Lessons in French (7 page)

him."

"Excellent!" Callie said. "It's high time we started to even up the score."

An hour before sunrise, Callie was already making her way along the lane to Dove

House. The autumn air lay heavy with fog. They were still far from any snap of frost, but

the coolness of nighttime had begun to promise a chill. She pulled her hood closer and

assured herself that this early start was merely because she wished to avoid awkward

questions from Lady Shelford, not for any reasons having to do with pining or being

missed or anything of that nature.

She meant to prepare a breakfast, leave it set out on the parlor table under covers, and

return to Shelford Hall before anyone would suppose she had done more than make an

early visit to the farmyard. No one belowstairs at the Hall had questioned her need for

bread and bacon and butter. They were accustomed to any odd request from Callie for her

animals. But Dolly, Lady Shelford, was another matter. It would require some marvelous

persuasion, Callie feared, for her cousin-in-law to approve of lending out the undercook.

Callie wasn't hopeful about her prospects of success.

In the shadowy silence before dawn, she let herself into the scullery at Dove House and

laid out her burden. The kitchen was empty, but the fire had been banked properly and

took no great effort to revive. She envisioned a frigid wind blowing across the side of a

mountain. Casting herself as the pretty daughter of an old shepherd, she built up the fire

to a hot blaze in order to warm the rich and handsome traveler she and her faithful dog

had just rescued from the Alpine snows.

After she had renounced his fervent offer of matrimony in favor of the handsome-but-

poor blond mountain guide who had loved her since she was a child in the f lower-strewn

meadows, she slipped upstairs to look in on Madame de Monceaux. As she ascended, she

could hear a ponderous snoring all the way from the attic and supposed that the massive

Jacques had found himself a bed. When Callie peeked into Madame's chamber, the

duchesse seemed to be resting quietly, her breathing shallow but regular. Barely visible in

the shadows, Trev slept in the bedside chair, propped against the wall at an

uncomfortable angle.

Callie paused. His mother must have passed a difficult night, if he had sat up with her

for all of it. As she closed the door, trying to keep it from squeaking, she resolved to find

at least a maidservant and a cook by dinnertime, even if she had to gird herself to beg

Dolly for the loan. The situation for hiring in Shelford was dire, with the opening of a

large new pottery not four miles from the town. Even Shelford Hall had felt the pinch in

trying to replace the increasing number of staff who had left since the new mistress had

taken management of the house. But Dolly had only looked coldly uninterested when

Callie suggested that wages might be increased to compete with the manufactory's lure.

Callie was entreated to calm her anxiety about a pack of disloyal servants and concern

herself with more refined topics.

It was still dark outside when she set the teakettle on the hob and arranged rashers of

bacon in the skillet. She stared down at the sizzling meat, deep in thought as she

considered where best to begin inquiries. The innkeeper, Mr. Rankin, might have news of

a prospective cook, since he was on the post road and received all the intelligence first.

And Miss Poole always had her finger on the pulse of the young girls available in the

district, looking out for help in her mantua-shop. A girl too clumsy to do good

needlework would be perfectly useful at Dove House.

"Good morning."

A husky voice made her look round quickly. She dropped the big fork and turned as

Trev stepped down into the kitchen, his black hair tousled and his neck cloth hanging

rumpled and loose.

"That smells delicious," he said. "And the cook is a charming sight too." He leaned

against the wall wearily. "If there is coffee to be had, I believe I may be able to carry on

to the next hill."

"Coffee," Callie said, flustered to find him down so soon. "Oh yes. Let me look out

some berries from the pantry. Good morning!"

He smiled. "What can I do to help you? I'll carry out a violent raid on the rosebush, if I

can unearth it in that jungle of a garden."

"No, do sit down, if you don't mind to eat in the kitchen." She waved at the scarred old

table. "There's bread and butter. I fear your mother passed an uneasy night?"

His brief smile evaporated. He stood straight and came to the table to sit. "She was

better after midnight, I think. I don't know. Perhaps it's only a bad spell, and she'll be

recovered presently." He looked up hopefully.

Callie kept her gaze averted, setting the skillet off the grate. "I pray so. When I saw her

a month ago, we sat up in the parlor, so perhaps with better nourishment she'll find her

strength." It was too difficult to admit that she feared the duchesse was failing badly.

He ran his hand through his hair. "I'll send Jacques to London today. I want a man of

reputation to attend her."

Callie laid bacon on a plate. "Let me fetch the coffee-berries."

When she came back to the kitchen, he was gone. But by the time she had roasted the

berries on a fire shovel and ground them, he returned. His great, tall manservant ducked a

shaved head through the door after him. Jacques didn't linger to eat but only made a very

creditable and gentlemanly bow to Callie before he went out the back door. She glanced

after him. He was dressed neatly but oddly for a servant, in billowing yellow trousers and

top boots, a colorful scarf tied about his throat. She had not noticed the night before that

both of his ears were thickened and distorted in shape. If he had not been so well

mannered and gentle in his moves, she would have thought he had been one of those

horrid pugilists, the ones who came into the country for their illegal matches and caused

all her farm lads to lose their wits and talk of taking up fighting as a trade.

A faint light of dawn showed against the sky as the manservant went out. When he was

gone, Callie became conscious that she was left alone with Trev in the kitchen. He had

not yet shaved, but he had straightened his neck cloth and brushed the wilder curls from

his hair. It didn't seem awkward or improper; indeed it seemed comfortable when he sat

down again at the table and began to slice the bread. Callie set out plates and cups, the

chipped and elegant remains of a set that had once borne garlands of f lowers and gilt

rims.

