it much better than she.”
“Sans doute,” he said agreeably, as he took a taste from the simmering pot of soup and added a pinch of pepper. “Do I sniff the tiny leetle conspiracy, cherie?”
“A very small one, which will do no harm. I need to get a letter delivered to my home immediately and without the Earl knowing about it.” There. It was said. Jillian waited breathlessly for his response, aware she was in the soup along with the pepper if he decided to go to Delacourt with this.
“Une billet doux?” he inquired with a knowing grin.
Her French was poor, but she recognized the words for love letter and the gleam in his eye. Was there ever a Frenchman who didn’t adore romance? “Just so,” she agreed with a secret smile. “I must send word that the Earl is on his way and make sure that nothing . . . well, you understand.” She hated lying, although she’d been doing quite a bit of it lately, and her cheeks were flushed. “I wouldn’t want you to do this if it troubles you in any way.”
“But no, how should it? You have already said this letter will do no harm, and secrecy is the very spice of new love, eh?”
“In this case,” she said dryly, “the main ingredient. Someday the Earl must know, but not now.” She opened her reticule and pulled out the envelope, folded in half and slightly crushed. “The name and direction of my housekeeper are written here, and she will see that it gets into the right hands. It’s all the way to Kent, I’m afraid. A farm between Eastry and Deal. Will you be able to find someone to carry it so far, and right away? I can’t pay very much in advance.” She held out the coins. ‘‘This on account, and the rest—whatever it costs—in a few days.” Marcel took the envelope but waved away the money. “Tonight, after the dinner is served, I shall join friends at a tavern. There are many emigres in London, most not so fortunate as I to have the fine position. Among them will be one glad to earn a small fee.”
“One with a horse? Preferably a fast one.”
“One with imagination, cherie, and enterprise. It took at least that for the escape to England. Leave this to me, for I do not know who will be there tonight. Later, we shall settle.”
“And how can I repay you?” she asked simply. “Smile and be happy, petite. So sad you looked before, when you were brought into my keetchen like a damp mouse.”
“Wet rat,” she corrected with a grin.
“Ah, yes. The rodents I cannot distinguish so well here.”
“I’m certain the Earl would not permit one in his house,” she said with a laugh.
“Only Jaspers,” retorted Marcel, and they both laughed. “This night you will enjoy my cooking, and tomorrow I shall have the good news for you, eh?”
“Why do you stay here?” Jillian asked, dipping a finger into the soup and licking it with delight. “Mmmm. You ought to be sharing this talent with royalty.”
“Ah, but in Paris the Earl was a great host. The dinners, the houseparties . . . always guests from the highest ranks. There are not supposed to be ranks anymore in France, but you know how it is. The old aristocrats are gone or shaved by Madame Guillotine, but the upstarts jostle for position with equal greed.
Monsieur Delacourt helped me leave France before he was captured and gave me this position when he returned home, with a salary beyond my worth because he no longer entertains. Of course I shall not leave him, so long as he wishes me to stay.”
“Captured?” She was suddenly aware how little she knew about the Earl. “Why on earth was he in Paris hosting dinner parties in the middle of a war?”
“You must ask him, cherie. I am only the chef . . . well, the artiste of the food . . . and sometimes the cupid, eh?”
The back door crashed open and a young kitchen helper stumbled in, carrying an extremely odoriferous paper-wrapped bundle. He dropped his burden on the counter. “It’s a whale, guvnor, and ‘alf the cats in Lunnon is outside right now wantin’ a piece of it. Followed me ‘ome, they did.”
Marcel clapped his hand to his forehead. “Merde, you foolish boy. What have you brought me! I requested the fresh salmon.”
“They wuz out, guvnor. Gave me this instead.” The chef wrinkled his nose. “I expect it has been in the shop for a week. You will feed it to the cats, very far from thees house, while I decide what to prepare for the second remove.”
“I shan’t eat much, you know,” Jillian said, tugging at his sleeve. “Not with this cold.”
&nb
sp; He smiled down at her. “Imagination and enterprise,” he reminded her cheerfully. “Only you and I shall know how creative I can be in an emergency, n’est-ce pas?”
“May I have it?” she whispered, a wicked glint in her eye. “The fish, I mean. The cats can have it later, when I’m done with it.”
