Though actually, Ann might have mentioned the notion to her first.
“I anticipate every single invitation will be accepted. Nothing save ill health or recent bereavement stops your men from paying their respects.”
Horace caught her hand. “They all long for another chance to flirt with you, my love.” He kissed her knuckles, exactly the sort of gallantry that had first brought him to Ann’s notice. “Do you ever miss being on campaign?”
Well, no. Not ever. Only a daft woman would miss death, dismemberment, camp rations, unrelenting illness, intrigues, constant fear for her husband… the whole business. Horace, in his delicate way, was asking about Philippe, a topic never raised between husband and wife overtly.
“A warrior is bored by peace,” Meli said. “A warrior’s wife thanks God nightly for the cessation of hostilities. You always made such a dashing figure riding before the troops, but I tell you honestly, Husband, I hated seeing you off to battle. The thought of losing you…” At her worst and most foolish, Meli had never wished anything but a contented old age for her spouse, which he—oddly—might find more trying than a battlefield death.
Horace studied her, her hand still in his. “I believe you mean that.”
“I most assuredly do. I am proud to be your wife, and that has always been true.”
Horace stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. He was a considerate and undemanding lover and only affectionate when private. Meli esteemed him for those courtesies, even if they did bore her a bit.
“Philippe is in London, Melisande. I thought you should know.”
Meli endured the inevitable welter of feelings that came with thoughts of a man she’d once regarded as the love of her life. Shame was predictable, for with Philippe, Meli had disgraced her marital vows. A current of longing nonetheless accompanied her guilt. If only there hadn’t been a war, a husband, a passel of generals intent on slaughter and spying…
Wistfulness inevitably rose as well. She had loved Philippe. She had known passion with him, desperate, glorious, wild passion, such as only young people in the throes of their first love affair can know.
“Philippe who?” Meli said, raising her chin. “My recollection of the various Frenchmen we encountered grows increasingly vague. I trust his path and mine will not cross, and I would appreciate it if you would aid me in that objective.”
Horace half rose to kiss her cheek. “No more need be said. Why don’t you bring your place setting down to my end of the table, and you can tell me all the latest gossip. I heard Mrs. Bainbridge played a little too deeply at faro last week.”
Meli complied, relieved to have the subject of Philippe closed. What was he doing in London, and how should she react if she did see him? London had only so many parks, and Philippe loved to be out of doors. He was from quite good family and would likely be socializing beyond the émigré community.
She collected her cutlery and joined Horace at the sunnier end of the table, keeping the conversation to tattle and household matters. Daniella’s progress with her letters and the head maid’s chronic sore knee. Horace reciprocated with the gossip from Horse Guards, and another meal passed without incident.
Horace rose to take his leave with another kiss to Meli’s cheek. “I’m off to lecture the solicitors. The investments aren’t performing quite to standards, and the lawyers need to know that I’m well aware of the problem.”
“You are ambushing them?”
“A surprise inspection. Have no fear, though. Unless you take to gambling in Emily Bainbridge’s fashion, we are still quite comfortably well fixed and can afford every indulgence where the regimental dinners are concerned.”
Horace was a good husband and a good provider. Meli truly did esteem him and always had. “Would it be too great an imposition to ask for more of your company, Horace? I grow a bit lonely late in the evening.”
He smiled, exhibiting a soupçon of the old dash. “Never let it be said I allowed my lady wife to languish for lack of my attentions. You will have my company tonight, if that suits.”
“That suits wonderfully.”
He bowed and withdrew, leaving Meli to pour herself another glass of wine and wonder how exactly Horace had heard of Emily Bainbridge’s gambling problem.
* * *
Sycamore Dorning valued family above all else, but precisely how to value Orion Goddard, reluctant brother-in-law and grouch at large, remained a mystery. Even Jeanette was short on ideas when it came to coaxing Goddard closer to the familial hearth.
“I’m having lunch sent over from the club,” Sycamore said. “You will join me, or good food will go to waste.”
