Never Romance a Rake (42 page)

Mr. Kemble asked another question about Dr. Hislop's evaluation. Camille reiterated much of what the physician had said, and the details of the new diet, all the while watching from one corner of her eye as Kieran lifted the lid from the platter and began to feed Chin-Chin from it.

“And so drink and diet might be eating his stomach away?” Kemble mused when she finished.

“
Oui,
” she answered. “But it is more than that, I think.”

Just then, Kieran dipped his finger in a pat of butter, and offered it to Chin-Chin to lick. Finally, mildly exasperated, Camille turned round on the bed. “
Ça alors!
How long have you been doing that?”

Kieran lifted a guilty gaze. “Doing what?”

Camille pointed at the dog. “
Mon Dieu,
he is going to explode,” she said. “He has got fat, Kieran. And that is not fit food for a dog.”

“But Jim likes it,” said her husband defensively. “Well, all but the spiced herring and the cassava pone.”

“Jim—?” said Kemble, standing to lean across the bed. “Jim's no sort of name for a dog, Rothewell. And what the devil have they done to those kippers? The smell is peeling off my nose hair.”

“Those?” Kieran poked at the herring with a fork. “Some sort of West Indian seasonings. Obelienne has a strong hand at the spice box.”

Kemble's face contorted. “Spiced breakfast kippers?” he said. “Now
that
is a sin against nature.”

Kieran shrugged. “I rather like them,” he said. “And they do take the edge off a hangover pretty nicely.”

“
Oui,
that may be,” said Camille primly, “but you may no longer eat them.” She moved to put the cover back on the platter.

“Wait!” said Kemble, poking his finger into the cassava pone again. “The dog won't touch this, will he?”

Kieran shook his head. “Did I not just say so?”

Mr. Kemble looked at Camille. “Dogs are intelligent creatures,” he said, holding her gaze intently. “And cassava is deadly, if one does not know how to use it. Wrongly prepared, I daresay it would eat the lining out of anyone's gut.”

“Mais non, monsieur.”
Camille shook her head. “Obelienne is most careful with it. Indeed, she would not even let me touch it.”

His lips thin, his expression mistrustful, Kemble sat back down again. “How long have you employed her?” he asked Rothewell. “Has she any reason to wish you ill—aside from your frightful disposition, I mean?”

“Oh, balderdash!” said Rothewell. “The woman is the salt of the earth.”

Mr. Kemble, Camille decided, had a dark view of human nature. She shooed the dog away, covered the platter, and moved it to her husband's dressing table by the door.

“All the same,” said Kemble, suddenly standing up again, “I think I should visit Miss Obelienne. Might I do so, Lady Rothewell?”

Camille looked at her husband. “
Oui,
I suppose,” she replied. “I must go down to see her about Dr. Hislop's diet. Kieran, will you excuse us?”

They found Miss Obelienne at her worktable darning table linens. Upon being introduced to Mr. Kemble, she regarded him suspiciously. “
Oui,
Mr. Kemble is well known to me,” she said. “How do you do, sir?”

Swiftly, Camille explained Dr. Hislop's requirements. Again, the cook looked displeased. “But no one can live,
madame
, on such a diet!” she protested. “It is flavorless, and without spirit.”

“But that is the very problem, Miss Obelienne,” Camille firmly explained. “Rothewell has had a little too much—er,
spirit
in his life—his doing, not yours. And it is only for six weeks. I am afraid Dr. Hislop insists.”

Obelienne tucked the list into her pocket with a sour look.

Camille smiled, and thanked her. “Now
Monsieur
Kemble would like to ask you some questions about your cassava root, since he has never seen it,” she said, not entirely sure she spoke the truth. “Will you kindly explain to him what you explained to me? And show him your spice cabinet, perhaps?”

“
Bien sûr, monsieur,
” she said, rising regally.

Mr. Kemble beamed. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Trammel!” he said, clutching his hands theatrically. “I am something of an amateur herbalist, you know, and a bit of a cook myself, from time to time.”

Miss Obelienne looked over her shoulder, her expression dubious. “Follow me,
monsieur,
” she said, extracting the key ring from her pocket.

“It is so exciting to see cassava from the islands,” he said. “A rarity, as I am sure you know. Tell me, how do you come by it?”

“Miss Xanthia has it brought out to me, already made into a sort of flour, or packed in barrels of damp earth.” She unlocked the wide mahogany doors and threw them open to reveal the apothecary drawers.

As she had done before, she pulled open the large bottom drawer. This time, there were but two roots, and they looked a little withered. Miss Obelienne extracted one, and presented it to him. “Cassava is a good staple,” she said firmly. “But one must never eat it raw. Preparation is key.”