Marcel cocked his head. “And what will you do with thees enormous beast?” It was nearly three feet long. He stripped away the damp paper, rinsed it off, and wrapped it in a large kitchen towel.
“Never mind,” she said, hugging the fish in her arms. It must have weighed thirty pounds and stank like . . . well, like a long-dead fish. “You need to protest your innocence with a clear conscience, Monsieur Gribeaux,” she told him. “And now, on a wholly new subject, where can I find Mr. Jaspers’s room?”
With a conspiratorial wink, Marcel gave her precise directions.
Chapter Eleven
JILLIAN STARED unhappily into the mirror, wincing as Polly endeavored to subdue her springy curls with a comb and brush. “It’s no use,” she said with a groan. “Have you a mobcap I could borrow?”
“I never dressed no lady’s ‘air afore,” the maid apologized.
“Your record stands,” Jillian assured her with a smile. “I swear something flew into the nursery and took up residence on my head, for this cannot be hair. Certainly it has a life of its own. Shall we select one of my lovely frocks for this auspicious occasion, with leather half-boots to complete the ensemble?”
As Polly fastened the buttons on her muddy-green bombazine dress, Jillian prepared herself mentally for the dismal evening ahead. Dinner with a block of ice. She’d no choice but to accept, for Marcel’s sake, but now she faced two whole hours with the glacial Earl. How would she endure it?
At least she did not have to make a good impression. She stepped back to consider her shabby, shrunken dress and unkempt hair in the cheval mirror. In truth, she belonged under the table, not at it. The notion struck her immediately. Why waste a perfectly good opportunity to prove herself unfit to dine in company? If she ate everything with the same spoon and picked her teeth, by the second remove His Odiousness would be having second thoughts. A loud belch, properly timed, could turn the trick. Long before dessert he’d realize the impossibility of foisting her on his feint.
She turned away from the mirror, forcibly suppressing a tiny, unwelcome feminine urge before it took shape in her mind. She could not look pretty even if she wanted to, but with a bit of mental discipline she could make herself not care. In just the same way she’d ruthlessly squelched air-dreams of elegant dinners and London soirees when she was seventeen, accepting that some things were simply not meant to be.
Polly showed her to the salon, squealing in horror when she walked right in without knocking. The Earl was already there, by the fireplace, his elbow resting on the mantel as he sipped wine from a delicate glass. With only a slight lift of one eyebrow at her rude entrance, he set down his glass and graced her with a formal bow.
Cowbells, but he was handsome, she thought distractedly. Rigged out in style, too, with skin-tight inexpressibles molded to splendid thighs and a dull-gold embroidered waistcoat fitted snugly over a white cambric shirt. His black swallowtail jacket must have been painted on his broad shoulders. A yellow diamond stickpin glittered in his intricate cravat, and starched shirt points framed a chin that seemed stronger and more sharply chiseled than she remembered.
She knew an insult when it slapped her in the face. Contemptible peacock. He knew very well she’d nothing presentable to wear, and this male display had been deliberately staged to embarrass her. The Earl and the Milkmaid. Her lips curled. He expected her to be cowed, did he? Well, if cow he wanted, cow he’d get. Bouncing a saucy curtsey, she marched with swinging arms across the room.
A frown of rebuke knitted his forehead, but he smiled politely. “I’m delighted that you will join me this evening,” he said in a silky voice. “You appear to be feeling better.”
“Fit as pig’s feet and hungry as an ox. How about some of that wine?”
“Ratafia for you,” he countered smoothly, moving to a mahogany sideboard where crystal decanters sparkled in the candlelight.
Jillian wrinkled her nose. “Ratafia? It sounds awful. What is it?”
The Earl lifted the decanter and scrutinized the maroon liquid. “Actually, I’ve no idea. Some sort of cordial, I expect. And,” he added sternly, “an appropriate refreshment for ladies.”
“Well, that lets me out.” Joining him at the sideboard, Jillian examined the decanters with interest. She lifted stoppers and sniffed them until she recognized brandy. “I’ll have some of this.” Mark took the stopper from her hand and replaced it with a clink. “No, you will not,” he said firmly.
“Well, I’m not going to drink something distilled from rats. How about some mead?” He shook his head. “I don’t imagine we have any.”
“No mead? I’ll send you some, then. I produce the best in the southlands, if I do say so myself.”
He shot her an appalled look. “You distill spirits?”
