Banquet of Lies (20 page)

E
dgars fidgeted at the table, the accounts ledger in front of him.

In the last hour he had managed to annoy everyone who’d come through the kitchen, interfering in their work where he usually had the good sense to let them get on with it.

Gigi wished she could leave in angry silence, like Babs and Harry just had, but she was stuck in his company as she poured the egg custard over the thinly sliced potatoes of her gratin.

“Cook, what is this?” He pointed accusingly at the open page.

Gigi lifted her gratin dish and put it in the oven before leaning over him to look.

“Comté.”

“And what
is
that?” His hands tightened around the ledger, and his knuckles went white.

“It is a type of French cheese,” she said gently. Edgars was far too tightly wound.

“In future, please make sure there is an English explanation beside your entries.”

“
D’accord
.” She gave a nod. “Of course. I apologize.”

He blinked, and she wondered if she was too hard on him, since he was that surprised by a simple apology.

Iris came down the rear stairs and, like a pointer scenting a bird in the rushes, Edgars became riveted to her. He hung on to the ledger like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

This
was why he’d sat in her kitchen and subjected her to his ill temper and nerves all afternoon. A chance to speak to Iris!

And then he ruined it.

“Iris, do you need any help in the bedrooms?” he asked, quick and nervous, almost snapping, the moment she stepped into the room.

She looked over at him in surprise, tipping the ash from Lord Aldridge’s bedroom grate into the ash bin. “Since when have I ever?” There was a thread of indignation in her tone.

“I’m simply asking.” He made the crucial mistake of going cold.

A smile and a bit of humor would have undone the damage, but Edgars seemed to have a knack for making things hard on himself.

“Well, the answer is no.” Iris sniffed. “Thank you.”

Rob shouldered open the kitchen door and came in with a tray of eggs from the deliveryman. As he kicked the door
closed with the back of his heel, Iris caught his eye and they shared a look.

Edgars went stiff, then stood with a scrape of his chair and walked into the wine cellar without a word.

With another sniff, Iris went up the service stairs, coal bucket under her arm.

Gigi shook her head. His Edginess was an idiot.

Rob set the eggs down carefully on the shelf and came to stand beside her at the table. She handed him a brioche left over from breakfast, smothered in Reine Claude jam. He took a bite and groaned in appreciation, then cast a quick look at the wine cellar.

“I reckon the nob you gave this jam to t’other day ran off to find some more.” His tone was teasing, an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Ran off?” She regretted she wasn’t able to keep her voice as light. Perhaps she had more in common with Edgars than she thought.

“Yeah.” Rob took another bite. “Went round to his place this morning to drop off a note for his lordship. Maid at the back, she told me he ain’t even there. Took off for foreign parts day before yesterday. Unexpected, like.”

The world seemed to whirl around her for a moment. She’d pinned all her hopes on Dervish. Had risked everything the other night to drop off her note. “The same day he was here for breakfast?”

“Yeah, just after lunchtime, th’ maid said. Fancy just deciding to go off like that, without any preparation? Had ’em all
running round like a flock of hens, packing his things an’ all. Came back from his office when the carriage was packed, hopped on and waved ’em goodbye.”

Dervish hadn’t even been there when she’d delivered her note. If she’d known, she never would have gone into Aldridge’s study. Would never have been caught.

A cold chill washed over her.

There was nothing that led back to Aldridge House in the note she’d left behind the loose brick at Goldfern for Dervish, but if the shadow man found it on one of his midnight forays over the wall, he would know for sure she was in London.

Dervish wouldn’t be coming for it, so she’d better get it back. “Did Lord Dervish’s maid say where he was going?”

“Aye. Sweden.” Rob laughed. “Not sure I even know exactly where that is.”

“Well, he won’t get any Reine Claude jam there.” Gigi forced her voice to hold the hint of a laugh. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

Dervish
had
been D. He’d stood right in front of her.

And now he was off to Stockholm. To look for her, she’d guess. And to deal with her father’s body.

The thought nearly felled her.

Rob grinned around his last mouthful and then left.