Mr. Kemble examined the still-dirty root. “How does one do that, Mrs. Trammel?”

She shrugged. “It depends,
monsieur,
on how you wish to eat it,” she said. “But always, the poison must be drawn off. Often it is boiled or fermented, or the starch is extracted.”

Kemble handed it back to her. “How does one know if it is safe?”

“If it is bitter, one mustn't eat it,” said the cook a little haughtily. “But only a fool would do so. The taste is quite unpleasant.” She stood impassively, still suspicious, awaiting his next question.

“Well, that's clear enough, is it not?” Kemble remarked. “I believe I shall leave cassava to the experts. Thank you, Mrs. Trammel, for educating me.”

“Miss Obelienne, why do you not show Mr. Kemble your herbs and spices?” Camille cajoled, trying to appease the cook. “Your collection is perfectly fascinating.”

Again, Kemble brightened. “Oh, yes!” he said rapturously. “Do let me see. I am sure, with Lady Nash's ships going all around the world, you have a splendid array. Ooh, I smell saffron—and oh my! Is that tamarind?”

Warming a little to her task, the cook dutifully pulled open the little doors and drawers, going through the exotic names just as she had with Camille, and allowing Mr. Kemble to smell and examine those he wished.

“Most come from Miss Xanthia's ships,” Obelienne explained, “but a few can be had in the markets.” She drew open the drawer which held the shriveled white root Camille had seen before. “This one, for example,” she said, dumping it from the cloth bag into Kemble's palm. “It is very rare. Even Miss Xanthia cannot bring this.”

Suddenly, Mr. Kemble seemed to quiver like a bird dog on point. Gingerly, he picked it up. “What is this, Mrs. Trammel?” he asked sharply. “It is ginseng, is it not?”

Obelienne shook her head. “
Non, monsieur,
it is called
rénsh
n.
”

“Where do you get it?” The fawning fop was gone, and Kemble's voice was suddenly strident.

Obelienne drew back. “Covent Garden Market,” she said a little defensively. “A Chinaman named Ling sells it there. I trade him green peppercorns from Bangalore.”

Lightly, Camille touched him on the wrist. “What is it,
Monsieur
Kemble?”

Kemble turned to look at her, his brown eyes alight. “I do much of my shopping in Covent Garden,” he said. “I know Mr. Ling vaguely. This root is Chinese ginseng.”

“
Oui?
” Camille blushed. “Obelienne says it increases a man's—well, his…”

“His stamina,” Kemble supplied diplomatically. “Some call it ‘manroot,' and it costs a bloody fortune.” He turned to the cook again. “Have you been giving raw
rénsh
n
to Lord Rothewell, Mrs. Trammel?”

Obelienne drew herself up an inch. “
Oui,
of course,” she said. “Mr. Ling says it will keep him strong and potent. My husband says Rothewell must have a son. Now he has a wife. And I have the
rénsh
n.
After all, someone must keep him healthy,
non
?”

Kemble's knuckles had gone a little white where he clutched the root. “How do you give it to him, Mrs. Trammel?” he asked sharply. “And how often? Be precise, if you please.”

The cook looked suddenly frightened. “I…I put a little in the cassava,” she said. “Like gingerroot,
oui
? A little in this thing or that thing. Anything spicy which hides the taste. Otherwise, he is very difficult.”

“
Oui, oui,
we know that he is,” Camille reassured her. “How often, Obelienne? How long?”

She blinked her eyes rapidly. “But every day,
madame.
Since the early winter.” Her voice was thready. “On the boat,
mon Dieu,
the master, he was so sick. My husband, he feared the master would die. Why do you ask me this? Is this a bad thing,
monsieur
? Mr. Ling tells me it has powers to make Lord Rothewell strong. Has he lied to me?”

Mr. Kemble's eyes met Camille's. “Raw ginseng is harmless to most people,” he said quietly, “but too much of it can make one bleed more freely, it is thought.”

Obelienne gave a sharp cry, her hand going to her mouth. Her keys hit the stone floor with a discordant jangle. “
Mon Dieu
!” she rasped. “The bleeding? I…I have caused this?”

“No,” said Kemble firmly. “No, you did not cause it.” He set his hand on her arm and urged the cook back to her chair by the table. “You did not cause anything, Mrs. Trammel,” he said again, when she was seated. “Ginseng, in small amounts, it can actually settle dyspepsia. But too much can have an ill effect.”

Obelienne's eyes were pooling with tears. “I—I have poisoned him?” she whispered. “I have
poisoned
the master?”