Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  “Ash would typically take over managing the club in summer, and I’d be free to nip over to Paris, pop in at Dorning Hall, or venture down to Brighton. I did the same for him in winter, and that meant we were both free of the damned club for weeks at a time, confident that all would run smoothly in our absence.”

  “And now?”

  Sycamore took up Jeanette’s hoop and traced his fingers over pretty butterflies and blooming buttercups. Winter in London was a dark, noisome prospect compared to the open air and sweeping, snowy vistas of Dorsetshire.

  “Now, one person gives notice after years of loyal service, and I face hours of interviews to replace her, the delicate task of finding somebody who can do the job without offending Jules’s sense of indispensability, and the inevitable jostling about in the kitchen pecking order when staff changes… Better now than in the spring, but the whole prospect is tiresome. I wanted to spend much of this winter kitting out the house in Richmond.”

  Also snuggling with his wife, of course.

  “Has Miss Pearson said why she’s leaving?”

  The satin threads were smooth and luminous against the white linen, and Jeanette’s skill with the needle exquisite. She was equally adept at picking loose the threads of a problem.

  “No, and that bothers me too. Miss Pearson doesn’t mention career advancement, matrimonial ambitions, or an aging cousin in the north. She is held in near veneration by the staff, which I’m sure contributes to Jules’s sense of discontent in the kitchen, and unless I miss my guess, most of the food we serve is the result of her recipes.”

  “Nearly all of it.”

  “Jules says English tastes aren’t sophisticated enough for his best creations.”

  Jeanette took her embroidery from him and stashed it in a wicker workbasket. “Jules talks a lot. How much is he actually cooking?”

  Sycamore ventured into the kitchen during working hours only occasionally, and that bothered him as well. He owned the damned club, or owned much of it. Why was he hesitant to roam anywhere on its premises at any hour?

  “I love the Coventry,” Sycamore said. “I love the complexity of it, the challenge.”

  “You love being able to show your family that you can make money—something Dornings do not excel at generally—and entertain the highest society night after night. You take pride in that club.”

  “Well, yes, but I also simply like the work. I like charming the dowagers and consoling the bachelors on their loneliness. I like providing employment for a lot of good folk who seek only a decent wage and the occasional thanks in exchange for hard work. I like how the whole place works together—from the cellars to the buffet to the tables to the staff to the ledgers—to create something fine. Nobody needs the Coventry, and yet, London is a little more dashing for featuring such a venue.”

  Jeanette shifted to straddle Sycamore’s lap. “But?”

  “But I have proved my point, Jeanette. The Coventry is a business to be proud of, and now I would like to spend more time with you, making the Richmond property into a profitable garden farm. Looking in on the nieces and nephews, taking you to Paris.”

  “While I would like to take you to bed.”

  “Bed is a lovely destination, provided you join me there.”

  She kissed him, which had the delightful effect of putting the whole complication of Miss Pearson’s leaving at a slight distance. Married life involved the occasional midafternoon nap with Jeanette, though such naps—while highly restorative—involved little sleeping.

  “You should talk to Miss Pearson,” Jeanette said when she’d allowed Sycamore to come up for air. “Or I can talk to her.”

  “I’ve already told her I will need time to find a replacement. Mrs. Dorning, you aren’t wearing stays.”

  “While you are still in full morning attire.”

  “I’m sure you will remedy my error. What exactly should I talk to Miss Pearson about?”

  “Why is she leaving now? Something is brewing in your kitchen, Mr. Dorning.”

  “Something is brewing in my breeches. Shall we to the bedroom, Jeanette?”

  She rose and took him by the hand. “I could do with a nap and a cuddle, now that you mention it.”

  “When is a nap and a cuddle ever a bad idea?”

  A nap and a cuddle with Jeanette was, in fact, a very good idea, leaving Sycamore feeling drowsy, sweet, and in charity with the world, despite the upheaval afoot at the club. As he drifted off in Jeanette’s arms, a last thought floated through his mind.