“No,” Goddard replied, passing along his hat, gloves, and walking stick, “it will not. Your kitchen staff will ensure the food is consumed, and I’d like to discuss that staff with you.”
“I am in great good health, thank you, and yourself?” Sycamore led his guest to the family parlor. One of Jeanette’s embroidery projects lay on a sofa cushion, a pair of new throwing knives graced a side table, and a pile of smutty political prints Sycamore was sorting for a bound volume sat on the low table.
The humble side of domestic bliss was on display, and Sycamore hoped Goddard would perceive it as such.
“Apologies for my lack of small talk,” Goddard said, pausing on the threshold of the parlor and glancing around the room. “My sister thrives?” His tone suggested only an affirmative answer would spare Sycamore a slow, painful death.
“We thrive in each other’s care. With the right woman, marriage is a consummation devoutly to be wished. You might consider it. Please do have a seat, and tell me what about my kitchen staff interests you.”
Goddard chose the wing chair facing the door, while Sycamore took up one of the throwing knives.
“I have a problem,” the colonel said, “in the person of one Benevolence Hannah Goddard. She is of an age to apprentice to a cook, and Miss Ann Pearson has agreed to see to her instruction, if you allow it.”
Sycamore tossed the knife at the cork target situated between framed prints of nightshade and jasmine. The blade obligingly struck in the center, but then, the distance—unlike present company— was no challenge at all.
“Is your problem child an illegitimate daughter?” Jeanette would have something to say about a niece toiling away in the club’s kitchens.
“Hannah is no blood relation to me, but she is my responsibility. She will work hard, she already gets on well with Miss Pearson, and she cannot bide under my roof much longer.”
Not a by-blow, then. “An émigré’s offspring?”
Goddard took up the second knife and balanced it across his index finger. “Hannah’s antecedents are humble and, as far as I know, thoroughly English. Miss Pearson is willing to take her on, but you must approve the arrangement lest your fancy chef cause difficulties.”
Monsieur Jules Delacourt was largely responsible for the renown attached to The Coventry Club’s kitchens, and Sycamore avoided crossing him.
“You and Miss Pearson have discussed the matter?” As far as Sycamore knew, Ann Pearson and Orion Goddard had met only the once, and in passing, months ago. And yet, here was Goddard all but insisting that Miss Pearson be assigned an assistant.
Miss Pearson, not the renowned Jules Delacourt.
“Your undercook and I have discussed the particulars. You need not part with any coin, but I want signed articles of apprenticeship for Benny’s… for Hannah’s sake.”
A rap on the door heralded the arrival of lunch, which was fortunate, because Sycamore honestly did not know how to react to this request—demand?—from Goddard.
The footmen set two trays on small folding tables, bowed, and withdrew. The aroma of good, hot food reminded Sycamore that he was hungry. He took the second wing chair and prepared to tuck in.
“Might we wash our hands?” Goddard asked.
Well, yes, of course. “There’s soap and water in the breakfast parlor,” Sycamore said. “Shall we take our trays i
n there?”
Goddard picked up his tray and gestured toward the door, as if Sycamore were the guest and Goddard the host.
They tended to their ablutions, Goddard doing a thorough job, and then settled at the table. When Sycamore would have reached for his tankard of cider, Goddard bowed his head. Some muttering in French ensued while Sycamore’s stomach growled.
“Amen,” Sycamore said, flapping his table napkin over his lap. “I didn’t know the army put such fine manners on a fellow.”
“It doesn’t.” Goddard lifted the cloth covering his dish and sniffed. “How soon can Hannah take up her post?”
The kitchen had created magnificent hot sandwiches, piles of thinly sliced smoked ham with slabs of melted cheddar between toasted bread. Cold cider was the perfect beverage to wash down such fare, and bowls of hot apple compote awaited he whom the sandwiches had not entirely satisfied.
“I haven’t said Hannah can take up a post,” Sycamore countered. “I know many families embark on shared business ventures, but an apprenticeship can quickly become problematic.”
