hours.’
A roof over her head for the night and a dinner promised. It seemed too good to be true. She just wished she could be certain of Crispin’s eventual forgiveness. That he would agree to give them a home. Only then could she feel easy in her mind. Or at least as easy as she could be until she had settled matters with Ernie Pratt.
Chapter Two
Two more finicky appetites to tempt. Andre’s hands fisted at his sides as he looked at the tray returned from the drawing room. The sandwiches were untouched and only one plate had been used even though the gaunt woman and child he’d seen in the kitchen had looked half starved. Madame Holte had eaten nothing and the child had eaten sweetmeats. The more he knew of them, the more he thought the English aristocracy were completely mad.
Ire rose in his chest. He was tired of preparing meals for people who cared little about what appeared on their plates. Food he’d prepared with his heart and soul.
Becoming the personal chef to a duke had not been the hoped-for triumph. No grand entertainments for members of the ton. No culinary feasts.
But there had been something else. A realisation of the subtle role food played in a life. The duke preferred the comfort of familiar dishes. Almost as if they offered a haven from the devastating changes in his life. André had sought out those dishes and prepared them in the manner of the duke’s youth. And the duke had regained his appetite, somewhat, and Lord Giles had been pleased.
Based on that success, he would return to London at the end of the month with the promised letter of endorsement.
In the meantime, he had a dinner to prepare and he needed to think of something to tempt a woman who looked like a small brown mouse and had turned out to be the sister of a duke. And a child. A little girl with the same sad grey eyes as her mother. What did he know of what children liked? Thoughts of his own boyhood only made him angry, so he’d locked those memories away. Still, he would like to see the child eat something to put a bit of flesh on her bones, and her mother too.
He did remember starving on the streets of Paris for months until he was taken up in the army. He knew what it was to be hungry. It was the reason he’d convinced His Grace to permit a pot of soup on the stove for those wandering the dales in search of work.
He strode to the larder and looked at his plentiful supplies. The pantry always made him feel good. Nothing but the best for the duke and no expense spared. And still the old man preferred a haunch of venison and suet puddings to the delicate sauces and fricassées André longed to prepare. Puddings. Pah. If the great Carême could see him now, he would be horrified.
He brought an armful of ingredients into the kitchen and laid them on the long plank table. As usual, he gave a swift glance around his domain. What he saw made his gut clench. Fear grabbed him by the throat. The swaying skirts of the scullery maid were inches from the flames leaping hungrily at the fat dripping from the meat.
‘Mademoiselle Becca,’ he barked. ‘Step back from the fire, s’il vous plaît.’
The scullery maid squeaked and leapt back, her lank hair slipping loose from her cap.
‘How many times must I tell you, mademoiselle?’ André uttered fiercely, visions of other accidents raw and fresh. ‘Stand to one side of the spit or you will roast along with the pig.’ This kitchen needed modernising. He would speak to the steward again about installing a winding clock beside the hearth, then no one would risk themselves so close to the fire. It just wasn’t safe.
‘Sorry,’ the girl mumbled, wringing her hands. She positioned herself properly and once more turned the handle.
He frowned. ‘Where is Charles? I assigned him this duty.’
‘Mr Smithins sent Charlie on an errand, chef,’ the girl said.
Smithins, the duke’s valet, was a blasted nuisance. He seemed to think he ran the household, and had even tried throwing his weight around in André’s kitchen. Once. But young Charlie, the boot black, hated turning the spit.
Knowing he was watching, Becca turned the spit slowly, just the way he liked and he gave her a nod of approval. She returned a shy smile. Pauvre Becca, she thirsted for approval. He gave it as often as she deserved.
The kitchen maid, Agnes, stuck her head through the scullery door. ‘Shall I throw out this soup, then, monsewer?’
He hated the way these English servants said monsieur. It sounded as if he had crawled from the privy. But it did no good to correct them.
‘How much soup is left?’
‘A quarter of the pot. Not so many came today.’
‘Then the remainder will go to the servants’ hall for dinner.’
‘I don’t see why we should eat the leftovers from a bunch of dirty Gypsies,’ she muttered.
André swallowed a surge of anger at the scorn in her voice. This girl had never known what it was to go without. He kept his voice calm, but instructive. ‘The only difference between you and the Gypsies, as you call them, is you have work and they do not. N’est-ce pas?’
‘Nesper?’
Becca giggled behind her hand.
André frowned. Agnes scuttled back into the scullery and André returned to shucking the oysters.
‘I thought we’d prepared everything for dinner,’ Becca said, watching him, her arm turning the spit by rote.
‘The duke has a guest.’
‘His sister,’ Becca said, nodding. ‘Eloped she did. Years ago.’
That might account for the fear he’d seen in her eyes. A prodigal sister unsure of her welcome. Fear would account for the lack of appetite too. It did not, however, account for the lifeless pallid skin or the eyes huge in her face. She clearly had not eaten well for a long time.
If she had no appetite, she needed something to seduce her into putting food in her mouth. Not that he cared about Mrs Holte. Spoiled noblewomen didn’t interest him in the least, except as they could advance his prospects. If this one refused to eat his food, his reputation would suffer. He bit back his irritation. He would use it as a chance to put his theories about food to yet another test. No woman, noble or otherwise, would resist his food. He left the oysters to simmer and set to work braising fresh vegetables. This time the plates would not return untouched.
Normally, once dinner preparation was finished and the food taken up to the drawing room, André would have retired to the parlour set aside for the use of the upper servants—the butler and the housekeeper and any ladies’ maids present. Or he’d go to his own room and work on his menus for the hotel he planned to open in London. Tonight he found himself inspecting cuts of meat, counting jars of marmalade and generally annoying Becca, who was up to her elbows in hot soapy water washing the pots and pans in the scullery.
And while he counted and checked, he had one eye on the door.
He barely noticed when Joe returned with the duke’s tray. ‘Smithins said to tell you that His Grace said the beef could have used a bit more cooking,’ Joe announced with a cheeky grin, keeping
