Never Trust a Pirate (Scandal at the House of Russell 2)

It was as if everyone in the room had been frozen, holding their breaths. Suddenly they began to move, to speak, a hushed comment here, a nervous giggle there. The gentleman with the moustaches quickly clapped his hands, demanding attention. “You heard Mademoiselle ’aviland,” he said in a thick, almost impenetrable French accent. “She wants a meal magnifique, and it is our duty to provide it for her. Polly, clear away some of this clutter so I may have some workspace, and Nan, you will work with Madame Crozier to set a table worthy of my art.”

Mrs. Crozier drew herself up to her full, skinny height. “I believe this is my kitchen, Monsieur Jacques, and I am in charge of this household. I will be the one giving the orders.”

The small man marched up to Mrs. Crozier, his beady gaze focusing on her own slightly protuberant eyes. “And I believe you are wrong, madame. Any kitchen I enter is under my direction, including anything to do with the meal. You may either assist me as sous chef or you may retire to your rooms.”

Mrs. Crozier looked torn, and Maddy could read her conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she certainly didn’t want to surrender the playing field to this French upstart, but on the other, she had a tendency to avoid work like the plague, and Monsieur Jacques was likely to work her like a slavey. The housekeeper drew herself up.

“I have better things to do than be insulted in my own kitchen,” she said, but Monsieur Jacques had already dismissed her, turning to the imported maidservants.

“You heard me, girls.” He rolled the “r” extravagantly. “And the pretty one, Mary, is it? You are slow-witted, hein?”

“No, monsieur, I am not slow-witted at all,” she replied in French.

He beamed at her. “And a perfect accent. Not like the rest of these English canailles,” he replied in the same language. “Mademoiselle Haviland hates your liver, and I can see why. Next to you she looks like a pale stick.”

“Merci du compliment, monsieur.” She shouldn’t be so pleased, but she’d developed a real dislike for Miss Gwendolyn Haviland. “What would you like me to do?”

He switched to English. “Polly will show you. She is English and therefore will never be a cook, but she ’as some talent,” he said grudgingly, and the red-haired girl beamed at him. He looked back at Mrs. Crozier, who was glued to her spot, ready to explode with outrage. “You,” he said. “Get out.”

Oh, dear. Maddy hadn’t been able to resist showing off her almost perfect French with the chef, but she’d forgotten that the evil harpy was still in the room. A simple maid shouldn’t be able to speak French so well, though most likely Mrs. Crozier wouldn’t know the difference between a finishing school accent from Switzerland and a dockside whore’s.

The housekeeper stormed out of the room, and Maddy felt almost limp with relief, until she remembered the look in the captain’s eyes. The seemingly endless moment when she felt her heart catch in her throat as they looked at each other. It had felt as physical as a touch.

“That Mrs. Crozier’s a real corker, ain’t she?” Polly murmured. “Must be living hell to work for. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Simmons, is a treat, but we still have to put up with her highness out there.” She jerked her head in the direction of the front rooms, where Gwendolyn’s arch voice could be heard above the lower rumble of male tones.

Maddy pulled herself out of her abstraction. “Not much of a choice.”

“It’s not. But those of us in service don’t tend to have choices.”

Maddy thought about it. If she was ever in a position to have servants

again she would go out of her way to treat them fairly. Not that she hadn’t in the past, but she’d been brought up to think of servants as little more than furniture. “No, we don’t,” she agreed.

Polly snorted with laughter. “And you’ve been in service such a long time, then?”

Maddy wracked her brain, trying to remember her lies. “Most of my life,” she said. “From thirteen a least.”

“I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t,” she said flatly, and Maddy blinked at the sarcastic comment.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s all right, Mary, is it? You keep on with whatever you’re doing and I’ll cover for you. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I don’t care one way or t’other about the captain, though he’s handsome enough to make me bones melt if you like that mysterious, foreign look.”

“Do you?” Maddy asked, deciding to ignore her cryptic statements.

“Oh, I’ve got a young man, I do, been calling on me for three years now. He’s trying to earn enough money so we can both leave service and have our own little farm, but it’s mortal hard to save money. But if I didn’t have my Dickie I might find the captain tempting. If it weren’t for his eyes.”

“His eyes?” Maddy echoed, remembering his intense black gaze with a feeling of warmth stealing beneath her skin.

“They scare me. Just a bit. He’s got gypsy blood in him, or I miss my guess. Though the Rom don’t usually like the water, and the captain can’t keep away from it. Anyway, he’s not for the likes of us girls in service. He leaves the maids strictly alone. He’ll most likely have his own piece of fluff on the side, set up all nice and cozy in a place of her own. And won’t her highness have a fit when she hears about it!”

“Mary!” Mrs. Crozier had reappeared in the kitchen, a flush on her cheekbones that was either rage or a quick nip of gin. Everyone looked at her, and no one moved. And then Maddy started, remembering the stupid name she’d chosen.

“Yes, Mrs. Crozier,” she said belatedly, moving from behind the kitchen table.

“You’re not needed here. Monsieur Jacques may have claimed ownership of my kitchen, but he hardly has any say over my staff since he seems to have brought his own. Go upstairs, lay the fires, and turn the beds down.”

“Will anyone else be spending the night here besides the captain?”