Goddard ate with peculiar delicacy, the crumbs all falling onto his tray, his pace deliberate. “Hence the need for written articles” he said. “I want Hannah to have genuine credentials when her term of service is up. These sandwiches were not made according to any recipe devised by Ann Pearson.”
“There are recipes for sandwiches?”
“Nor was the apple compote.”
“How can you tell?”
“The sandwiches have not even a hint of mustard, no dried onion, not so much as a pinch of basil. Miss Pearson is a firm believer in spices.”
Sycamore took another bite. “How would you know what my undercook believes in?”
“She told me so. What must I do to get you to provide Hannah a job with Miss Pearson?”
Sycamore munched for a moment. “Why not apprentice her to Delacourt? He’s the outstanding talent in my kitchen. The whole staff considers themselves lucky to work with him.”
Goddard slanted a look at Sycamore, and exactly how did a man’s gaze manage to be pitying when that man gazed out of only a single eye?
“Delacourt will take offense at your hiring him an apprentice he hasn’t chosen for himself—a female, no less—and Hannah honestly knows little of what goes on in a kitchen. She will need a patient instructor, not a half-drunk, self-adoring drill sergeant. Decide what the price for this favor will be, and I will gladly pay it.”
Sycamore took a considering sip of his cider and wished Jeannette were on hand. The price should be regular calls on Jeanette, but she would not want her brother coerced into socializing with her. Sycamore did not need coin—which Goddard well knew—but Goddard had to have something useful to offer.
Something Goddard would value. Something Sycamore valued as well, lest the exchange be insulting to Goddard.
“How is it Hannah is among your dependents, Colonel? Is she the by-blow of a fellow officer?”
“Most of my fellow officers will have nothing to do with me. Hannah, Benny to her familiars, is among the infantry I employ in furtherance of my business interests.”
“She is one of your urchins.” London was awash in urchins. The newspapers perennially lamented that state of affairs, and periodic collections were taken up, but nothing stemmed the tide of feral children littering the streets in the jewel of civilization’s crown. That many of those children were female was a doubly uncomfortable thought.
“Hannah numbered among my general factotums. I would not send her to you did she not have letters, manners, and regular exposure to what passes for religion among the English.”
“You are English.”
“I am half French, which limits my influence far more than you might think. That Hannah was foisted off on you by a family connection who bears the cross of French blood will spare her the worst of your chef’s posturing.”
Goddard spoke as if Delacourt’s little tantrums were more than passing displays. “Delacourt will have no excuse for pique, provided the child is as quick-witted and well mannered as you say she is.”
Goddard’s silence spoke volumes. How did he do that? How did he imply that Sycamore lacked an accurate grasp of the politics of his own kitchen?
“Has Miss Pearson been telling tales out of school, Goddard?”
“When you have the privacy to do so, ask her how the kitchen is managing, and then listen to what she says and what she doesn’t say. My concern is Benny.”
Sycamore took a spoonful of compote, which was rich and sweet, if somewhat uninspired. “I will take on your erstwhile urchin, but I have conditions.”
Goddard waved a hand. He did not touch his compote.
“First, we will begin with a trial period of three months, during which Miss Hannah can withdraw from her post without repercussions, provided she gives notice, or Miss Pearson can decide the child is not suited to the job, again with notice.”
“Reasonable. What else?”
Sycamore ran a gaming hell, but he was not a born gambler. He put his next condition before his guest, hoping it wasn’t a significant blunder.
“You will guarantee me a supply of champagne during those three months, at the same prices you offer to your best customers. My current supplier, a Frenchman, has grown greedy, despite the volumes of custom I offer him. I want to remind him that business is undertaken for our mutual benefit, not his unilateral enrichment.”
Goddard toyed with his spoon, the gesture having something of annoyance about it. “How many cases will you need?”
