hated the way these English servants said monsieur. It sounded as if he had crawled from the privy. But it did no good to correct them.
‘How much soup is left?’
‘A quarter of the pot. Not so many came today.’
‘Then the remainder will go to the servants’ hall for dinner.’
‘I don’t see why we should eat the leftovers from a bunch of dirty Gypsies,’ she muttered.
André swallowed a surge of anger at the scorn in her voice. This girl had never known what it was to go without. He kept his voice calm, but instructive. ‘The only difference between you and the Gypsies, as you call them, is you have work and they do not. N’est-ce pas?’
‘Nesper?’
Becca giggled behind her hand.
André frowned. Agnes scuttled back into the scullery and André returned to shucking the oysters.
‘I thought we’d prepared everything for dinner,’ Becca said, watching him, her arm turning the spit by rote.
‘The duke has a guest.’
‘His sister,’ Becca said, nodding. ‘Eloped she did. Years ago.’
That might account for the fear he’d seen in her eyes. A prodigal sister unsure of her welcome. Fear would account for the lack of appetite too. It did not, however, account for the lifeless pallid skin or the eyes huge in her face. She clearly had not eaten well for a long time.
If she had no appetite, she needed something to seduce her into putting food in her mouth. Not that he cared about Mrs Holte. Spoiled noblewomen didn’t interest him in the least, except as they could advance his prospects. If this one refused to eat his food, his reputation would suffer. He bit back his irritation. He would use it as a chance to put his theories about food to yet another test. No woman, noble or otherwise, would resist his food. He left the oysters to simmer and set to work braising fresh vegetables. This time the plates would not return untouched.
Normally, once dinner preparation was finished and the food taken up to the drawing room, André would have retired to the parlour set aside for the use of the upper servants—the butler and the housekeeper and any ladies’ maids present. Or he’d go to his own room and work on his menus for the hotel he planned to open in London. Tonight he found himself inspecting cuts of meat, counting jars of marmalade and generally annoying Becca, who was up to her elbows in hot soapy water washing the pots and pans in the scullery.
And while he counted and checked, he had one eye on the door.
He barely noticed when Joe returned with the duke’s tray. ‘Smithins said to tell you that His Grace said the beef could have used a bit more cooking,’ Joe announced with a cheeky grin, keeping well out of André’s reach.
‘M’sieur Smithins can go to hell,’ André replied, as he always did.
‘Bloody Frenchman,’ Joe muttered under his breath, and ran off.
The next set of dishes brought back to the kitchen were from the dining room where the mouse had sat in splendid isolation with her child.
The tureen of soup had been broached, the soup tasted. A spoonful or two from one bowl, more from the other. But neither was drained.
His jaw clenched hard when he saw nothing else had been touched, not the poached chicken or the pheasant pie or even the vegetables. There was something wrong with the woman. There had to be.
Joe leaned close and inhaled. ‘Smells lovely,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll be done right proud in the servants’ hall tonight.’
André bared his teeth. ‘You will touch none of it without my permission.’ He glanced at the dishes set ready to go up. ‘Take the last course.’
‘No point,’ Joe said cheerily. ‘The little one is sick. They went up to their rooms.’
‘Sick?’
‘Too many sweetmeats, my lady said.’
Not the food. Of course not the food. His food was delicious. He stared at the untouched meal and remembered the thin face and the grey eyes filled with worry. He recalled the child whose bones looked ready to burst from her skin and wanted to hit something. The child had eaten only sugarplums and made herself ill.
Faced with such a treat a hungry child would fill its belly to bursting. He should have sent only the plainest of food. The most easily digested morsels this afternoon. He should have known. He was an idiot.
‘Leave the pie,’ he instructed. ‘Take the rest to the hall with my compliments.’
Joe glowered. ‘Too high and mighty to share that pie with the rest of us, are you?’
André gave him a hard smile.
The lad picked up the tray and scurried off. ‘Be back with the rest of the dishes in a minute or two, Becca,’ he called over his shoulder.
Becca kept her gaze firmly fixed on her dirty pots in the sink.
The pie was a work of art. Pastry so flaky it melted in the mouth. The contents were cooked to perfection. His fists clenched and unclenched as he stared at it. Not because he was insulted. He knew his cooking was exceptional, but because the woman still had an empty belly after he’d sent up food fit for a queen.
It was nothing to do with the tingle of sparks he’d felt when he’d touched the delicate skin of her throat, or the pang of disappointment when he’d learned who she was. A woman above his touch. Not at all. It was simply a desire to see his patron’s family satisfied.
Mentally he shrugged. He’d provided the meal, what they ate was none of his business.
Automatically, he set a tray. The knife and fork just so. A napkin. A slice of pie on a plate and a selection of vegetables. Beautiful.
He glanced over at Becca. ‘Take the rest of the pie to Madame Stratton and M’sieur Lumsden.
La pauvre, as he thought of her, bobbed a curtsey. For some reason the sad little creature treated him like royalty no matter how often he explained that kitchen maids didn’t curtsey to chefs. There was a time when maids and footmen had curtseyed and bowed before running to do his bidding. Before the revolution that had ripped France apart and put it back together differently. He never looked back to that time. The looking back no longer hurt, but those times had become foggy, like a dream. Or a nightmare.
So why was he thinking about it now? Because of her. Mrs Holte. Curiosity and desire mingled with a longing he did not understand. Should not try to understand.
He picked up the tray. No one would remark on his absence. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken his food to his own rooms to eat.
He strode up the servants’ staircase.
Claire left Jane finally sleeping and returned to her own room, leaving the door between their chambers ajar. She sat in the chair by the window and stared out into the darkness. What if Rothermere refused to see her? Nausea rolled in her stomach. To have come so close to rescue would be too cruel.
Would remaining here when the man was so ill be similar to her husband preying on young green youths new to gambling? Except Crispin was family. And while he hadn’t despised her mother, who had been the old duke’s nurse, as some of his younger siblings had, he had not held her mother in any great affection either. The birth of yet another daughter so late in the duke’s life had come as a shock to all, but Crispin had always been kind to Claire. Until she had rejected his ducal decision and had more or less forced him to wash his hands of her.
While she had admitted her mistake to herself a long time ago, it would crush what little remained of her pride to beg his indulgence.
Perhaps if the Montagues had treated her more like family and less like an interloper in the years after her father died, she might not have been so vulnerable to the practiced seduction