Banquet of Lies (9 page)

She glared at Edgars and took up the four baskets she’d set on the table. “Come, Iris, we’re late already.” She held two of the baskets out to the maid.

Iris came past Edgars warily and took them, her eyes on her hands, rather than on either of the fighters in the ring.

Gigi turned on her heel and marched up the stairs, fought the key a moment before it gave.

As she held the door for Iris she looked back down on Edgars, who stood exactly in the same spot, his face white with a small red mark on each high cheekbone, as if he’d been slapped twice.

Forcing herself calmer with a deep breath, Gigi closed the door carefully and took the alley down to Chapel Street. Their destination was in the opposite direction from Goldfern, but she couldn’t resist a quick look in its direction.

A man walked past it, his head turned to the house, his back to her, in the clothes of a well-heeled member of the nobility. In this area it was a common sight, except for the extremely early time of day.

Returning home after a night in the gaming hells or playing cards at his club?

“Have you seen that man before?” Gigi asked, and Iris, who was facing the other way, turned on her heel and squinted in the dawn light.

“Can’t say I ’ave. Can only see his back, and I don’t notice the nobs if I can help it.”

Gigi stared after him, looking for anything familiar about him, and as if he could feel their eyes on him, he turned and stared back for a moment, then continued on his way.

She caught the flash of a cravat, blue as a duck’s egg, and a black or very dark blue jacket, but that was all.

Was it her imagination or did he pick up his pace?

He could be the shadow man.

He was the same general height, with hard, sharp features, but even this very quick glimpse of his face was more than she’d seen of the shadow man at Tessin Palace.

She started down the street with Iris beside her, and only looked over her shoulder again as they turned left onto South Audley.

The man was standing at the very far end of Chapel Street, just a tiny figure in the distance. Watching them.

Fear pricked her neck and arms with cold, sharp needles, and she shivered.

Iris kept her eyes on the street as they walked, her arms folded across her chest so she could tuck her hands under her armpits to keep them warm. “You put Edgars in his place, right and proper.”

She didn’t say it in a way that gave Gigi the impression she approved.

Gigi narrowed her eyes. The way Edgars had spoken to her, she should have demanded an apology from him, as well as putting him in his place.

That, and trying to deny her coffee, was a declaration of war.

“You’ve put him in a spot now. He either has to go to Lord Aldridge and tell him about your threatening to give notice, or he has to give you your way. And as he knows his lordship wouldn’t mind at all if you wanted coffee, and would love a cup at home if someone could make it properly, he looks a fool either way.”

“Why did he pick a fight over it, then?” Gigi was outraged all over again.

Iris sighed. “I don’t know. I think it’s ’cause he loses his head sometimes. Gets so excited about where he’s at, he can’t help it.” It was as if the thought dragged her down.

“If he’s going to play the fool, he has to accept he’ll sometimes end up
looking
the fool.” Gigi knew her voice came out hard, unbending.

“He’s got away with it since Cook left. ’Cause you’re younger ’n’ him, and a woman, maybe he thought he could best you.” She kicked a small stone out of her path. “You have to understand, he didn’t grow up with much. ’Bout the same as
Mavis, or maybe worse. That’s why he hired her on, I think. Aldridge House is the only place he’s ever worked. Came as a stable boy, moved up to footman, and now he’s butler. Pulled himself up by his bootstraps, ’e ’as.”

Gigi looked at Iris, but her head was bowed and her cheeks were high with color. There was more to the story than this.

“You know a lot about him,” she said, taking her gaze off Iris in the hope she would talk more easily.

“Grew up near him. We played together as children. Got a job when he was footman, as the scullery maid.”

And he’d been playing high and mighty ever since, Gigi guessed, with enough flashes of the old Edgars to keep her hoping he’d change.

“You’ve moved up the ranks, too, then.” Gigi paused. “And it hasn’t gone to your head.”

Iris shrugged. “He took Mavis in. He’s not that far gone.”

That was true. There were rarely absolutely black villains in real life, her father was fond of saying. They were found in fairy tales to illustrate evil clearly, but most villains were colored in shades of gray.

Except the shadow man.

“He took in Mavis,” she conceded. “He occasionally thanks you when you do him a favor, I notice. But that doesn’t excuse him, Iris. Or how he spoke to me this morning. The nonsense he made up, to pretend he had control over what I drank, for heaven’s sake!”

Iris gave a nod. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then finally said: “Just ease up, will ya? Give ’im a graceful
way out, if you can.” She hunched a little as they came closer to the market and more and more people began clogging the way. “ ’Twas his kitchen, all intents and purposes, ’til you came yesterday. He can’t switch it off just like that.”

Gigi didn’t answer. It hadn’t been just a territorial dispute. Edgars had tried to belittle her, as if doing so would somehow lift him up. And no matter how much she needed the safety and anonymity of Aldridge House, she could not accept that.

If she’d been born poor, been in Iris’s shoes, how would she have coped? Been pragmatic about it? Or would she finally have ended up broken?

She shook off the dark, heavy feeling that tried to settle over her like a suffocating blanket, and focused on the stalls just up ahead.

“Let me show you the art of bargaining, Iris.” She caught sight of the produce on display. “And what real food looks like.”

S
he had found Reine Claude plums at the market. Reine Claudes!

When she’d exclaimed that it couldn’t be, that Reine Claudes were only ready for harvest in July, the trader told her they were just off a ship come in from Cape Town, from the tip of Africa. Grown by the French Huguenots who had settled there.

It was lucky for Lord Aldridge she’d found them at the end of her shopping, because once she had them in her hands, she’d gone straight home and started making jam.

It didn’t take long to make it, and while it was cooling she’d put in a tray of brioche to cook, ground some coffee, and taken a long, deep breath. As the scents and aromas swirled around her, she knew she had never been closer to her mother than since before she’d died.