“Indeed I do. Mostly I brew ale, for the hands and some to sell if the barley crop is good, but the mead is my special project. We raise bees, you know. It’s not easy to get wine and brandy since the war, and there are too many excisemen along the southeast coast for the smuggling to be good. I thought you’d be impressed. Mead is a profitable enterprise.”
“I see.” Mark’s hand was unsteady as he filled a glass halfway with sherry. “It will be best, Miss Lamb, if you do not discuss such enterprises when you are in Society. The production of intoxicants is not seemly for a young gentlewoman.”
“I can’t count it as an accomplishment?”
“No, you absolutely may not.” He looked at her suspiciously. She was field-green and wide open with those enormous brown eyes and cheerful grin. Rather like a Venus flytrap. Again the voice of caution reminded him not to underestimate her, although he wondered why his neck always prickled warnings when none were needed. Jillian Lamb was an unschooled child of nature, but no more dangerous than thorns on a rose. Spines on a thistle, he corrected, for there was nothing remotely roselike about the chit except perhaps for her petal-soft complexion.
Jillian gulped her sherry. “If everything I do is unfit for conversation, what on earth do you suppose I’ll talk about at a party?” She’d poured herself another full glass before he thought to stop her. “Why don’t you make up a list of suitable topics?”
“Perhaps I will,” he agreed. “After this evening, I’ll have a better idea of what you are qualified to discuss.”
“Ah, This is to be a tutorial! And here I was thinking dinner with you might be a pleasant way to spend the evening.”
Launching a laugh, he touched his glass to hers in a light toast. “Sheathe your claws, Miss Lamb, and let us cry friends for tonight. Like it or not, for the time being our destinies are entwined.”
Our destinies are entwined? The man selected his words from some phrase-book in his head, she thought with an interior snarl. That sort of polished charm might work on London ladies, but she found it unbearably patronizing. “You mean, My Lord, that we are stuck with each other for the foreseeable future and may as well try to get along. Very well then. I’ll cooperate within reason, but keep in mind that you can be rid of me with a bank draft—on my own account, I might add—followed by a quick goodbye.”
The Earl was seized with a nearly irresistible urge to swing that compact little torso over his knee and favor her backside with a few solid whacks. He downed his wine with unaccustomed swiftness and watched her do the same. When a pink tongue snaked out and licked salaciously around her lips, he set his glass down without refilling it. The room was getting a little warm.
He smacked Jillian’s hand when it reached for the decanter. “Don’t spoil your palate,” he cautioned. “Marcel has pro
mised salmon en croute with a sauce he created to enhance the flavor. It’s my favorite and is always on the menu for special occasions.”
Jillian turned away to conceal her smile. Since the fish in question was currently en couche, awaiting Jaspers’s return to his room, the Earl would be disappointed. She left the sherry alone, though. Accustomed to mild spirits, she knew her limit, but it wouldn’t hurt if Coltrane thought she dipped heavily and misbehaved accordingly. Three glasses at dinner would be about right.
Irrationally, she felt exhilarated, as if she were playing an exciting game. Were the stakes not so high, she’d have enjoyed the challenge. The Earl held all the cards, or thought he did, but she wasn’t averse to cheating and had at least one advantage. He’d no idea she knew-how to play a game of wits, assuming that females developed accomplishments instead of intelligence. Unfortunately, her advantage was a two-edged sword. She had to convince him she was smart enough to manage an estate on her own/and at the same time persuade him she could not be loosed into Polite Society. Fit to run a farm, unfit to dance in a ballroom. “I’m ravenous!” she declared. “Let’s put on the feedbag.”
The Earl closed his eyes. “Jaspers will inform us when dinner is ready,” he said. “For now, Miss Lamb, pray sit down and tell me something of yourself. Have you been to school?”
She bristled. It was one thing to pretend to be stupid but quite another to be taken as such. “I can read and write, which you’d know if you opened your mail. I am good at sums, keep accurate ledgers, and have managed a household these last nine years. ‘ ‘ She sat on a spindly chair, deliberately planted her feet wide apart, and then, as if thinking twice, pulled her knees together. The display won the slight frown she was becoming accustomed to, the one she was after. Let him think she was at least trying. “I’ve lived all my life at Choppings Downs,” she continued, “and my education is derived from twenty-four years on a farm which, thanks to my father, has an excellent library.”