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“Probably not,” he said, sorry to dash her hopes. “A likeness of Percival perhaps?”
Averil considered that, her eyes searching his. “I’d like to know what he looked like. The man my mother left her home and husband and child for. He must have been very special, I think.”
Rufus gave a wry smile. “When one is in the first flush of love one has a tendency to misread the situation badly.”
Her own smile faded; she looked serious. He wondered if he’d said too much. In an obscure way he’d been talking about his own marriage and the mistake it had turned out to be, but perhaps it hadn’t been quite as obscure as he’d hoped. Averil had a way of digging information from him that he never spoke of to anyone else.
“But I am no expert,” he added lightly, and wasn’t that the truth.
The soup course had arrived at last, and they prepared to dip their spoons in. Rufus hesitated, leaning forward to examine the thin brown liquid, but he couldn’t make out what it was. A soup of indiscriminate origins? Cautiously he took a sip and his worst fears were confirmed. He put down his spoon and narrowed his eyes at James, but his uncle refused to look at him, and polished off his own bowl with loud murmurs of appreciation. The others were less enthusiastic.
Course after course arrived and Rufus found he could barely eat a mouthful. He wasn’t alone. He could see that Averil was struggling, too, and Beth was casting her little glances of dismay across the table. Even James, who was still playacting, was beginning to flag. “Interesting,” was his comment upon a duck and asparagus creation, where the bird was dry and overcooked and the asparagus thin and curling.
In the end he could no longer remain silent. “James, where on earth did you find this new cook?” One glance at the pudding, an oddly shaped blancmange, and he knew that he’d be going to bed hungry tonight.
“Beg pardon, nephew?” James looked up, all wide-eyed innocence.
Great-Aunt Mildred leaned forward. “Yes, do tell us, James, so that we can warn, eh, sing her praises to others.”
James, looking shifty, took a moment to dab his lips with his napkin. “She’s not exactly a cook, Rufus,” he admitted.
“I would never have guessed,” Mildred murmured, reaching for her glass of wine. At least the Southbrook cellars were to be relied upon for top quality.
“You may as well tell us the truth,” Rufus said mildly. He wasn’t angry, just frustrated that his plans to impress Averil had fallen flat. “Who is it?”
James’s performance crumbled. “She’s the sister of the publican at the Black Sheep, down in the village. I’m sorry, Rufus, but it was dashed difficult to find a cook at such short notice, and that French chap I told you about wanted far too much blunt . . . that is, he was unavailable.”
Rufus wondered what the point was in blaming his uncle for something that wasn’t entirely his fault. In trying to impress Averil he’d embarrassed himself instead. After all, it was he who wanted to pretend he was a wealthy earl. Was it his pride, or was all of this make-believe just so that he could ask Averil to marry him and pretend it wasn’t her money he was after? She was going to find out the truth at some point, wasn’t she? Did he really think she’d be so deep in love with him by then that she’d simply shrug and say that was all right then?
The trouble was, Rufus knew it wasn’t her money he wanted. He didn’t have the slightest interest in her money. Well . . . perhaps that wasn’t entirely true, either. He couldn’t lie, the money would be good. But neither could he pretend he hadn’t fallen in love with her.
The wicked earl was in love.
He wanted to tip his head back and roar with laughter, but he couldn’t when Averil was gazing up at him with sympathetic eyes.
“I’m sure it doesn’t matter who the cook is,” she said, her perfect mouth curling up at the corners into a smile that made him want to kiss her. “Being here, in such wonderful surroundings, is enough for me.”
“We usually have fish pie every night when I’m here, so I don’t care who the cook is as long as she never cooks fish pie,” Eustace piped up. He seemed unaffected by the dining catastrophe, but then Eustace was used to living from hand to mouth. Was this what life had become?
Rufus’s spirits were lowered even further.
Great-Aunt Mildred prodded the blancmange. “Nursery food,” she said with a grimace. “Hardly a pudding for adults. Perhaps you can hire her on if you ever have more children,” she murmured into Rufus’s ear.
He turned his quelling stare on her but she only chuckled.
The servants were clearing the plates in their clumsy way—the sound of smashing china could be heard outside the dining room door. Rufus drew back Averil’s chair, but as he went to follow her, Great-Aunt Mildred caught his arm and waited until they were alone.
He gave her a long-suffering look.
“Oh, that won’t work, Rufus,” she said dismissively.
“I apologize for the meal,” he said stiffly.
“I don’t care about that,” Mildred retorted. “I’ve had far worse in your father’s day. The Southbrooks haven’t had two groats to rub together for years. I just wanted to tell you that I approve, Rufus. She’s a gem. Marry her, for God’s sake, and save the Southbrooks!
”
Averil stood at the French windows that led out onto the terrace, gazing longingly at the moonlit garden—James had suggested she not go out there as the paving was decidedly dangerous. The meal had been disastrous and Rufus had looked like a thundercloud. She didn’t want to let anything spoil her visit, but all the same she was beginning to have doubts about the Southbrooks and their castle. Not that she had made up her mind about anything, she told herself, not at all. Unlike Beth, who seemed to have already made up hers.
