marital difficulties, and the demands of command.
And finally, if all went according to Rye’s wildest dreams, Upchurch would become family.
“We have not cleared my name,” Rye said, “but you can tend to that detail now.”
“I refuse to compromise Melisande’s reputation, Goddard. Her socializing is all she has. But for Ann’s kindness earlier this evening, even that could have been taken from her. This ends now, between us as gentlemen.”
“If you had been more attentive to your wife when she was a new bride, you could have spared us all years of stupidity. I have no intention of dragging Melisande’s reputation anywhere, but neither will I have my own bride inconvenienced by your schemes.”
“You and Ann intend to marry.” Upchurch sighed a defeated man’s sigh. “Melisande and I will leave Town, then. Meli won’t like it, but winter approaches and—”
“You can leave Town if you like, though retreating to France never did anything to resolve my own troubles. Before you tuck tail and run, however, you will impart a few salient facts to that pack of sots and buffoons in your library. Listen closely, for I don’t intend to repeat myself.”
Midnight approached, the magic hour at the Coventry when guests who’d put in a duty appearance at Godmama’s ball or musicale came to treat themselves to some wagering and flirtation in less genteel surrounds. The champagne became free at midnight, and the laughter became freer.
Because Ann Pearson was not on the premises, Sycamore Dorning’s anxiety also rose as the evening hours advanced, and the club’s gambling floor became more crowded.
“The buffet needs attention,” he said to a passing footman. “The roast won’t last another quarter hour, and the sculpted potatoes are nearly gone.”
The footman, one Henry Broadman, was young and fit, and yet, he looked exhausted. “Apologies, Mr. Dorning, but the kitchen isn’t at its best tonight. Nan is trying to get the potatoes to look like those little ducks Miss Pearson makes, and it’s not going well. Pierre didn’t put the second roast on until about an hour ago, so we might well run out of beef. Hannah has a ham in the bake oven that should be ready to go soon.”
This was not good. A scullery maid sculpting potatoes, an apprentice tending the ham, the sous-chef forgetting to spit a roast…
“Come along,” Sycamore said, heading for the kitchen.
“Mr. Dorning, I don’t mean to get above myself, sir, but you’d best not… That is…”
Sycamore pushed through the swinging doors, and where the happy bustle of a busy kitchen should have been, all was pandemonium. Somebody had spilled flour near the pantry, and white tracks formed random patterns on the floor tiles.
The girl trying her hand at potato sculpture also looked as if she’d been crying, and the new fellow—Pierre—was washing wineglasses at the wet sink.
Hannah, Miss Pearson’s apprentice, was at the cook stove, stirring something that at least smelled enticingly like ham gravy.
“What is he doing here?” Sycamore asked. One of Orion Goddard’s half-grown reconnaissance officers sat on a stool by the window, paring apples with a knife that did not look to be standard kitchen issue.
“I’m helping,” the boy replied. “Colonel said to keep an eye on things, and I took that t’ mean I was to keep an eye on Miss Ann’s kitchen. Hannah put me to work.” He bit into a pale apple quarter. “I like this kinda work.”
“Theodoric,” Sycamore said, the boy’s name popping to mind. “Did you at least wash your hands before you took up that knife?”
The boy pushed off his stool and came close enough to hold out two exceedingly clean hands. “Hannah said everything in the kitchen starts with washing. I wasn’t keen on that notion until she made us some crepes.”
The sous-chef, who should have been bringing some order to the chaos, remained bent over the tub of glasses as if praying for their souls.
“Where the hell is Jules?”
Hannah, Theodoric, and Henry all glanced in the direction of the cellar door.
Unease climbed closer to panic. “How long has he been down there?”
A waiter came dashing through the doors. “Bloody guests are hungry tonight, and we’re already out of soup.”
“You,” Sycamore said, “please trot across the street and ask Mrs. Dorning to join us here in the kitchen. She’s to come as she is as soon as she decently can. You three,” he went on, gesturing to Henry, Hannah, and Theodoric, “come with me.”
Hannah set her pot to the side of the burner and followed him, Henry came next, and Theodoric helped