Sycamore named a quantity that should make any humble, half-French vintner pause. The Coventry offered free champagne after midnight, and the guests invariably indulged a tearing thirst at the tables. The free champagne had gone from a courtesy to an amenity to a signature of the club’s fine hospitality, while Sycamore’s supplier had become an arrogant pain in the arse.
“You will take delivery at the dock,” Goddard said. “I see no point inventorying that much wine in my cellars when the bottles are bound for consumption at your tables.”
“Reasonable,” Sycamore said, saluting with his spoon.
Something flitted over Goddard’s countenance. Not humor, exactly, but a leavening of his features. Once upon a time, Orion Goddard had probably been handsome, back before he’d donned an eye patch and forgotten how to smile.
Did Miss Pearson make him smile? Jeanette might know.
“One other condition,” Goddard said, rising.
“You aren’t having any compote?”
“The sweet doesn’t tempt me. Help yourself to mine.”
Sycamore would, once he’d seen Goddard out the door. “What’s your other condition?” he asked, getting to his feet.
“As your waiters serve the champagne, their trays will contain not only the filled glasses, but also the bottle from which the glasses were poured. You will also display the bottles at the bar, and if anybody asks—which they will, for my wines are superior to the pedestrian product you’re serving now—you will reply that, as a favor between family members, I have generously allowed you temporary access to some of my humbler stores.”
Admiration for Goddard’s strategy warred with surprise at his coup d’audace. “You have?”
“I am not in the habit of dissembling, Dorning. I will take it upon myself to acquaint Miss Pearson with the terms of our agreement. Hannah can start at the first of the week, and I expect you to provide her lodging, as you would any other apprentice.”
Goddard swiped two sandwiches from the tray, wrapped them in a plain handkerchief, and slipped them into a coat pocket. “I can see myself out.”
“Why do I feel,” Sycamore asked as he accompanied his guest to the door, “as if my superior officer has just come through on inspection?”
“Because he has. Please give Jeanette my most sincere regards. I’ll await your articles of apprenticeship for Hannah.” Goddard slapped his hat onto his head and gathered up his walking stick and glove
s. “Jeanette is truly faring well?”
“She’s blooming. My family adores her. She already has favorite-auntie status with my oldest niece, and we are looking for a property of our own in Surrey. You need not worry for her, Goddard. She made a splendid match.”
Goddard merely glowered, which he did quite well, and slipped out the door. For a big man, he moved quietly, and for a man with a hitch in his gait, he moved with dispatch.
Sycamore returned to the breakfast parlor, there to finish up the leftovers. Jeanette found him polishing off Goddard’s apple treat ten minutes later.
“Did I, or did I not, hear my brother’s voice as I was getting dressed?” she asked, allowing herself to be pulled into Sycamore’s lap.
Sycamore hoped, ages and ages hence, that he and Jeanette were still on pulling-her-into-his-lap terms. Jeanette was striking rather than pretty, with strong features and red hair, but what Sycamore loved most about her was her ferocious heart and loyalty.
She was devoted to her idiot brother, more’s the pity, though in his way, Goddard was equally loyal to Jeanette.
Sycamore offered Jeanette his cider. “Goddard was asking that we take on a female apprentice in the Coventry’s kitchens. I agreed. Have some compote.”
Jeanette allowed him to feed her a bite. “Orion asked a favor of you?”
Sycamore thought back over the conversation. “I am nearly sure he did, but then, I ended up placing an enormous order for champagne with him and agreeing to advertise his vintages at the club, in addition to providing employment for one of his pickpockets.”
Sycamore was not entirely certain how all that had transpired under the guise of a favor between family members, but he had the niggling suspicion that the outcome, from free meal to free advertising to free transportation of the bottles, had gone exactly according to Goddard’s plans.
“This is progress, Sycamore,” Jeanette said. “That Orion would ask this of us is progress.” Jeanette offered Sycamore an apple-flavored kiss, and all thoughts of Rye Goddard’s schemes and skills went straight out of Sycamore’s head.
Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One Page 7