No Hiding For The Guilty (The Heart of a Hero Book 5)

by Vanessa Riley

  "I don't think you've given anyone a chance to know. I like being your chef's assistant, Isadel. Don't stay up too late."

  "Good night, Bann-er-man."

  He dipped his chin to the woman and pushed through the door. With her jar of cream weighing in his robe pocket, all concern that she might be in league with the Almeida Killer left. Isadel wasn't trying to kill him, unless buttery biscuits and a balm were some new form of torture.

  Isadel wasn't trying to ingratiate herself upon him. She was being herself, her slightly murderous, slightly caring self. He marched up the stairs intending to go back to bed, but stopped at the tower room. With his gloved palm, he crushed the lock, opening the metal loop and leaving it dangling for Isadel to find. A breeze was his gift to her for giving him peace this evening.

  Still sampling buttery crumbs, he wondered if biscuits and black powder tasted as well together. He'd figure it out soon enough and then he'd have to figure out a way to convince Isadel to give up her vengeance. In his gut, he knew that would be as difficult as finding out the identity of the Almeida Killer.

  Chapter Seven: Raising of Sandon Manor

  Isadel dressed quickly as she had all week. Arising before the men gave her a head start on the day and made her feel as if she had control of the kitchen. That was something. Bannerman had yet to say what her final punishment would be.

  When she tossed on her jacket and buttoned it, allowing the fabric to swallow her whole, the glint of the broken lock caught her gaze. She moved to the large window and unhooked it. She pressed on the pane and it opened.

  The air rushed in, followed by the call of a gull perhaps heading to the sea, to freedom. The haunting call of the clouds stirred inside her, but not as much as it had before. She guessed surprise did that. The cold metal of the lock felt good, almost as good as the breeze.

  When had this been done?

  Had she gone day after day like a caged animal, not knowing she could simply press on the glass and be free? Bannerman must have done it when she wasn't in the room. Why would he do this? Was it a sign of something? Clasping her fingers about the brokenness of what had been the lock, she took another deep breath of the fresh air.

  He'd noticed her and now was being nice to her. Did that mean something? How would being noticed by an Englishman change her world?

  Too much fiddling and second-guessing. Figuring out men was terrible—there was no recipe for them.

  She stuffed the lock in her pocket and turned toward the door. Breakfast needed to be started. That was an easy thing to think upon.

  When she stepped out of the tower room, a scent she hadn't smelled except in her kitchen greeted her. Pine soap. It made her nose twitch. She took a second and then a third breath of the clean air, but then her eyes popped wide as she saw grooms, hordes of men she hadn't seen before were working in the halls. Her mouth surely hung open gaping enough for flies. Sandon couldn't be invaded. Vandals didn't make repairs.

  Pushing on her jaw to close her shocked mouth, she made her way down the stairs and then to the long hall to the kitchen. Water was heating over the hearth.

  An older woman stood near it dressed in a wide apron and lacy mobcap. "Miss Armijo, ma'am. Good morning."

  The lady seemed nervous half-grinning, half-rocking back on her heels.

  A feeling of being replaced whipped up in Isadel's gut, stinging. She stared at the woman, the fixed doors, the polished knobs, then the floor. "Are you the new cook?"

  "No, ma'am. I'm your scullery maid. Mr. Bannerman hired me to help you." She handed Isadel a snow-white apron.

  Someone to assist her? Lifting her head, Isadel took the beautiful thing and wrapped it about her waist. A sense of pride swept over her.

  Then fear washed over her, too. Was Bannerman planning on sending her back to the Abbey before the seeds arrived or had he decided to keep her for a longer course?

  "Ma'am, how do we begin?"

  The woman looked very scared and Isadel wondered what the big man had told the new maid. She nodded. "Let's get the eggs cooked. There is left over chicken in the larder. We'll cook that up too. What is your name?"

  "Nelson, ma'am. The widow Nelson."

  "I run an efficient kitchen, Mrs. Nelson."

  "That's what I've been told. I'll work hard. I've mouths to feed."

  Isadel smiled at the woman. She had soft blue eyes and graying blonde hair. Maybe she was kind and here to help. "Well, Mrs. Nelson, with all the workers here, there seem to be hungry mouths, too. When we're done, let's make preparation for some cinnamon apple tarts."