  He would try to have a word with Ann Pearson about her sudden desire to quit the Coventry, but he would assuredly have a much more pointed word with Orion Goddard.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Children aren’t like foot soldiers,” Alasdhair said. “You cannot simply tell them to march this way one day and back the other way the next. They need for life to make sense.”

  The reading room offered its usual sense of sanctuary, a particularly English sort of haven that came from comfortable chairs arranged around a venerable hearth on a chilly evening. That the brandy was French also somehow made the Aurora Club’s ambience more British, and more dear.

  “This lot of children has never been the pampered darlings of anybody’s nursery,” Rye said. “They are tough and resilient.”

  “They are loyal, Goddard,” Dylan said, propping his feet on a hassock. “They won’t want to be parted from you or from one another.”

  Nor I from any of them. “The separation cannot be helped.” Ann had seen what Rye had tried to hide from her: For him to remain in Town would endanger innocents—more innocents—and that he was unwilling to do.

  “How will you choose which children go with you to France and which remain here with us?’ Alasdhair asked.

  Rye sipped his brandy and pondered that conundrum. His cousin Jacques had faced such a choice under more fraught circumstances and sent his most vulnerable child, the infant Nettie, to safety.

  Who among the children was most vulnerable, and should that boy stay in London or go to France?

  “Theodoric will want to protect you,” Dylan observed. “Choose another boy who gets on well with Theodoric. I’ll take the youngest two, and MacKay can take whoever’s left over.”

  “You’ll send the youngest two to your sisters,” Alasdhair retorted. “You want the easy ones.”

  “I’ll think about who goes and who stays.” Rye would probably air his ideas before the boys and see what they had to say. A competent general held a council of war and listened to his subordinates.

  And then he alone made the hard decisions.

  “What of your émigrés?” Dylan asked, toeing off his boots and crossing his feet at the ankle. “I know of at least a half-dozen old ladies who recall you nightly in their prayers to le bon Dieu.”

  “There’s also Angus and Angie,” Alasdhair murmured, getting up to add a half scoop of coal to the fire. “Angus is getting on, and a coachy’s hands don’t last forever.”

  Angus had been with Rye in Spain and France, and a tougher, more irascible batman—and kinder, more conscientious horseman—had never cursed the London traffic.

  “I’ll ask if he and Angie want to go with me.” Though neither one spoke even passable French.

  The fire leaped up at the addition of fresh fuel, while Rye’s spirits were sinking to new depths.

  “Are we to start calling on the fair Mrs. Dorning?” Dylan asked. “Comporting ourselves like the doting cousins we’ve never been? Sending you regular reports?”

  “Dropping by the Coventry to swill your champagne for free?” Alasdhair added, settling back into his chair.

  Each query was the same question in different words: Goddard, what the hell are you doing?

  “Fournier and Deschamps both claim innocence,” Rye said, finishing his drink. “Jeanette’s in-laws once had a hand in spreading gossip about me, but the guilty parties are no longer in London. Somebody with a long memory has decided that I need banishing, but I’m
still at a loss to know who or why.”

  “And if you tarry in Town, the next warning might be to send your warehouse up in flames,” Dylan said.

  “I can make more champagne. I cannot make more of the people I care for.” More cousins, more darling old ladies who tatted the most exquisite lace to edge Rye’s fancy cravats, not that he ever wore fancy cravats.

  He could not make more dear, courageous boys, who all deserved to have their gifts appreciated and their shortcomings forgiven, even if those shortcomings stank like hell’s privy.

  Rye could never make more sisters, when only the one had been allotted to him, and he’d bungled being her brother. God help him, he’d probably miss even Sycamore Dorning.

  “So why does it feel,” Dylan asked, “as if you’re choosing the champagne over the friends?” He laced his hands on his belly and closed his eyes, apparently unwilling to absent himself from this wake for a life more dear than Rye had realized.

  “Will you write to her?” Alasdhair asked. “To Miss Pearson, I mean. Mrs. Dorning will send her husband to hunt you down if you neglect to correspond with your sister.”

