not.”
Dorning’s smile became a smirk. “Don’t be peevish, Goddard. You have neglected to show the little dear the wonders of London, but Jeanette and I can correct your oversight and take her for a treat or two at Gunter’s. The menagerie would doubtless delight a child of such tender years, and one must not neglect to feed—”
“Pour l'amour de Dieu, chut.”
Dorning looked Rye up and down. “And why should I hush?”
“Because a discreet call upon the girl is one thing, but now is not the time to announce that Jeanette has established ties with a long-lost French cousin.”
Dorning glanced back in the direction of the parlor and heaved a put-upon sigh. “This is complicated?”
“The matter requires discretion.”
“Shall I call on you this afternoon?”
Nothing and nobody—least of all Sycamore Perishing Dorning—would come between Rye and the afternoon’s call from Ann Pearson.
“Join me at the Aurora for dinner. We can dine early in deference to your responsibilities at the Coventry.”
“We will dine at the usual hour, lest Jeanette fret because you and I are off in the corner being discreet. I have no secrets from my wife, Goddard.”
A state of affairs about which Dorning was inordinately proud. “Nor would I ask you to keep any, but you do apparently claim a modicum of discretion, despite all press to the contrary. I will see you tonight.”
Dorning held the door for him. Rye checked the street to ensure Louis was in sight, then trotted down the steps and made for home.
Chapter Eight
“We are de trop, Colonel.” Ann tugged gently on Orion Goddard’s arm. “Leave the infantry unsupervised for a moment.”
He tarried in the doorway to the servants’ hall, his gaze on the children clustered at the end of the table nearest the hearth.
“She looks happy,” he said, gaze on Hannah and the boys enjoying the butter biscuits Ann and Hannah had brought from the Coventry’s kitchens. “She looks rosy and proud and happy. Thank you.”
“She was even happier to make her first batch of butter biscuits this morning,” Ann said. “The cinnamon aroma in the kitchen, the taste of the first batch warm from the bake oven, the longing glances from the waiters and footmen… She reveled in all of it. Hannah will make an excellent cook, if early days tell the tale.”
Though they often did not. The absconding apprentice was a caricature in British humor, but all too often a reality as well.
“I am in your debt,” Goddard said, “and you are correct. My hovering presence isn’t necessary. I would invite you up to the guest parlor there to lament the weather with me, except I forgot to light the fire until you were on my doorstep, and the room is quite chilly. My office is warmer, if you can bear the slight to good manners.”
“I am too pragmatic to value manners over comfort, Colonel, and I did not surrender all of the biscuits to the children.” Then too, Ann wanted to see his office, a space where he would not normally welcome a social caller.
He’d seen her kitchen, after all.
“Cider and biscuits?” he asked, detouring into the kitchen. “Or could I tempt you to try my hot buttered rum, in deference to the weather?”
“Is the recipe yours?”
“My grandfather’s, then my father’s, and now mine.”
Ann was torn between the notion that a lady did not take strong spirits and a burning curiosity to know his recipe.
The colonel leaned closer, as if the children laughing and carrying on in the hall might overhear him. “I’d take it as a kindness if you’d say yes. My hip is predicting colder weather, and a medicinal tot would enliven my afternoon considerably.”
“In the interests of facilitating your good health, I will accept a small serving of your hot buttered rum.”
The ingredients were few and readily at hand: dark rum, butter, brown sugar, water, spices, and—Ann would not have thought to add this—a precious dash of vanilla.
“You don’t measure the spices?” she asked, itching to take notes regarding the order in which the nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and allspice went into the mix. No ginger, which was sensible. Ginger had a pungent quality the other warm spices lacked.
“A pinch per serving,” he said, giving his melted butter-and-spice mixture a stir. “The real question is how much hot water to add, and that’s a matter of personal taste. Shall we take our drinks to my office, where we can enjoy them without the sound of pitched battle from across the corridor?”
“A happy battle,” Ann said, taking the steaming teakettle off