  "Yes, Miss Armijo."

  Her domain was still intact for the moment but Sandon had begun a transformation. What did it mean? She sighed. That was other folks' business, Bannerman's business.

  Soon she and Mrs. Nelson had the kitchen smelling of onions and garlic and mutton. The cooked eggs with chicken shredded and tomatoes diced up would be an excellent addition to go with her biscuits. The larder was full of vegetables and cured meats. What was Bannerman planning?

  When everything was just about ready, Phipps like clockwork appeared at ten sharp. Instead of sitting at her table, he scooped up a platter and forked on a good portion of the mutton, before balancing a smaller bowl of the eggs.

  "What are you doing, Mr. Phipps? The workers can come get their due in here. You don't need to move anything."

  "They can, but that's not what Bannerman wants. Gather a few plates and come with me, Miss Armijo. Mrs. Nelson can handle here. Right, Mrs. Nelson?"

  Though the widow seemed amiable and capable, Isadel didn't like abandoning the kitchen particularly for games. "Why is this necessary?"

  Phipps continued his work of piling and balancing. "Today, Bannerman wants to dine in the dining room."

  "The man wants to eat in filth. I'm not sure what is to be done with either of you."

  Mrs. Nelson started to grin but turned her head toward the hearth. Phipps's smile seemed bigger and Isadel was sure it was not for her benefit but the widow's.

  With both hands full of food, the man-of-all-work toddled to the door. "Biscuits, Miss Armijo. Then follow me."

  She picked up some plates put a healthy amount of biscuits on them then caught up with the butler.

  Again, the smell of pine soap and freshness overwhelmed. The scent could make one giddy, well one not so jaded. What could be afoot with workman patching the floors?

  They trudged to a room with the threshold freshly painted and a new shiny knob. Clearing the way for her, Phipps used his foot to hold open the door.

  Inside, she paced. The room was clean, well lit with big whitewashed patches of fist-sized holes, Bannerman fist-sized holes. A wide window with a few broken panes let in a flood of light. With his back to her, Bannerman stood near the mantle with two gleaming swords hanging above his head. Where those the dirty one's from his study? Had that room undergone a cleanup too?

  Phipps put the plates on the table and seated himself. "This is going to be delightful, delightful as always, Miss Armijo."

  When Bannerman turned around, her breath caught. His hair was combed. His face was shaved. The baby hair about the sides of his face was trimmed and even. His half smile returned as he sat at the table. "Does this…" He waved his arms. "Does this meet with your approval?"

  A lump formed in her throat. Was he merely talking about the paint and plaster? "You're not a lion any more. You decided to clean up…Sandon?"

  "But, I'm still big like a lion. And yes, I heard I'd let Sandon get away from me."

  Phipps slathered his plate in eggs. "I'd like to say that a good meal has restored your hearing."

  The wink passed between them made her cheeks feel heated. A little seeing of skin, an accidental acknowledgment of her thinking him handsome—had it made him notice her more? She wasn't waiting to find out. Setting the biscuits on the table whose right leg was supported by a book, she pivoted then pitched toward the door.

  "Miss Armijo, where are you going?" Bannerman's voic
e sounded annoyed.

  "To the kitchen."

  "You said we couldn't eat in the dining room because it was not clean. It is now clean. Or have I not met your standards?"

  "Yes, you and Phipps can now leave the kitchen for your meals."

  Bannerman stood up and marched toward her in a deep blue jacket and white gloves on his hands, evening gloves like she had recommended. "You shall join us."

  "No." She tried to make her tone softer, but from the growing frown on his face, she hadn't succeeded. "The help and your prisoner shall be in the kitchen."

  "Phipps, go retrieve the coffee while I convince our chef to eat with us."

  The butler shoved a biscuit into his mouth then arose and left the room. "My pleasure, sir."

  Sitting on the table's edge, he folded his arms. "Why must you be so contrary?"

  "And why are you changing the rules? You're being flirtatious, with a prisoner none the less."

  He frowned. "I am being kind to you, Isadel. I don't have to be an ogre." He smoothed his bare chin. "Or look like one. I think you did say you preferred me clean shaven."

