SOPHIE WAS RATTLED. SHE had never cooked so many things at once, never had other cooks under her direction apart from her willing sisters, and the kind of repast required for a small dinner party in a home the size of Renwick had been momentarily daunting. The one blessing was that most of the staff knew what they were doing—they simply needed direction, and Sophie, as the baby sister of her family, had always loved the rare chance of getting other people to do her bidding. It turned out Prunella had a lovely light hand with pastry, and another woman proved more than capable with the game birds once Sophie adjusted the herbs. She had planned to let Dickens know when she was ready to serve the meal, but that decision was taken out of her hands, and she had no choice but to let the first course, a clear soup, go out unadorned by
the sculpted toast she’d planned.
Another of the staff, a young man just promoted from the ignominious position of “boy,” proved to have a talent for arranging food on the elegant china, and it needed only her touch with a feathering of freshly shredded basil to complete the fish course just as the soup dishes began to return to the scullery. They were gratifyingly empty, but then she remembered the swill bucket upstairs in the butler’s pantry, and she could have cursed. How would she know what met with approval and what didn’t if she couldn’t see what they’d actually eaten?
She almost laughed. She was taking this job, this enormous task, far too seriously. After all, this was hardly her life’s work, and they would give her at least a two-week trial. The Dark Viscount didn’t look like someone who was likely to turn her out without notice, even if she sent burnt, unpalatable food upstairs. And she knew very well that her food was a great deal more than palatable.
Indeed, she seemed to have a magic touch. The roast of lamb came off the spit at just the right time to sit and regather its juices before carving, the pheasant pies came from the oven golden and fragrant, and she watched course after course disappear upstairs with a wistful longing. This was her kitchen—she owned it, she acknowledged, as she never had when Renwick had been their home.
But it had been her dining hall as well. Not that she wanted to sit down with the Dark Viscount, but she would have given almost anything to hear their reactions to her creations. She knew her food was good, bordering on magnificent, but she couldn’t count on the man having as good taste as she had.
The dessert went last, her own personal triumph. At the last minute she’d given up on chocolate, and gone with something that had turned her family silent in awe. Tiny puffed pastries in the shape of a swan, filled with custard, they were so beautiful one hesitated to touch them, and they dissolved in the mouth like a heavenly cloud. She had sent up twice the number needed, reserving the last dozen for the serving staff to enjoy after clearing up, but one of the footmen came haring down with the demand for more. A good sign, she thought, watching them go wistfully.
She hadn’t expected the summons to appear upstairs. Oh, to be sure, her father had often called Cook up to the dining room to compliment her on an especially good meal, but this didn’t seem that kind of household, not for such a friendly gesture. She started for the door, ready to follow Dickens, when Prunella stopped her.
“Your apron, miss,” she said, holding out her hand. “And you might want to brush some of the flour off your face. You have to look neat and proper for the quality.”
Sophie controlled her instinctive snort and ripped off the apron and the sleeve protectors, dusting her face with her hands. Her hair was coming loose, but Dickens was impatient and there was no time to fix it, so she scampered up the stairs after the butler, her heart pounding. Was there some sort of problem with the meal? Was she going to be tossed out on her rump?
Dickens pushed the door in the butler’s pantry open and announced in loud, gravelly tones, “Madame Camille, my lord.”
She froze, and Dickens gave her a little push as the majestic woman at the end of the table began to speak. She had small, dark eyes that reminded Sophie of a rodent, and she wanted to squirm in distaste. She stayed still. “Madame Camille, I am so happy you agreed to my entreaties. The meal was quite . . .” Her voice trailed off, and Sophie stood in the middle of the dining hall, the space familiar and yet unfamiliar, as six pairs of eyes stared at her with astonishment.
Oh, bugger, Sophie thought, coming up with the worst curse she knew. They know I’m not Madame Camille, and they’re going to demand who I really am and I’d better come up with a reasonable lie, fast, but who could I be because I’m obviously not a regular servant and what reason would I have for showing up here . . . ?
Finally the lady continued, but there was an assessing look in her eye. “Well, I must say, when I wrote you I didn’t realize you were quite so young. You are not at all what I imagined, Madame Camille. You’ve developed quite a reputation in your short years on earth.”
Bugger, bugger, bugger. She held her breath.
“But I can see why. The meal was magnificent, though the soup was perhaps a bit plain, and I might have wanted a richer sauce for the lamb. But the vol-au-vent swans were a poem, though you should have made more of them.”
In her relief Sophie noticed that the woman’s massive bosom was liberally dusted with the flaky pastry, and could well imagine where the last twelve had gone. This must be the Dark Viscount’s stepmother, Mrs. Griffiths.
She was damned if she was going to curtsey. If they all thought she was some magnificent, famed chef then she would have the self-esteem not to cower. She gave the woman a small bow of acknowledgment. “You are very kind, madame.”
The pretty young woman she’d spied clutching the viscount’s arm earlier was looking at her with undisguised dislike, the young man who resembled her and was most likely her brother was almost drooling, but she’d been in society long enough to understand both of those reactions.
“Yes, indeed, an excellent meal, Madame Camille,” said an unctuous voice, and her eyes went to the older man in the clerical collar. He was new to the living since the Russells had owned Renwick, and thank God he’d considered himself too important to make calls on the lesser members of his congregation, such as a retired nanny and her temporary wards. There was no chance he’d recognize her.
She hadn’t yet looked at the head of the table, and the lord of the manor was silent. Maybe she could simply thank them and back out of the room before things got complicated.
“A dream,” trilled the woman across from the vicar, clearly his wife.
And then he spoke, his deep, slightly cynical voice sending peculiar sensations down her spine. “Yes, indeed, Madame Camille,” Viscount Griffiths said. “You more than exceeded our expectations. We all look forward to seeing what else you might be capable of.”
She turned to him. She had no choice, and she met his cool, saturnine gaze across the table. “Thank you, my lord.” Maybe she ought to say she was honored, but she wasn’t going to do it. There were limits to how much she was willing to grovel, and her meal had been wonderful.
“Particularly on such short notice,” said the pretty female, not as pretty with that sour expression on her face. “You just arrived, did you not?”
“I did, my lady.” It was a stab in the dark, but the woman held herself like someone with a title and a stick up her arse.
“Well, you’ll be kept quite busy in the kitchen, I imagine,” the woman continued, and Sophie knew she’d guessed right. It was a good thing she’d never run into this particular female in society or she’d be in deep trouble. “We shan’t be likely to see you abovestairs again.”
“I believe you’re incorrect, Lady Christabel,” the viscount overrode her. “I will wish to approve her menus, as my stepmother is too prostrate with grief to attend to such mundane details. But the time I spend closeted with my new . . . cook should be of no concern to you.”
The woman’s face flamed, and Sophie was at a loss to understand why, any more than she could guess the meaning of his hesitation before calling her his cook. Was he suggesting she was anything more than that? She would soon set him straight on that particular detail. In some households the sexual favors of female servants were a foregone conclusion, but such had never been the case at Renwick when they’d owned it, and she wasn’t going to let it happen now. With no housekeeper, she was the senior female servant, and she was damned if she was going to let him have his lecherous way with anyone, including herself.
Though he didn’t look particularly lecherous. He was watching with that same dark stillness, lightened by the faint trace of amusement, as if he found the entire situation funny. Sophie could see no possible sign of humor in it, and she wondered if the man was slightly mad. That would explain why he killed his wife, but what else would it explain?