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Indeed, miraculous was the word for it. When Prunella finally unearthed the massive tome, it was filled with the answers to, if not all her prayers, at least a goodly portion of them. It contained full instructions for the traditional French service à la russe, which amused her. If it were Russian, how could it be French? There were hors d’oeuvres and soups, fish and entrees, joints, game, and vegetables and even a long treatise on various sweets and removes. Nothing she couldn’t improve with a slight adjustment here, a major substitution there. She was about to set Gracie and Maude to washing and chopping the vegetables when a familiar voice came from the stable yard, one that sent cold chills down her spine.
“Yoo-hoo,” came Miss Crowell’s dulcet tones. “I’m here with the flowers.”
Sophie was momentarily turned to stone. She’d forgotten that Miss Crowell’s magnificent gardens provided cut flowers for Renwick—the cutting gardens had been dug up and transplanted for the viscount’s swimming pond and they hadn’t had time to accustom themselves to their new home. Miss Crowell had been supplementing, but not for a moment had Sophie considered that the old hag would deliver them herself.
It happened so fast Sophie barely had time to react. One moment she was standing in the middle of the kitchen, listening to Miss Crowell’s stalwart footsteps, and in the next Dickens himself had taken her and shoved her back into the pantry, slamming the door behind her.
“Ah, Miss Crowell.” Dickens greeted her with his usual dignity, not like someone who had manhandled the new cook into the larder. “You’re early today.”
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sp; “I have a dear friend who’s going to come to live with me, and I have a lot of things to do to get ready.” Her voice carried perfectly through the thick door. “You may have heard of her—the nanny who worked for the former residents of this lovely house.”
“Mrs. Gruen,” Dickens supplied smoothly. “Yes, we know of her. She suffered an accident, didn’t she?”
“She did indeed. She broke her leg, but it’s an ill wind that blows no one good. As soon as she’s well enough, she’s going to come live with me while she recuperates, and I don’t intend to let her leave to scrimp and slave on her own. And that wretched Russell girl has decamped, thank heavens.”
“Has she indeed?” Dickens might be talking about an absolute stranger, but Sophie knew that he wasn’t. He knew exactly who the wretched Russell girl was, and where she was hiding at the moment. Suddenly their secrecy all made sense. They’d been protecting her. “I heard she was a quite pleasant young lady.”
Even through the thick wood Miss Crowell’s contemptuous snort was audible. “That’s as may be,” she said loftily, “but she has no place around here anymore. I sent her off yesterday. Mrs. Gruen doesn’t need to be worried about a former charge, and I imagine the viscount will be glad to have the use of the cottage back.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Dickens said in a repressive tone. “Renwick is a very profitable estate, and there is no need for more tenant farmers. Indeed, his lordship has very advanced ideas about land ownership and cultivation, and if memory serves me, that cottage is too small to be of much use for a family. I believe his lordship was more than happy to have Mrs. Gruen continue to reside there, and I doubt he would have minded if Miss Russell had remained while Mrs. Gruen was in hospital.”
Sophie could almost feel Miss Crowell’s frustration. “Well, that’s as may be,” she said finally, “but she’s gone, and good riddance. And you’re wrong about the viscount—he would have made certain Sophie Russell was out on her . . . was out the moment he heard. He’d never struck me as a particularly charitable gentleman, particularly when it came to the family who stole his birthright.”
“Stole his birthright?” Dickens sounded almost affronted. “I fear you’ve been reading too many novels, Miss Crowell. He’s always known this house would return to him sooner or later, and he wouldn’t have blamed a young girl for the bad behavior of his own relatives and hers.”
Miss Crowell made a little phhfft sound. “You just be sure to let me know if she attempts to make contact with the viscount. She wasn’t certain of her destination and I wouldn’t put it past the minx to try to wheedle her way into his good graces.”
“I don’t believe his lordship has any good graces,” Dickens announced in a lugubrious tone, and Sophie wanted to laugh. As far as she could see, the milk of human kindness had been drained and replaced with the sour curdle of mockery and sarcasm in Viscount Griffiths’s veins.
The voices faded away, and she heard the heavy outer door close with a thud. She counted to one hundred, first in French and then in Latin, just to make herself wait long enough, and then she slowly pushed open the inner door once more.
No one raised his head when she stepped back into the kitchen. Gracie was cutting the flowers, Maude and Prunella were busy with the vegetables, and Mr. Dickens was arranging the stems in a vase.
“Does everyone know?” she asked quietly.
Mr. Dickens looked up from his task. “Only the servants, miss. You can’t keep anything a secret from the servants, and the goings-on in the village are as well known to us as they are to those who live there.”
“Are you going to tell anyone?”
Dickens looked affronted. “Begging your pardon, miss, but haven’t we gone out of our way to keep you from being seen by the townspeople? You’ll be able to live here in safety and anonymity for as long as you wish. There’s no reason why his lordship or his stepmother should have to find out anything.”
For some reason Sophie, who was fiercely against tears, felt suddenly weepy. It had been so long since she’d felt that anyone had been on her side, apart from her sisters and Nanny, that she would have sagged back against the door if she weren’t determined not to show weakness. She was safe here. The other servants were watching out for her. She had nothing to worry about.
“Madame Camille,” came Alexander Griffiths’s drawling voice from the stairwell. “Are you finally willing to grant me a moment of your time?”
Oh, shite.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HIS NEW MISTRESS-CUM-COOK WAS looking both very beautiful and completely panicked for the moment, and Alexander wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed. A moment later she turned to face him, her beautiful face bland and expressionless, like a woman, no, a girl, wearing a mask. How many of the women he’d bedded had worn masks like this one? Probably all of them—this one was simply too inexperienced to have perfected the art.
He’d asked for experience, and it was hard to believe Lydia Lefton would have dared send him someone so far from his expectations. “In the library,” he said. “Now.”
He saw the brief flash of annoyance in those dark blue eyes, and oddly enough some of his own irritation faded. The more she failed to live up to his expectations, the more entertaining he found her, and he was beginning to realize he’d been bored for a long time. She was a perfect distraction from thinking about Rufus, thinking about the harridan upstairs, and with the thoughtful application of just the right incentive she would prove even more entertaining. He was very good at finding incentives.
He strode through the hallway, not bothering to moderate his long-legged stride, knowing it would require an effort for her to keep up with him. With luck she’d arrive at his library flushed and breathless and just the tiniest bit overheated, and he could begin to unbutton that ridiculously high-necked dress.