  "For what matter? What purpose? I am not a thing. Or a possession. And just because I said I thought you handsome, it means nothing."

  "Miss Armijo, the balm you made has softened my hands. My skin feels alive. Forgive me if I've decided to follow more of your suggestions."

  Perhaps he was just being kind. It just felt different and wrong for him to be considerate. There was always a cost, an ask or demand associated with kindness. Her stomach soured and she wiped at her eyes. "Sorry. This isn't easy for me."

  "Isadel, you don't make it easy. That is what I like about you."

  "I can't afford to be carefree."

  "Not like Agueda?" he asked, his tone becoming low and sharp. It pierced her gut.

  Oh, she wanted to kick herself for saying too much. "All I know is the minute I become comfortable is the minute it all changes, and then no good happens."

  "You will eat with us, Isadel. That's an order. Remember, part of your punishment is to eat with Phipps and myself."

  "Yes," Phipps said as he entered carrying a tray with three steaming mugs. "And with his beard shaved, you might see his overbite. That is a punishment. His manners are subpar."

  Bannerman's frown changed to a thinner short line and all of Phipps's chuckles stopped. "You forgot the cream, Phipps. I like cream in my coffee."

  "I'll go get the cream, Bannerman."

  "Phipps can go. Everything is a choice, Miss Armijo. Except for you, Phipps. The cream."

  Biscuit in hand, the older man went running.

  She didn't know what to say. All she could think was that her jitteriness may have cost her a lesson with the black powder. "The workers. They will need dinner. I will go make preparations for dinner, enough for all the workers in Sandon."

  Sighing like a teapot, he nodded. "Just make sure you are ready to go to the park at noon. I'm sure our new hire, Mrs. Nelson, can make sure what ever wonder you create can survive an absence of a couple of hours."

  Her eyes started to sting from popping so wide. She hadn't upset him. He said he'd keep his word. "Yes, sir." Before he could say anything else that that might make her cry, she rushed out the door.

  She lay against the threshold. Her pulse beat a crazy rhythm and she laid her head back against the cleaned door. The scent of polish evaded her nose as shame swept her heart. At least this feeling was something stronger than hate.

  Shaking herself, she marched into the kitchen. At noon, Bannerman would show her the ingredients of the recipe she sought. Vengeance stayed in her soul, no matter how nice Bannerman decided to be, Isadel would not be deterred.

  Hugh watched Isadel retreat and the soldier in him wanted to chase and vanquish the resistance. She was too stubborn, too set in her ways. Why would a woman who broke rules to come to him want to adhere to them now?

  Maybe this was Spanish or Jamaican resistance, something an Englishman wouldn't understand.

  But that quelled his wanting to know.

  Phipps returned with a metal pitcher of cream. He looked in Hugh's direction and grinned like a greedy mouse. "Miss Armijo almost ran past me. Is everything alright?"

  "You think if I shake her, Phipps, I could make her less—"

  "Resistant to your charms, sir?" Phipps set the cream down on the table he and four other men had rejoined from two halves. Hugh had split the table a month ago upon learning of Parks' death, a slit throat, an almost illegible 'A' written in blood on his shirt. That was the trademark of the Almeida Killer. Parks was a good man, terrific officer. He didn't deserve such a death.

  His man slurped his coffee loud and long. "Are you resistant to the chef's charms?"

  "What, that stubborn hellcat? I go to the trouble of raising Sandon and all she wants is to be back in the kitchen. What type of charm is that?"

  "Her winsome manner is stuck your head. She's gone and you're still staring at the door as if that will bring her back."

  Rubbing his clean chin, his unblemished face, Hugh sighed. "It wasn't her. Just frustrated with how far I let Sandon degrade and you told me about Parks in this room. I punched through the table you're feasting upon."

  "A feast by our Miss Armijo. Mrs. Nelson can't cook like this."

  It wasn't the first time Phipps had mentioned the widow to Hugh. He'd raise a brow and tweak his man's nose over it if he weren't still fuming over Isadel.

  "What type of reaction were you expecting from our disciplined baker and recent caregiver to a brooding Bannerman? She is gone from the dining room and you sulk?"

