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4
Torrington had the cookbook.
Rosalind drummed her fingers against the refreshment table at Blythe’s overblown birthday celebration, frustrated beyond belief.
There were dozens of earls in London. Hundreds of people of French descent. Many of the most titled had a French chef. And yet how was it thatonlyTorrington had a bloody copy ofCuisiner pour les Rois?
A French émigré. The former Countess of Torrington had been French, and Rosalind’s mother had never mentioned the fact. Lady Hertfort had called on Mother at least a handful of times since the Ralston ball and never once had she proclaimed her mother an émigré. There certainly hadn’t been any talk of a decadent custard or a tart fit for a king.
Rosalind lifted the cup of punch she held to her lips, took a sip, and did her best not to make a face as the liquid slid down her throat. The punch was terrible. More water flavored with a hint of fruit, but somehow still so sweet it made her teeth ache. One would think, given Lady Blythe’s constant bragging at her refinement and that of her family, she would provide better refreshments.
Rosalind tapped her finger against her lips, recalling the tepid assortment of refreshments at the Ralston ball. Seemed a recurring problem. Yet another solution she and Pennyfoil could provide.
She took a small sip of the punch.
A glass of wine would have been Rosalind’s preferred beverage had Mother not been watching her from across the drawing room. Her mother’s gaze slid from Rosalind to a group that included the Earl of Torrington before returning to her daughter, a militant look clouding her features.
Torrington had not arrived alone.
Mother started across the floor in the direction of Rosalind, no doubt to discuss the appearance of the gorgeous, voluptuous Lady Carrington hanging on Torrington’s arm. There would likely also be a lecture on missed opportunities.
I should have followed Theodosia.
And not only to avoid her mother. Theodosia was about to do something disastrous.
Rosalind looked down the hall stretching behind her. There was no sign of her cousin.
Dread, the sort you feel when you know you can’t save someone, especially from themselves, was forming a small, hard knot in the pit of Rosalind’s stomach. Her cousin had promised she wasn’t up to something, but the secretive smile Theodosia wore on the entire ride to Blythe’s home told Rosalind something different.
Mother’s progress across the room was halted by one of the other guests, a woman of advanced years and poor style choices as evidenced by the out-of-date gown she wore. Rosalind didn’t know the older matron, but she was incredibly grateful to her. She had no desire to be pushed before Torrington tonight, especially with Lady Carrington clinging to the earl as if she were in danger of drowning in Blythe’s drawing room.
Rosalind fluffed out her skirts. She’d felt beautiful. Earlier. Before seeing Lady Carrington in a stunning gown of peacock blue decorated with wide panels of green silk. Now Rosalind felt positively awkward in her peach confection and far too girlish next to such a gorgeous creature. She wasn’t even sure why she cared. Lady Carrington was welcome to Torrington. It was only that the other woman’s presence would make it that much more difficult to get him alone and convince Torrington to allow Rosalind access to the cookbook.
She’d spent the remainder of the day after returning home from Thrumbadge’s coming up with various scenarios by which she could ask Torrington to lend her his copy of the cookbook. All of them were ridiculous.
A burst of throaty laughter came from Lady Carrington.
Ugh.
Rosalind turned away from the scene and placed a hand on her midsection at the sudden churning of her stomach. It was merely the worry of the disaster she knew awaited Theodosia. Not the sight of Lady Carrington attempting to climb inside Torrington’s coat.
It wasn’t as if Lady Carrington were some over-excited girl at her first gathering since making her debut. Clinging to the first gentleman who paid her the least attention.
Disgusting behavior for a woman of her age.
Silver sparkled in Torrington’s dark curls as he laughed at something Lady Carrington whispered to him. Why had Romy ever referred to Torrington as splendid? Because now Rosalind couldn’t help but notice. He was breathtaking in his dark formalwear.
Rosalind turned abruptly away.
Mother had not mentioned Torrington or the possibility of a match between them in quite some time, something for which Rosalind was grateful. But her mother hadn’t given up entirely; she’d brandished a list of suitors to Rosalind the moment she’d returned from Thrumbadge’s. Lord Enfield, the youngest on the list, was close to fifty. Two were afflicted with gout so fierce they required a cane to get around. Baron Cotwith, the eldest at sixty-five, was so debauched, he’d been denied membership at Elysium.
Her mother’s assumption that Rosalind couldn’t do better than the likes of Cotwith was painful and told her how desperate Lady Richardson had become. Yet another reason Torrington must be convinced to part with a recipe or two.
Laughter filled the air of the drawing room. Rosalind glanced at Lady Carrington, who was now exerting her well-honed charms on Lord Blythe. She couldn’t see Torrington, though he must be somewhere close by. The drawing room had grown much more crowded in the last half hour or so, humming with the sound of those gathered to celebrate Lord Blythe. There was a gigantic three-tiered cake on a table in the far corner of the room. Chocolate, if Rosalind’s nose wasn’t mistaken.
She stole another glance down the hall. Still no sign of Theodosia. If her cousin didn’t reappear soon, Rosalind would be forced to go in search of her.
The more urgent problem wasCuisiner pour les Rois.She couldn’t bribe Torrington. He had no need of her pin money. She considered, if only briefly, asking her cousin Tony for his help, but the idea of the Duke of Averell threatening Torrington to hand over a cookbook seemed ludicrous. And she wasn’t quite ready to tell the duke she’d decided to secretly go into trade with a baker. Tony might feel he had to speak to Rosalind’s mother.
