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She squared her shoulders and stepped forward, removing the hat that was far too dashing for a mere servant but the only one she owned, and met his lazy gaze with a completely spurious serenity. “Were you referring to me, your lordship?” she said in an even voice. “I must confess I am the new cook, so if you have requests or complaints you’d best address them to me.”
He had abandoned Dickens and Prunella, who seemed to fade into the distance as the Dark Viscount turned, surveying her with deceptively benign interest. “Are you indeed?” he murmured, strolling toward her. The servants she’d been trying to hide behind had scattered, leaving her standing alone. She met his gaze steadily, knowing a servant should lower her eyes, not giving a damn. “And where did you pop up from?”
“London,” she said. “Although I’m French, I’ve lived in England half my life. Your mother hired me.” She only hoped she’d gotten that part right.
“Not my mother, my stepmother. That hag is no blood relative of mine,” he said in perfect French, devoid of the usually terrible accent the British aristocracy employed, as if learning the words was imposition enough. Why bother with pronunciation?
But she knew her own French was equal to or better than the Dark Viscount’s. “I beg your pardon, monsieur le vicomte,” she said in the same language, “but I am unaware of these things. I can assure you I am an excellent chef, skilled in many areas.” She sent up a mental prayer in the midst of this. So far her skill, or perhaps it was her luck, had been golden. Everything she’d cooked for Nanny, for her sisters, for herself, had been quite spectacular. She seemed to have a gift, or perhaps the fates had decided to reward her after taking everything else away from her.
He was watching her, his lazy gaze traveling from the top of the mussed golden hair down the length of her small, curvy body to the expensive shoes peeping out from the dusty hem of her dress. It was a good thing he was a man, and therefore unable to guess at the original cost of the stylish hat she was holding, the kid gloves, the expensive dress. And no one ever looked at the faces of servants.
But he was looking at her face, and his seemingly casual regard was anything but. It made her want to squirm. “And you just arrived from London, madame?” he continued in French.
“Yes, monsieur le vicomte. I promise you, I am more than able to fulfill anything you require of me.”
A look flashed in his eyes, and she saw, at last, that they were an odd, clear gray, almost the color of the scrubbed stone floor beneath her feet. “We’ll wait a bit on that, shall we?” He had switched back to English. “We have houseguests at the moment—Lady Christabel Forrester and her brother. I intend to get rid of them as soon as I can, but in the meantime, remember that we are a house of mourning. Frivolous confections and ornate menus would not be appropriate.”
“I am so sorry for your bereavement.” She uttered the proper terms that had been drilled into her since childhood—Nanny Gruen had been determined to teach her “poor, motherless chicks” the right way to go on in society.
The viscount raised one of those satanic eyebrows at her words and she could have kicked herself. “It shouldn’t concern the staff. My brother had yet to visit this mausoleum, so any sign of mourning would be a superficial platitude. Nonetheless, things will be quite subdued here for the time being, and your menus should reflect that.” He continued to stare at her, as if trying to place her.
She knew for a fact that he had never seen her—she would have been vitally aware if she’d been anywhere closer to him than the tor overlooking the valley setting of Renwick. She refused to lower her eyes—cooks were at the upper end of the strict servant caste system, and she wasn’t going to let him cow her. “Yes, sir,” she said.
He watched her for a moment longer, then turned away. “I trust this will be the last time I have to waste my time with household matters—I have no fondness for kitchen visits. We’ll have something simple tonight—four courses will suffice. Lady Christabel doesn’t eat much, and Mrs. Griffiths is distraught with grief. What’s your name?”
The last question came so abruptly that it took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her. Dickens jumped in. “This is Madame Camille . . .”
“I don’t believe I asked you, Dickens.” His calm voice stopped Dickens abruptly. “Your name.” It was an order, not a question, and his indolent air had left, his stare hard and uncomfortable.
She took an instinctive step forward, simply because she wanted to step back. She couldn’t let him frighten her. “I am Madame Camille . . .” For a moment her mind went blank. He would want a last name, and she hadn’t had the sense to think of one. She could only hope the real Madame Camille went by her first name alone. “Delatour.” It was stupid of her, her own personal amusement. Camille of the tor. It would mean nothing to him.
His expression didn’t change. “Walk with me, madame.”
“I have yet to see my rooms, to wash the dust of travel from me,” she said calmly, and heard the indrawn breaths of shock around her. Did no one tell this man no?
If they did, he didn’t listen. “That doesn’t signify. Dickens will see to your things. Come.”
Oh, damn, blast, and bugger, she thought furiously, outwardly obedient. The last thing she needed was someone pawing through her valise. Clearly the Dark Viscount was going to haul her off whether she agreed or not, so she simply smiled at Dickens, who’d managed to edge to her side without ever getting in between her and the viscount. She handed him her hat and valise, then stripped off her expensive gloves, slowly. “I should be back shortly. If you’d have one of the footmen leave these in my room, I would appreciate it,” she said. “I prefer to deal with my things personally.”
“Certainly, madame.”
She brushed at her heavy skirts, shaking them a bit, and turned to face the lord of the manor. “Monsieur le vicomte?” she said politely.
Like a fool she waited for him to hold out his arm for her, but of course he simply turned and strode from the room, expecting her to follow. He had long legs, she was small, and she had no choice but to break into a little run before he disappeared from sight. Blast the man. Gorgeous or not, he was rapidly sinking in her esteem.
With a soft French curse under her breath, she rushed from the room, chasing her nemesis.
CHAPTER THREE
“MOST OF THE SERVANTS understand the word merde,” Alexander said in a casual voice, not bothering to turn back to the girl as he strode along the corridor. “Words like that tend to be universal.”
The so-called cook said nothing, merely rushed to keep up with him. He could have slowed down, he supposed, but he had a certain cynical enjoyment in having her hurry after him. They moved through the narrow hallways, directly out into the stable yard. He could see the various grooms watching them with curiosity, but he knew they would duck their heads if he glanced their way. They were all properly cowed, he thought with grim amusement. The murderous viscount was afoot.
He glanced at the petite creature he’d found in his kitchen, of all places. If she were a cook he’d eat his hat, which would probably taste better than some of the things that had appeared on his table in the last fortnight. Their previous chef had a fondness for his brandy and presumably no taste buds. Alexander had endured it for as long as he could stand it, but it wasn’t until Dickens had murmured something about the uproar in the serv
ants’ hall that he decided to do something about it. After all, he didn’t really give a damn about food, and enjoyed watching his stepmother fume. But he wanted a fire in his bedroom and clean sheets and a general sort of tidiness, and the servants wanted decent food.
Adelia had apparently made some sort of arrangement for a cook, but for weeks no one had appeared. Alexander had been making his own arrangements for more important appetites, but he’d never expected this.