  How Rye would miss these friends who’d stuck by him through everything. “Go to hell, MacKay.”

  “I might have to, if I want to look in on you. Have another nip?”

  Getting drunk never solved anything. Staying sober hadn’t exactly resulted in a quick victory either. “Half,” Rye said. “And then I must be going.”

  Otter would be furious at leaving London, but then he’d settle down and accommodate what could not be changed. When Otter had reconciled himself to the inevitable, the other boys would too.

  Rye’s list of worries expanded as the fire mellowed: the horses, the cats in the stable—Hannah would fret over them—and Hannah herself, though Jeanette could keep an eye on her. Mrs. Murphy would need a character, and whoever was hired to share warehouse guard duty would have to understand that Nicolas needed looking after as well.

  In his head, Rye made a list of tasks to do before leaving, people upon whom he must call, affairs to put in order. He could even in his imagination conceive of how he’d take leave of Ann. A swift, fond farewell, a kiss and a smile, soldier-fashion, and then march off to battle, head held high.

  All very well for the part of him that had wrangled recruits, mules, horses, and artillery, but in his heart, he felt as if he would be deserting the regiment, the one betrayal a loyal officer would never commit.

  * * *

  Ann stepped back to admit Orion, and even Miss Julia and Miss Diana for once had no comment. Colonel Sir Orion Goddard in dress regimentals was a sight to strike a lady speechless. His eye patch made him look only more imposing, and his smile… oh, his smile was all the spice and sweetness Ann could have wished for.

  “Miss Julia, Miss Diana, good evening.” Orion bowed, then took Ann’s hand. “Miss Pearson, my vineyards at harvest time pale beside your beauty.”

  She curtseyed. “And your splendor outshines my most delicate double consommé.”

  “Besotted,” Miss Julia muttered. “The pair of you.”

  “Oh, to be besotted,” Miss Diana said. “Colonel, you must be very attentive to our Ann tonight. I do not care for these relatives of hers. They never call upon her, and they—”

  “Enough, Sister,” Miss Julia cut in. “The young people must be off to display their finery.”

  Finery had nothing to do with why Ann wanted to be off. “Don’t wait up for me,” she said. “If the evening goes quite late, I might stay with my aunt.”

  Miss Diana looked ready to launch into one of her well-reasoned, politely withering diatribes on the undeserving nature of relatives who never called, while Orion draped Ann’s cloak over her shoulders and fastened the frogs for her.

  “Ann, take care of our colonel,” Miss Julia said. “I’ve spent enough time around officers’ wives to know where the worst ambushes come from.”

  Orion passed Ann her bonnet. “We are away to enjoy one of the most impressive banquets ever served in London, and that is saying something. Try to contain your envy.”

  Miss Julia touched his sleeve. “Young man, you had best get out that door while you still can. Sister and I are quicker than we look.”

  Something wistful passed over Orion’s expression, and then he was offering Ann his arm and escorting her to the walkway.

  “I borrowed the Dorning coach,” Orion said. “The occasion seemed to call for it. Do you mind?”

  The conveyance was splendid, the horses matched grays. “Because we will travel in a closed carriage after dark without a chaperone?”

  Had Ann any intention of pursuing the much-vaunted advantageous match, had she any aspiration to socialize with high society rather than to cook in its kitchens, she might have hesitated.

  “As I keep telling my aunt, I am not a young lady new to Town intent on attaching the interests of a well-off spouse. We’ll keep the shades down.”

  “Will we really?”

  “Yes, and if anybody asks, your sister accompanied us, but nobody will ask.”

  Orion handed her up and settled on the forward-facing seat beside her. “I will tell John Coachman to let us off before we reach the brigadier’s front door, in case anybody thinks to make a fuss.”

  What does it say about me that I like even sitting beside this man? Like watching the light of the coach lamps turn his features stern—more stern—and complicated?

  “I hope the guests make a fuss about the sauce velouté I devised for the fish and the sauce béarnaise to be served with the beef.”