She strained off the coffee when it boiled. Trev had speared pieces of bread on a long-

handled fork, toasting them at the fire with surprising expertise for a French duke of royal

bloodlines. He dropped the golden brown pieces off the fork onto a plate.

Callie was indulging herself in gentle daydreams, now the mother of a promising young

family in a Normandy farmhouse, preparing breakfast for her dashing husband while he

was home on leave from his naval command. He looked so drowsy because they had

spent the entire night making passionate love that would no doubt result in another fine

son. After breakfast they would take a stroll through the seaside village and cause the

other wives to sigh over his gallantry and prizes. She served out the bacon on two plates

and sat down across from him. "I hope the coffee is what you like."

"Everything is exactly what I like," he said. "You most of all."

She shook her head, feeling herself grow pink. She put down her knife and fork. "I

must go and find the eggs."

"Don't go," he said quickly. "I won't be outrageous, I promise you."

Callie hesitated. Then she picked up her fork, trying to keep her eyes down on her plate

and not gaze at him like a moonling. They ate in silence for some moments, while she

lectured herself with unspoken vehemence on the folly of a plain woman of twenty seven

years, thrice rejected, having any thought at all about a silver-tongued rogue's careless

compliments. If she had been more skeptical of him nine years ago, she would not

perhaps have suffered quite so painfully.

"It must be quite interesting to grow the grapes for wine." She made a plunge at casual

conversation.

He shrugged slightly. "They're grapes," he said, as if that entirely covered the subject.

"Did you find the vineyards at Monceaux badly damaged?" she asked.

"Oh no." He drank a deep swallow of coffee. "Even raging revolutionaries like a good

claret."

"I hope your absence won't cause too much disruption in the work. It's harvest time

there, is it not?"

He lifted his hand carelessly. "There's a vigneron to take care of all that."

"Oh yes," she said, remembering. "The evil Buzot!"

He glanced up with a sharp look, as if her mention of the name startled him.

"Madame asked me to read her letters aloud," she said hastily. "I hope you don't mind."

"Ah, then you know of Buzot." He sat back in his chair. "The fellow howls at the moon

and drinks the blood of innocent babes, I assure you. I haven't caught him at it, but that's

only because I'm afraid to go out after dark."

"How vexing. But he makes such excellent wine from your grapes."

"Oh, magnificent wine!" he said affably. "It's my belief that he's sold his soul to the

devil."

"No wonder that you keep him on." She nodded, buttering bread. "It can't be easy to

find someone with such impressive credentials."

"I don't suppose any midnight covens are scheduled to convene in Shelford?" he

inquired. "We might discover an exceptional cook."

"I'm afraid that would be quite ineligible. There's no saying what she might put into the

pot and pass off as a chicken."

He put down his cup, his eyebrows lifted in alarm. "I hadn't thought of that. Scratch the

coven."

"I think we should start with Mr. Rankin."

"Ah. And what has Mr. Rankin to say to it?"

"He still keeps the inn—the Antlers, you know— and will be our prime informant. You

mentioned that funds were not greatly restricted?"

"Hire the chef out of Buckingham Palace if he can appear promptly."

Callie peeked up at him. The only overt signs that he was now a very wealthy lord were

his excellent carriage and elegant dress. He seemed to be traveling without pomp, or any

retinue beyond Jacques. She rather liked him for it, that he had not changed his ways on

regaining his family's riches and titles. Dolly had insisted on every point of ceremony

since her elevation to the Countess of Shelford. Cousin Jasper's vague indifference to the

dignity of his new title only seemed to goad his wife into greater concern for his position.

She made certain that the smallest mark of respect toward the earl should not be

overlooked.

It was a relief to escape, even for an hour, from the stifling atmosphere that had been

established at Shelford Hall. High form and etiquette always made Callie feel as if she

should consult Burke's Peerage to make certain her name was actually in it, and discover

how she ought to address herself in letters.

"I'll pass by the Antlers on my way back," she said, on a more comfortable subject,

"and have them send over a hot dinner by noon. That must suffice for now, but their

victuals are very plain, and I think it best to have a cook in the kitchen, so that Madame's

appetite can be tempted with more delicate fare."

"Thank you. I hadn't even thought of sending to the inn."

"If you'll excuse me, I'll go up and attend your mother and make her comfortable before

I go."

"Thank you, Callie." He pushed himself to his feet as she rose. "Thank you. I can't

believe—" He shook his head with a baffled sound. "Who are these chuckleheads who let

you slip out of their grasp?"

Callie was conscious of a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks. "Hardly that. They were

made to pay handsomely for the privilege of relinquishing my hand, I assure you."

"So I should hope," he said. "Blackguards. Are you a great heiress, then?"

"Well, yes," she admitted. "At least, I suppose I am. After the last settlement—it does

tote up to a rather large sum."

"How much?" he asked bluntly.

She bent her head. "Eighty thousand," she said in a smothered voice.

"Good God."

"So you see," she said, lifting her face, "I'm hardly an object for compassion."

"May I make you the object of my violent and unrestrained ardor?" He made a motion

as if to loosen his neck cloth. "I'm a bit tired, but perfectly willing."

"My calling hours are from twelve to three, if you wish to importune me violently,"

Callie said, drop ping a quick curtsy. "But now I must see to your mother."

"Thank you." He gave a weary snort. "How many times have I said that? I'll try if I can

to achieve some originality when I've had more sleep."

She paused on her way to the door. She had meant only to say that he had no need to

thank her, but something in his tired smile made her touch his arm. "I'm so glad you've

come home," she said softly.

He stood still for a moment. Then abruptly he gripped her hand. "Oh God, I can't even

think how to tell you—" He seemed to hear the desperation in his own voice, and let go

of her with a rueful laugh. "Well. You'd better make your escape immediately, before you