A bell rang above the door, a signal from Rob that Lord Aldridge was down for breakfast, and Gigi put the brioche, jam and coffee on a tray for Harry to take up.

He’d only been gone a few minutes, and Gigi was busy with an omelette, when Edgars came down.

“His lordship is down for breakfast.” Edgars watched her from the stairs, his lips tight and a gleam in his eye. She had the impression he was gloating.

“I know.” She gave him a friendly smile as she tipped the beaten eggs into a pan. The perfume of herbs and tomato fanned her face, and she swirled the mixture around.

“Where is it, then?” Edgars asked.

Ah. He was waiting for an English breakfast. Gigi lifted a single brow, pouting her lips, giving her head an arrogant tilt. Oh, she was the epitome of an Englishman’s Frenchie. “His lordship asked for a French cook,
n’est-ce pas
?” She went back to her omelette.

He was very quiet and she ignored him, folding the omelette, tipping it onto a plate, and holding it out to him. It was fragrant, tender perfection.

“My concession to English bacon and eggs,” she said. “Tell his lordship
bon appétit
.”

His face twisted, temper rising hot up his neck and along his cheeks. Before he could say anything, though, there was a knock at the door, and he turned from her without taking the plate and stalked up the stairs, anger and tension riding his shoulders like two little devils.

“Fiddle dee dee,” she said in exasperation, thinking of Rumplestiltskin, because Edgars looked as if he wanted to stamp his foot in rage.

“Iris, please take this to his lordship. It cannot be eaten
cold.” She shuddered as she handed the plate over. “I hope whoever is at the front door does not need to speak to Lord Aldridge. It is vital that this is eaten straightaway.”

Iris lifted her brows in surprise and her lips quirked a little, but she moved quickly to the servants’ side stair to avoid walking up into the hallway, past Edgars and whomever he was speaking with.

Gigi set out more brioche and jam for the staff in their little dining room and then poured herself a cup of coffee, leaned back against the table, and closed her eyes, tipping her head back to catch the rays of sun angling through the high windows.

They fell warm and golden on her eyelids.

All was quiet for the moment. Everyone was busy with their jobs, the scents and sounds of a house moving through its routine a long-forgotten memory for her.

She hadn’t realized she’d missed this. Missed this connection to her mother. This peace and quiet, where the day ran as smooth and sweet as a boat through calm water.

She heard the sound of someone walking down the servants’ stairs and straightened, opening her eyes, unwilling to let anyone see her this way.

It was Iris, who walked slower and slower the closer she got to the bottom.

“What is it?” Gigi took a sip of her coffee.

“That man? The one down the street you pointed out this morning?”

Gigi pushed herself away from the table. “Yes?”

“He’s here. Edgars brought him in to see his lordship while I was giving him his omelette. He’s been invited to breakfast.”

“W
hat’s wr—” The look Dervish shot him made Jonathan blink and snap his mouth closed. He leaned back easily in his chair for the sake of Edgars, hovering in the hallway.

“Morning, Aldridge.” Dervish stepped into the room.

“Out a bit early, aren’t you?” Jonathan spared Dervish another quick glance and cut into the omelette Iris had placed before him. He took a bite.

“You seem in the middle of a spiritual experience,” Dervish said after a moment. “Perhaps I should come back later?”

“Join me in worshipping at the altar of French cuisine, Dervish. I’m sure there’s plenty, though if there isn’t, you’ll be the one going without.”

Dervish sat, a smile finally on his face.

They both waited while Rob served Dervish some brioche, jam and coffee and then withdrew. Dervish opened his mouth to speak, but Jonathan lifted a hand to silence him. If he knew his staff, Rob would be back shortly with more food.

He bent his head to his omelette and then lifted it when he realized Dervish was too quiet.

Dervish was holding up a piece of brioche covered in jam, staring at it.

“I haven’t . . .” He raised his eyes to Jonathan. “I haven’t had Reine Claude jam since Adèle Barrington was alive.” He
put a hand over his mouth and coughed, then took a sip of coffee. “Sorry. I . . .” He shook his head. “I was a little in love with her in my youth. She was older than I was, and so sophisticated, but warm and happy. An extraordinary combination. Eating this reminds me of her and Barrington, of how he was when he lost her. And now his death . . .” He raised the cup to his lips again and looked away.

Jonathan looked away himself to give Dervish a moment. He’d never seen Dervish laid so bare. The man spent his time behind a chilly, polite mask, and Durnham was the only one whose company he’d ever known Dervish to seek out. He gave him time to regain control, searching for something to say that would move things back to normal—a place where Dervish, judging by the stark expression in his eyes, desperately wanted to be. Jonathan pulled the small bowl of golden jam in front of him closer. “Reine Claude jam? What fruit is it?”

“Greengages. The French call them Reine Claudes. Adèle used to make the jam with her own hands. Go down to the kitchen, kick her chef out for a few hours, and stand over the stove with that pretty little girl of hers at her side. Used to have orchards of greengages around the château where she grew up in Brittany, she told me.” He rubbed the side of his cheek, his expression no longer as raw. “Where on earth did you get Reine Claude jam?”

Rob came in at that moment with an omelette in hand.

“Rob. Where did we get Reine Claude jam?”

Rob slid the plate beside Dervish and stepped back, hands
behind his back. “Madame Levéel made it this morning, my lord. She got the fruit at the market earlier.”

Jonathan gave him a nod of dismissal and waited until he heard the footman’s footsteps fade down the hall before he finally came back to his original question. “What’s wrong?”

“I got up early this morning. Can’t seem to sleep since I learned of Barrington’s death. I had the most terrible dreams of Giselle Barrington wandering the streets of London with her father’s murderer stalking her.”