One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,11

eat two pieces,” he declared, which earned him a sneer from his brother and a frown from his mother.

As if she had anticipated the summons, the housekeeper soon made her appearance, clasping her hands nervously before her even as she dropped into a deep curtsy. “My apologies about the state of the tea tray, Lady Kingston. Mrs. Trout tried three different recipes from that book Mrs. West gave her and nothing came of them that either of us thought worthy of gracing a table in this house. But that left no time to prepare aught else. She’s most vexed, ma’am. Said it must be some mistake in the book’s printing.”

“Sadly, it sounds to me as if your cook’s skills are in decline,” Lord Dulsworthy said, polishing off his third sandwich.

Amanda’s mother blushed. Mrs. Hepplewythe bristled. Amanda said only, “Which book?” though she knew already what the answer must be.

“The one Mrs. West gave to me just after luncheon, ma’am. French pastries, ’twas said to be, though I don’t know…” Amanda tried to keep her expression impassive, but the housekeeper’s voice trailed off all the same.

Her mother took up the explanation. “The recipe book in the drawer of your writing desk, my dear. I went into your sitting room to, er, borrow a piece of paper and found it there.” Amanda said nothing, certain her mother had been in search of the invitations, to decline them. Then, to her surprise, her mother explained, “I urged Mrs. Hepplewythe to have the cook try something new. I thought it might tempt your appetite, dear.”

George took a great slurp of tea. “You are unfailingly thoughtful of others, Mrs. West.”

“Yes, indeed, Mama,” agreed Amanda. Her headache had returned in force, perhaps had never entirely left, and masking her frustration required a more than usually heroic effort. “Sometimes, though, I wonder whether you oughtn’t to give yourself so much trouble.”

“Oh, well, I—”

Amanda turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Hepplewythe, would you please retrieve the book from Mrs. Trout and bring it to me?”

“Very good, ma’am.” The woman curtsied once more and was gone.

In the interval of her absence, Philip regaled Lord Dulsworthy with a familiar tale of his triumph in the fencing match that morning. Jamie, a slice of bread and butter in one hand, perched on the arm of Amanda’s chair and returned to his book.

“I hope you are not unhappy with me, my dear?” her mother said, low.

“Of course not, Mama.” Amanda knew it would be too impolite to admonish her, and hints of displeasure were of no use whatsoever. “You meant well.”

Before many minutes had passed, Mrs. Hepplewythe returned, clutching the small green volume with both hands. “Here ’tis, ma’am. Mrs. Trout is most aggrieved and hopes you won’t take things amiss.”

“Certainly not,” Amanda reassured her. She could guess how the larder had been decimated by the failed attempts. “Tell her to send Lewis to the market if she is in need of anything.”

Mrs. Hepplewythe’s posture visibly eased. “Thank you, ma’am. I will.” She curtsied again before reaching out to hand the book to Amanda.

Lord Dulsworthy leaned forward to intercept it. “I say, Lady Kingston. This wouldn’t be the book that chap was here about earlier?” Depositing his teacup on the table with a clatter, he began to thumb idly through it.

“That chap”? Oh, how she longed to correct him! My dear Lord Dulsworthy, you couldn’t possibly be referring to the gentleman who left the intriguing calling card that’s currently tucked in my shift?

Instead, she swallowed that spiteful retort and dipped her head in acknowledgment. “It is. I shall write to him directly and have the matter done with.”

“No need for you to trouble yourself,” he insisted, snapping the volume shut and waving off her suggestion with a flick of the hand that held it. “I’ll take it to the bookshop myself.”

“I don’t—” She thought of the stranger explaining the book’s rarity and value, his insistence on retrieving it. She tried not to think of her own silly disappointment at having no excuse to see the man again. “There really is no need, Lord Dulsworthy.”

“Nonsense. I’ll see to it on my way home.”

Fearing that a weak smile of thanks would betray her displeasure, Amanda only nodded again and lifted her teacup to her lips to hide behind it.

For the next half hour, she chatted amiably, scolded fondly, listened attentively—yet always some corner of her mind, and occasionally even her eye, was drawn to the book, resting on George’s knee, tucked into his greatcoat pocket,