She lifted her hand to her heart and pressed a fist against it, as if that could somehow alleviate the pain.

She had to get out. Escape from Edgars’ watchful, probing eyes that would surely notice her distress.

She forced herself to stand straight. She’d try to go again to Goldfern, boldly. And let nothing stop her.

She almost pulled off her cook’s apron and hat, and then stopped. She’d be more invisible with them on. The shadow man knew her as a wealthy young woman who mixed in the best circles. He would dismiss a cook out of hand.

Edgars was still lurking in his wine cellar, and she climbed quietly up the back stairs and out into the access lane, pushing the door closed without making a sound.

She felt a little of the pressure lift. For a few moments, she could think of her father and not watch her expression.

She walked first to Chapel Street and looked down the road in the direction of Goldfern to make sure there was no one about in front. The street was empty.

The wind was picking up, and she shivered as she walked back past the kitchen door and along to where the lane met the back alley. She peered around the wall to see the lay of the land. The men who had been arguing earlier were gone, but the rag-and-bone man’s cart and pony stood a few houses down, on the left. There was no sign of the man himself.

Gigi decided she wouldn’t get a better chance.

She ran the first part of the way, until she was at the cart. The pony nickered as she went by, and she ran a hand along her flank and gave her hindquarters a pat. A little cloud of dust rose up, and Gigi coughed.

The cart was piled high with junk—pieces of wood, old pots and crockery, an old mattress with stuffing oozing out of it at one corner. It made a nice shield, blocking the view of
anyone looking down the alley from Aldridge House. Like Edgars.

She looked at Goldfern’s back door, and then farther along the alley. There was someone a little way down with his back to her, clearing the lane with a shovel.

She bit her lip, unsure whether to risk being seen.

The shoveler had stopped his work and leaned on his spade, lifting a hand to wipe his brow. He was muscular, on the stocky side. He could be the man who’d followed her the night she’d gone to Dervish’s house.

She turned away at the thought, and came face-to-face with a stranger.

J
onathan thanked his luck he’d decided to walk his fury at Georges Bisset off rather than take a cab. If he’d been in a carriage, he wouldn’t have seen Madame Levéel as he turned onto Chapel Street. She was looking in the opposite direction, toward the park, and then she scurried down the alley that ran beside Aldridge House.

He ran, uncaring of how his behavior might appear to his neighbors, but by the time he reached the alleyway, she was gone. Not back into the house, he guessed. Her movements had been far too furtive. As if she were checking the coast was clear.

He’d guess she was in the alley behind Aldridge House, where Edgars had caught her the other night. There was something about the lane that ran along the rear of the houses in
the street that kept drawing her back. He raced to it and looked right and left.

There was a cart and horse to the right, and no one else in sight. To the left he could hear the murmur of voices just beyond where the narrow alley twisted sharply, obscuring the speakers from view.

Aware time was wasting, he went left, walking as quietly as he could on the rough cobbles.

“An’ I said to her, I said, ‘Best keep your wits about you, my girl, because the young master’s got his eye on you and no mistake.’ ”

“ ’E’s had ’is eye on a few of ’em over the years. Look where it’s got ’em.”

“Out on the street with a babe they can’t afford, is what.”

Jonathan rounded the corner and found two women, ruddy-cheeked and plump, standing in the lane. Each seemed to have come from one of the open doors on opposite sides of the way.

Sir Ingleton’s, a few doors down on Chapel Street from Aldridge House, he guessed, and Lord Matherton’s from South Street.

“Wha— ?” The woman from Sir Ingleton’s side gave him a quick look and, with a squawk, dived back behind her door and slammed it shut.

The other stood staring at him.

“You talking about Sir Ingleton’s son, Henry?” he surprised himself by asking her.

“We don’t mean no ’arm, my lord.” But her eyes said different.
Said she wasn’t sorry about the way they’d been talking.

“Sounds like Henry means some harm, though. Perhaps I should have a word.”

“Whatever you think is right, my lord.” She crossed her arms over her impressive bosom, all but sneering.

He wondered if he didn’t look lordly enough, still had too much the air of the second son about him. Sneering at him seemed to be somewhat of a theme at the moment.

