The Enigmatic Rake. Anne O'Brien

      ‘Shall I call you Beth?’

      ‘If you wish it, Papa.’ Not exactly enthusiastic, but it was not an outright no.

      ‘Then I will. It is a pretty name.’ He smiled at her across the width of the library. And, after a heartbeat, she smiled back.

      Which was enough for one day, his lordship decided. Mrs Russell and her stories could wait. They both returned to their silent perusal of the printed word, at least one of them aware that an important bridge had been crossed. Lord Joshua found a smile touch his lips as he watched his daughter and considered the possible tactics of Mrs Sarah Russell.

      Lord Joshua met the other child in his establishment in the stables. John withdrew into one of the empty stalls as his lordship came in to inspect the horseflesh. Lord Joshua noted the quick movement and spoke to the silent shadow.

      ‘Do you like horses?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Come here.’

      John edged forward. ‘My mama says I must not be a nuisance or speak to you unless you speak to me first, sir.’

      He laughed ‘Does she now? Then come and tell me—where were you born?’

      ‘In London, sir.’

      ‘Have you always lived here?’

      ‘I have been to New York in America. I have—’ John would have said more, but then stopped and frowned. ‘My mama says that I must not say.’

      The child ran off before tempted into further indiscretions.

      Which admission Lord Joshua thought was probably a tall story, embroidered by a child’s desire for adventure—yet there was something about him and his mother that was beginning to take his interest. He sensed secrets here. And the lad’s mother had clearly laid down instructions. What was Mrs Russell? Gently born, of course, presumably fallen on bad times. He wondered idly about the boy’s father. Perhaps he should ask Judith when they next met since she had employed the lady.

      But of course it was not of very great importance. His mind turned to other matters.

      Meanwhile, imperceptibly the Countess of Wexford began to make her presence felt more and more in the household, encroaching on the reins of power. It was not appreciated. Nor was her antipathy to Mrs Russell. Her intense dislike was patently evident, for what reason no one could guess, but which had no effect other than to unite the servants’ hall against the Countess in support of the housekeeper. What right did she have to look down her supercilious nose at Mrs Russell? If there should be any criticism levelled against the servants, it should be at the hands of Lord Joshua Faringdon. And he appeared to find no cause for complaint in the running of his household.

      It had become customary for Sarah to present herself every morning in the breakfast parlour to discuss the menu and any particular needs for the day. It was unfortunate that within the second week the Countess of Wexford was completing her breakfast alone. Her tight smile on seeing Mrs Russell was not pleasant.

      ‘Ah. Mrs Russell. The menu for another tedious meal.’ She held out an imperious hand for the list. ‘Tell me, Mrs Russell. Where were you last employed as housekeeper?’

      ‘I have never been in employment as housekeeper, my lady.’ I have never been employed at all!

      ‘Never? That would account for it, I suppose.’ The sneer was most marked as the lady perused the list. ‘So how can you presume to know the needs of a gentleman’s establishment such as this?’

      ‘I have had no complaints from Lord Faringdon, my lady.’ The perfect housekeeper kept her hands folded, her eyes lowered respectfully, her intense irritation veiled.

      A glint of anger in the Countess’s eyes was hardly masked. ‘Who provided your references for this position?’

      Well, there was only one way out of this difficulty. Sarah looked up. ‘I was employed for this post by the Countess of Painscastle.’ She refused to allow her direct gaze to fall. ‘Her ladyship found my abilities highly appropriate. Perhaps you could apply to her if you have some concerns, my lady.’

      On which challenging statement, Lord Joshua entered, easily catching the tenor of the exchange. ‘There will be no need, Mrs Russell. I am more than satisfied with the arrangement.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’ Sarah found it difficult to keep a stern countenance. She was human enough after all to be tempted into what could only be described as a little crow of triumph. But she suppressed the urge.

      ‘Of course not, Joshua.’ The Countess’s smile was deceptively sweet as she lifted her face towards his lordship. ‘I would imply no other. I merely wondered about Mrs Russell’s history.’ She patted a chair beside her, an obvious gesture that Lord Joshua had no difficulty in ignoring. ‘But another matter, my dear. I would wish to entertain. On Friday. Is there a problem if I arrange a little dinner party?’

      ‘No.’ Apart from some surprise at the request, he could think of no suitable reason why not. Other than a disinclination to spend an evening in the company of Olivia’s set.

      ‘Then I would like to hold a banquet for some particular friends. A French banquet—something a little out of the ordinary, to impress, you understand.’ The curl of her lips in Sarah’s direction was lethal in intent. She cast an eye over the light dinner menu for that evening again with delicate disdain. ‘Nothing of this nature, of course. So plain and uninteresting, do you not think? Only two main courses and a mean selection of side dishes apart from the dessert. Do you think that our kitchen might be capable of producing something suitably impressive, Mrs Russell?’ Sarah’s earlier challenge was thus returned in good measure.

      ‘Of course, my lady. A French banquet.’ I will do it if it kills me in the process. But her heart sank at the prospect.

      ‘I really do think that we should employ a French chef, Joshua. So much more imaginative and exciting.’ The Countess sighed heavily and dramatically. ‘I suppose that I must leave it in your hands, Mrs Russell, on this occasion. I trust that I shall not be disappointed.’

      ‘We shall make every effort to ensure your satisfaction, my lady.’

      Sarah took herself back to the kitchen, seething in anger.

      ‘What on earth is the matter, my dear?’ Mrs Beddows replaced a lid on a steaming pan and wiped her hands. ‘Is it That Woman again?’

      ‘Yes! Of course it is! Can we produce a French banquet for twelve guests on Friday night?’

      ‘A French banquet?’

      ‘The Countess wishes to test our mettle, Mrs Beddows. And if we are found wanting, she will insist on his lordship appointing a French chef!’

      ‘Does she indeed?’ Mrs Beddows bridled, her slight bosom swelling. ‘You tell me what we need and I will cook it. We will not have that hoity-toity madam or a foreigner interfering in my kitchen! What do I cook?’

      ‘I have no idea. I have never been to a French banquet.’ Sarah thought, tapping her fingers against the heavy dresser with its array of blue porcelain. ‘But I know someone who has.’

      Thus a series of notes passed rapidly between Sarah, Judith and her mama, Lady Beatrice Faringdon, resulting in a formal manuscript arriving in Hanover Square, inscribed on thick cream vellum, being a copy of the menu for the French banquet served on the fifteenth of January in 1817 by the Prince Regent himself within the splendours of Brighton Pavilion.

      Sarah, Millington and Mrs Beddows sat down to dissect it with varying degrees of horror and near-hysterical laughter at the splendour and scale of it.

      ‘We cannot do this, Mrs Russell. Indeed we cannot,’ Mrs Beddows finally decided, aghast, slapping her hands down against the table top. ‘Four soups, followed by four fish and then—well, I never!—thirty-six entrées, four of them with side dishes—and thirty-six desserts. Not to mention eight patisserie!