  Orion took her hand as the coach glided forward, and Ann wished they weren’t wearing gloves. “Are you trying to make me hungry?”

  “If you don’t kiss me in the next thirty seconds, I will make you—”

  He kissed her. Gently, then with a combination of heat and tenderness that had Ann longing to take off far more than her gloves. She let go of him reluctantly long minutes later, because even she would not arrive at her aunt’s house looking tumbled.

  “Are you nervous?” Orion asked as Ann finger-combed his hair back into order.

  “Yes. I’ve never partaken of the banquets I prepare or plan. My aunt is right about that. I’m torn between wanting to simply enjoy good food and wanting to keep paper and pencil handy to note any room for improvement.”

  “Enjoy the food, Annie. God knows you’ve earned the right. If Melisande is merciful, you won’t be seated too far away from me, and I can enjoy you enjoying your creations.”

  Orion’s entrance into the guest parlor was met with some raised eyebrows and a few murmured asides, but then Emily Bainbridge took him by the arm.

  “We have an expert, ladies,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, drawing Orion to a group of women. “Colonel, you can settle a dispute. We are debating the meaning of the French verb courtiser. You must translate it for us.”

  A lull in surrounding conversations coincided with the lady’s question, and more eyebrows went up. As the gentlemen exchanged glances, and Melisande’s expression edged close to a grimace, Orion smiled down at Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “The verb does mean, in present French parlance, to court, tracing its origins to the courtiers who paid their polite attentions to the sovereign and thus attempted to win his or her favor. That is a very fetching fan, Mrs. Bainbridge. Do you recall how you came by it?”

  Conversation resumed, and Melisande was soon pairing up her guests to process into the dining room. Ann found herself on the arm of a magpie lieutenant, one who patted her hand needlessly and wore far too much Hungary water.

  The lieutenant seated her, then moved around the table to take the place opposite, which ensured, at least for the early courses, Ann would hear him chattering, but would not have to engage him in conversation herself.

  Orion was seated next to the lieutenant, surely a form of penance, though when Ann felt a boot nudging against her toe, she looked across the table to see Orion regarding her with the veiled humor so characteris
tic of him.

  The canapés were brought out, and the conversation barely paused. Ann had agonized over the choices, weighing appearance, cost, flavor, ease of preparation, and availability of fresh ingredients. Mrs. Spievack—she’d nearly shouted her name to Orion—popped a little serving of ham, Dijon mustard, and cornichon into her mouth, all the while nodding vigorously at whatever Orion was saying.

  Up and down the table, guests behaved similarly. The first course disappeared while the talk grew louder. Emily Bainbridge’s laughter occasionally sliced through the din, and those sly, measuring glances from the officers passed over Orion and occasionally rested on Ann.

  Dexter Dennis, who’d accompanied his sister to the gathering, sent Orion a particularly venomous look, which Uncle and Aunt pretended to ignore.

  Ann stuffed a canapé into her mouth—brie topped with chopped green olives and a garnish of parsley and ground black pepper—and wished she were back in the Coventry’s kitchens, melting butter for her white sauces.

  All the pretty delicious courses in the world could not disguise the fact that something nasty and mean was being served up exclusively to Orion Goddard, and Ann had been wrong to insist he escort her into this company.

  * * *

  The food was glorious, the table magnificent, but most wonderful of all was the chance to sit and merely behold Annie Pearson amid the bounty she’d created. From the artful little canapés to the delicious soup, to fish in a sauce so scrumptious it defied description, Orion had never partaken of a meal half as impressive.

  Ann belonged here, laughing and chatting with the officers, quietly outshining all the ladies in their formal best. She deserved to hear the occasional compliments regarding the food, including a rhapsody by Lieutenant Colonel Mornaday about the beef roast. He actually asked for the sauce recipe, and Orion waited for Melisande to acknowledge Ann’s contribution.

  “The sauce isn’t that complicated,” Melisande said, smiling self-consciously. “I’ll send along the particulars before the week is out.”