“Dickens, Madame Camille.” A frown crossed his brow. “I thought you were French?”
“Half-French,” she said truthfully. “And I have spent many years in England.”
“Very good, madame.” For some reason Dickens took it in stride. “You’ll find your quarters quite satisfactory, I expect. Mrs. Griffiths had them done up new just for you. She’ll be so pleased to hear you’ve arrived.”
Sophie took a calming breath. “Will she?” If she just kept answering everything with a question, she might manage to carry off this masquerade, at least for a bit. At least long enough to figure out what she was going to do next. Not to mention get a good long look at the third man they had considered capable of destroying their family.
“Your reputation precedes you. When Mrs. Griffiths advertised for a new chef, she didn’t think that the great Madame Camille would condescend to leave France and work at Renwick.”
Sophie almost kissed his balding head. In one short speech he’d given her everything she needed to know, and instead of waiting on the notorious harridan she was to have her own kitchen. Bliss!
“I felt like returning to the land of my birth,” she said.
Dickens’s high forehead creased. “But madame is French.”
Bugger! Sophie thought, using the curse she learned from Bryony. “Half-French,” she corrected. “And my parents lived here when I was born.”
It satisfied the man. Not that he seemed suspicious, merely curious. “Were your parents in service, madame? You seem so very young to have such an impeccable reputation, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
Well, there was that, she thought. But if there was one thing she could do well, it was lie. “But of course,” she said with great dignity. “My father was a great chef, and my mother his assistant. I learned to cook at their knee. Knees. I have had my own kitchen since I was very young.”
“Well, you’re a blessing from above,” Dickens said. He turned to the red-faced, tearful woman he’d been fanning. “Did you hear that, Prunella? We don’t have to worry about Mrs. Griffiths coming in here again.” He turned back to Sophie. “Mrs. Griffiths has very high standards,” he said with an effort at tact, “and our lack of a chef has been . . . challenging for all of us.”
“I’ve tried me best,” Prunella said tearfully, “but I never claimed to be able to do more than plain country cooking, and was that good enough for her high and mightiness? Oh, no, she had to storm down here like the harpy she is and berate us and . . .”
“Prunella.” Dickens’s voice was admonitory. “We do not speak of our employers in that fashion, particularly in front of . . .” He jerked his head toward Sophie in a gesture that was supposed to be subtle.
Sophie wanted to giggle, but she preserved her sober mien. “I presume my rooms are nearby?”
“Yes, madame. I wondered if I might dare ask . . .” His words trailed off as a commotion came from the far end of the cavernous room, and the seated woman immediately leapt up, the butler straightened, and the three maids scattered like the frightened mice they suddenly resembled. Sophie held her place, calm and imperturbable in the face of this chaotic household. She wasn’t sure whom she was expecting to stride into the kitchen, the housekeeper or perhaps even a return visit from the viscount’s notorious mother, Mrs. Griffiths. The last thing she expected was Viscount Griffiths himself.
She’d never seen him up close, and she was frozen, staring at him in astonishment. She knew far too well the beautiful body that lay beneath all those proper layers of clothing, the bone and sinew, the golden skin, the long, long legs and strong shoulders. Her view of his face had suffered from the distance, but now, even in the murky light of the kitchen, she could see him better than she ever had before.
Up close, he was even more handsome than she’d thought him, dangerously so. Up close she could see the high cheekbones, sharply delineated, the dark, satanic eyebrows, the strong, narrow nose and thin-lipped mouth. He had dark hair, worn too long, and she still couldn’t guess the color of his eyes—his lids were drooping almost lazily as he surveyed the kitchen inhabitants.
“Hard at work, I see,” he drawled in a lazy voice. “I gather my stepmother was in here earlier, causing a fuss. My apologies to all of you. She has come to me, and I regret to inform you that Mrs. Griffiths has decided to fire you all and bring in new staff from London.” There was a shocked silence in the room as everyone seemed to diminish slightly. He looked out over them—he was taller even than the huge, burly butler, and even if he hadn’t been, he would have given the impression of height. He seemed at ease, almost casual, as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen.
“The good news is,” he continued, “that I never listen to my stepmother, not to mention the fact that she’s alienated so many employment agencies in London and everyone around here that it’s unlikely we’d be able to find anyone to work this huge monstrosity.”
Monstrosity, Sophie thought with instant outrage. If he disliked Renwick so much, he should have left it alone. For a moment she felt his eyes on her, and she quickly schooled her expression into one of subservience, congratulating herself on her acting ability.
“So you are all reprieved for the time being, though I might suggest you keep your distance from Mrs. Griffiths if you can help it. I’ve told her to stay away from the kitchens, but I have no faith that she will listen to me.”
Dickens stepped forward. “Yes, my lord,” he said with great dignity. “And we’re most grateful that you’ve chosen to support us . . .”
“Oh, you know me, Dickens. I’m only interested in my own comfort, and being without servants would have a dreadful effect on it. We do, however, have an outstanding problem.”
“My lord?”
Sophie felt his eyes glance over her bowed head once more. He couldn’t know she was new here—people simply did not pay that much attention to their servants. “The chef . . .”
“He walked out two days ago,” Dickens said, interrupting his employer. Sophie’s eyebrows rose as she waited for the viscount to address such impertinence, but he see
med to take it in stride.
And Dickens had drawn the viscount’s attention away from her, Sophie thought gratefully, trying to sink back into the shadows.
“That explains the slight improvement in the quality of what’s on the table. However, it won’t suffice, and if that young lady continues to try to sneak away, I’m going to be very cross.” It was all said in a lazy drawl, and it took Sophie a moment to realize he was talking about her. She came to a dead stop, frozen, as she felt the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks. Where had that come from? She’d never blushed during her triumphant season, unless she’d done so on purpose to abash some young suitor.