The Last Time We Met - By Lily Lang Page 0,19

gone?”

“I have no notion.”

Jason cursed savagely. “Send for me at once if you discover her whereabouts.”

As he made his way down the hall, his irritation rapidly became genuine alarm. Where could she possibly be? Could she have left the club entirely? If Oliver hadn’t seen her, she hadn’t summoned a carriage. Nor could she have left by the front door without attracting attention, an event which would have caused an uproar. Nor could she know about the secret exit in the capacious cellars beneath the building. If she had left Blakewell’s, it had been through the kitchens.

He made his way down to the back of the club. When he reached the kitchen door, he swung it open and stalked inside, prepared to blast everyone to perdition if they had allowed Miranda to slip out this way.

Only to come to a dead halt, nearly paralyzed by a strange burst of mingled shock, relief and anger.

The object of his search stood at the head of the long kitchen table, enveloped in a massive white apron and covered from head to foot in a fine, powdery white substance. Flour. She crumbled pastry like snow beneath her deft fingertips, and as she worked she addressed Monsieur Leblanc.

“You must miss your mother very much,” she said. “It must be difficult, living so far away from her.”

“Oui, oui,” said Monsieur Leblanc on a sigh, stirring a pot of soup with great vigor. “I miss her all the time. She was the one who taught me to cook, yes? Her gateau—light as a feather. I ask her to come to England with me, yes? But she says non, she does not wish to leave her village to live among strangers.”

Then Monsieur Leblanc put down his spoon and sighed again, evidently overcome by emotion and the bottle of sherry he habitually kept on hand.

Jason stared at them. He ought not be surprised Miranda was in the kitchen. After all, how often had the two of them as children “helped” Cook at Thornwood? Jason himself knew his way around the kitchen nearly as well as his chef, and Miranda had always had a knack for delicate pastry.

Jason had, however, been completely unaware Monsieur Leblanc was in possession of a mother, having assumed in a vague sort of way that the little Frenchman must have sprang fully grown into existence, like Athena bursting from the head of Zeus. How had Miranda, in a short a period of time, managed to win him over so completely? Jason had never heard his chef speak so candidly to anyone before.

A strange, hot feeling coursed through him, a feeling he did not at first recognize. Then, with disbelief, he realized he was jealous. Jealous of his fat, balding, temperamental chef. Jealous because Miranda was now smiling sympathetically at the little French bastard, who had the gall to smile back.

Miranda lifted her head and saw him standing in the doorway. Her fingers never stopped their practiced movement, but her mouth parted slightly in surprise.

“Mr. Blakewell,” she said. “Good evening.”

Her quiet tone and her polite words only served to further enrage him. He scowled, slamming the kitchen door shut behind him as he stalked inside.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.

Any member of his staff would have had the good sense to search for cover, perhaps under the kitchen table, but Miranda merely looked at him and raised both her delicate eyebrows. “I am helping Monsieur Leblanc prepare supper, as you can see.”

“And why are you helping Monsieur Leblanc prepare supper? Does Monsieur Leblanc not have enough people of his own?” He glared at his chef. “I give you carte blanche to keep this damned place fully staffed. How is it you require Miss Thornwood’s help tonight?”

Monsieur Leblanc’s mustache quavered like an angry caterpillar as he opened his mouth to produce a retort. But Miranda spoke first, her voice tranquil. “I am helping Monsieur Leblanc because Harriet has gone home to take care of her mother, who is ill,” she said. “Is there any reason I should not?”

“Yes, there is a reason,” snapped Jason, and when he was unable to produce one, he added with great force, “There are dozens of reasons!”

When he did not continue, Miranda regarded him expectantly. “Well, sir?”

“You are a lady,” he growled. “A lady does not work in the kitchens of a gentleman’s club.”

“A lady does not enter a gentleman’s club at all, and yet, here I am,” said Miranda, picking up a pitcher of cream and pouring a