  The woman was all those things to Hugh and annoying. Her reaction to his efforts made that spot on the back of his neck tingle with hot rage. He took a deep cleansing breath. "I don't know, maybe a little enthusiasm. I definitely didn't think she'd retreat."

  After refilling his mug, Phipps slid a piping hot one to Hugh. "Miss Armijo is a very hard worker." He pulled a piece of biscuit onto his plate. "Seems her influence around here is pretty good, but she's no soldier, not of the war we are still fighting or the one stuck in your head."

  "What are you talking about? You've been after me to clean up the past six months."

  The man's cheeky smile widened, as he scooped up more eggs. It was the kind of expression one would see on a gambler who'd just picked up his second ace. "I could say you are doing this to impress her, but that's too shallow of a reason. Miss Armijo is life. She came to these doors and reminded you that you are still breathing and that life still has meaning even when you're ill or at the end of your hope."

  After a long pour of cream, Hugh picked up the steaming mug and put it to his lips. It was made like he loved hot, sweet, nutty on his tongue, but that did not make swallowing any easier. "This was the first time in months I don't have to fight my beard to enjoy coffee."

  He sat down at the head of the mahogany table. Soon it would have its leg fixed, heavy wax would be applied and the rich dark would shine. "Maybe she needs to see it completed to enjoy it more. She doesn't know what Sandon was like." He took a biscuit and wondered if more of the jam they made earlier in the week remained, but he couldn't go fetch some from the kitchen. Phipps would never stop laughing. "Miss Armijo's food is delicious, her ways are intriguing and irritating."

  "Her ways are baking us sweet apple tarts for dessert this evening. She had Mrs. Nelson chopping up apples when I went to retrieve your cream. Whatever the chef's influence, I'd like it to continue. Sandon has not look so good in years. You even look yourself."

  Hugh had let things go too far, but Sandon reflected himself, without hope, dying. Phipps was right. The intriguing Isadel's balm made his wound less tender. It was healing nicely and his skin felt human again, not like delicate paper. So much so he'd risked shaving and was surprised to find no patches or lesions like the last physician told him to expect. "The chef seems to like everything well kept."

  Phipps's greedy smile scrunched up. "You've given me a gre
at deal of freedom to speak my mind." He tapped his fork's tines on his almost empty plate, and then looked up. "You haven't plans for the lass other than the kitchen?"

  "She seems happiest in there, so I see no need to put her on another task."

  "There's a look in your eye. Like the week we caroused in London after you found out Miss Betsy had eloped with Moldona."

  In a drunken rage, he had kissed good-bye his heartache with every woman that could be procured. "Not exactly proud of my prowess, but I was quite angry and inebriated. I'm not sotted now."

  "You're drunk on the life that lass has brought to this place, but she's not that kind of girl. Not a street walker or a brothel worker, just a good honest chef."

  Hugh didn't like being lectured to, but with no Henry, Phipps had become a cross between friend, faithful counselor and occasional partner in folly. Hugh knew exactly what kind of girl Phipps alluded to and Isadel Armijo was no harlot, no man's mistress. Hugh finished his mug then set it down with a crash. "I have no designs on Miss Armijo, but I know she likes me and Sandon clean. I liked being thought of like my days weren't numbered. She is safe from me, even if she thinks I am handsome and well built."

  "Did she say all that?"

  "No. But she implied a smidgeon of it, and sometimes that is enough."

  Phipps shook his head. "Bannerman, don't upset the cook or you'll be back to my food or poor Mrs. Nelson, neither are a good comparison." He stood and gathered up the empty dishes, then stopped. "I know what your fellow officers thought of girls like her when we fought in Almeida."

  "Like her?"

  "Mulattoes. Some thought very little of them because of their mixed blood, but Miss Armijo, she's not to be trifled with."

  Hugh closed his eyes and remembered the off-colored jokes, the ones equating pretty girls like Isadel as half-breeds, mutts, playthings to roll around in the muck with. He might've even offered a laugh at one of his peers' raunchy jokes, but not now. Not when the little biscuit-making wonder had treated him more humanely than he'd treated himself. Hugh adjusted his glove, stretching the clean white glove to fit more securely about the fresh bandage she'd put on last night. "As I've said, I have no designs upon her. I admire her work ethic, but how have you discovered her character? A few biscuits and she's won you over."