He raised a brow at her, surprising her enough that she let her arms drop to her sides.

“Beg your pardon, my lord,” she mumbled, neck and chest red. “Only”—she flicked him a quick look as she edged to her own door—“I’m tired of seeing good girls dragged down. This ain’t foreign parts. It’s London. But they treat us like we’re their har-reem or summat.”

“Did a woman come by here, cook’s apron on?” he asked before she could take another step.

“No.” She answered without thought, then narrowed her eyes. “You ain’t chasing your cook down the alley, are you?”

Well, yes he was. But not like she meant. Well, not entirely.

“I’ll talk to Henry. I think you’ll find he might listen to me. And if he doesn’t and the girl gets into trouble, send a note round. I’m Lord Aldridge.”

“I know who you are, my lord.” She gave a suspicious sniff, then slammed the door on him.

He turned and went back the way he’d come, and as he
rounded the corner, he saw Madame Levéel standing next to the pony, a large flowerpot in each hand, talking to the rag-and-bone man.

When she saw him her eyes went wide, and she turned away, speaking to the old trader for a moment longer before facing him again.

He had missed his opportunity to see what drew her back here time and again, and frustration licked at him like a hungry fire as he approached her.

“My lord.” She lowered her eyes, and he noticed a pink stain on her cheeks. “
Au revoir
, Mr. Rice. Thank you for the pots.” She gave a final nod to the old man and he doffed his cap to her, but his eyes were on Jonathan, missing nothing.

“I’ll carry those for you,” Jonathan said, staring straight back at the trader. He took the pots from her, and Mr. Rice looked away before disappearing around the back of his cart. “What are they for?”

“Some herbs and flowers, to brighten the wall outside my room.” She still had her eyes averted, and she was walking a step away from him despite the narrow alley, as if to ensure they did not accidentally touch.

Something wild and dangerous rose up in his chest, and as they took the turn left into the alley down the side of Aldridge House, he deliberately began encroaching on the space she’d put between them, until she stopped and pressed herself up against the wall. He stood close enough to feel her breath on his face.

Now, at last, she looked him in the eye again.

“Just what is it you think I’m going to do to you?” He tried to keep his voice calm, but there was an edge he couldn’t suppress. “What is it
everyone
thinks I’m going to do?”

“Everyone?” Her body went stiff, still plastered up against the stone wall.

He brushed that away. “You. What do you think I’m going to do? Everyone else can go to the devil.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “You mean Edgars.”

“We’ll come back to him. Just answer me.”

“It isn’t what you’re going to do to me.” She looked straight at him, body tense as if steeling herself. “I’m not afraid of you. But you’re a dangerous complication.”

There was so much more to it. It was in her eyes, in her expression, but he thought she was telling the truth.

“Dangerous how?” He waited while she looked away, as if the answer would come to her from Chapel Street.

“I do not want to answer you,” she whispered. “I’ll regret it if I do.”

He leaned closer to her, until his legs were brushing her skirts and the pots he held rested against the wall on either side of her. “Take a chance, madame. Tell me.”

She gave a twisted smile. “I’ve taken more chances these last few weeks than I have ever taken before. I don’t need to take another.”

They were close enough that all he needed to do was lean forward an inch and their lips would touch. The last time he’d given in to the need to feel her under his hands, he’d lost the opportunity to find the truth. He clutched the pots harder,
fighting the urge to set them down and pull her even closer.

“Chances like looking through the papers in my study?” he made himself ask instead.

She closed her eyes. “Yes. Chances like that.”

“Who is forcing you to do this? What are they after? I don’t keep any important papers lying on my desk. If they thought you could get any privileged information from me, they’re mistaken.”

Her eyes snapped open. “Forcing me?” She frowned. “What privileged information?”

He suddenly remembered Bisset sneering at him, daring him to call in the Alien Office, as cool as could be. Perhaps it hadn’t been a bluff.

“You aren’t after information on one of the projects I’m involved in.” He meant to ask it as a question, but it came out slowly, a statement of fact.