Banquet of Lies Page 12

He crossed his arms over his chest, breathing evenly but a little hard, as if he’d been running, and she tensed.

  He looked dangerous.

  Not dangerous like the men she’d met in Vienna and Russia sometimes did, with that cruel, blatantly sexual interest, although there was definitely heat in his gaze.

  He looked as if he could move faster than she could run, could hold her with laughable ease, and was considering doing just that.

  “Who are you, really?” He spoke quite normally.

  “I’m the woman who cooks for you, Lord Aldridge.” She was so tempted to tell him the truth—but there was more at stake than making her life easier.

  And why had he chased her down? Run all the way from the Crowders’ down South Audley to make it here before her? What did it matter to him?

  “You’re very good at word games.” His voice dipped a little lower, and he took a step toward her, lifted a hand to her ear, skimming her diamond earring before tracing higher.

  At the touch of his hot fingertip on the cold curve of her ear, she drew in a quick breath.

  He paused, made a sound at the back of his throat, and pulled her close.

  She didn’t resist. She didn’t understand it—how they could be close to arguing one moment, tension thick between them, and then suddenly pressed against each other. But she had no inclination to fight it.

  She leaned in, rested her head against the scratchy wool of his coat, closed her eyes and let him prop her up with his warmth and the muscled strength of his body. Breathed him in.

  She had never been in such an intimate position with a man, close enough to smell the wool of his coat, the warm sandalwood of his soap.

  She lifted her hands and slid them under the lapels of his coat, burrowed a little closer, and his arms came up around her to grip her tighter, so she was completely encircled.

  “I’m afraid to ask you questions, and I’ve never been afraid to do anything before.” His voice was a rumble against her temple, a vibration she felt deep in her chest.

  “What are you afraid of?” she whispered.

  “That you’ll run, like you did tonight. But not home. Away somewhere, where I won’t find you again.”

  She sighed. Then pulled back. “You may feel differently one day. Might wish I would disappear. But I’m not going anywhere for the moment, my lord.”

  “No,” he said. “You’re not.” And then he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers.

  * * *

  Jonathan deepened the kiss, ignoring the voice in his head that warned him not to do this.

  He should be asking questions, trying to find out why his cook was at a ball she had no business attending—but he was honest with himself.

  He didn’t care if she lied her way into a thousand balls. He only cared that she stood wrapped around him, kissing him back with shy, delightful eagerness.

  Durnham would say he should care. That she could be a French spy, gathering information that would harm England’s cause . . .

  Hell!

  He jerked back, taking them both by surprise, and she stood quiet and pliant in his arms for another beat of his heart before she drew away.

  At that moment, the rain started falling again. A light, steady patter on the stone cobbles around them.

  “Were you at the Crowders’ tonight to cause some mischief?” He blinked the raindrops from his eyes.

  “Pardon?” She stared at him, a frown creasing her forehead.

  “To disrupt something, or eavesdrop?”

  “No.” She gave him a look as cool and controlled as it had been surprised and hurt only a moment before.

  She seemed otherworldly, a figure from a fairy tale in her deeply hooded cloak, with the sparkle of rain dancing around her, catching the light.

  “You just wanted to go to the ball?” Jonathan couldn’t help the amusement in his voice as he thought of the doorman, calling her Cinderella.

  Her head jerked up.

  He took a physical step back at the snapping anger in her eyes.

  “You think this is a jest?” She tilted her head to look him directly in the eye. “This is not a jest.”

  “I don’t know what it is. Why don’t you tell me?” He didn’t keep the anger at her lack of trust from his voice—all he wanted was for her to shed a little light from her hiding place in the shadows.

  She stood taller. “I will. I will tell you, but not now. When I can, I promise you will be the first to know.”

  “What if I tell you that isn’t enough?”

  She gave a disgusted shake of her head and spun on her heel. She had almost reached the side alley before he had the wit to move.

  “Wait.” In two strides he had his hand on her shoulder.

  He couldn’t see her face well here, and he pushed back her hood. “Why do I keep getting the sense that I know you?”

  She closed her eyes. Drew a deep breath. “You don’t.”

  He didn’t want to let her go, but she was pulling away, and he reluctantly released his hold on her though every instinct screamed at him to hang on.

  He wasn’t going to turn her in. He knew that. Whether she told him anything or not.

  Which meant she would be with him a little longer. He had some time.

  He turned and took a step away.

  “Where are you going?” she asked on a sigh of exasperation, and he wanted to laugh despite the rain running down the back of his neck.

  She was watching him, hands on hips and, if he wasn’t mistaken, impatience in every line.

  “Going in by the front door.” He didn’t add, like you always tell me to, but her lips twitched as if he had.

  She moved toward him, and he went still at the look on her face. She lifted a hand to his cheek, her glove touching his skin lightly. “Thank you.”

  She didn’t need to say for what. They both knew he could have made this a lot harder, forced her to offer some explanation.

  He caught her wrist and for a moment they were standing close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips, see the way the raindrops clung to her eyelashes.

  She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. Then she turned and walked away.

  * * *

  The faint scent of lamb-and-artichoke stew, overlaid by the buttery, tangy scent of the crepes spread with crème au citron she’d made for dessert, enveloped her as she closed the kitchen door behind her.

  She fought to slot the heavy key in the lock, still thinking of Aldridge. The way the rain left his hair curling along his forehead. The touch of his lips against hers. The solid, taut strength of his body.

  She went still at the scrape of a chair behind her.

  “I’d appreciate it if you would let me know when you’re taking the key, Cook. I am responsible for locking up in this house.”

  She turned to face Edgars and frowned a little at the strange way he was staring at her. “Certainly. I didn’t want to be locked out, because I didn’t know how late I’d be.”

  “Mrs. Rogers, the cook before you, never went out once in all the years she worked here. Sometimes not even on her actual days off.”

  Gigi kept the irritation prickling under her skin under control as she walked down the stairs. “I am not Mrs. Rogers.” She gave a shrug.

  “No. You most certainly are not.”

  Still that strange, considering look.

  She couldn’t let this bother her. Edgars had some fixed idea of how cooks comported themselves. Some standard according to which she was obviously failing, yet what had she really done but go about her private business?

  “Mr. Edgars, is his lordship unhappy with my work?” She didn’t mean for it to come out quite so sharply.

  Edgars said nothing.

  “Has any meal been missed, or late, or inferior in any way?”

  Above her, the front door opened, and she wondered why it had taken Aldridge so long to come inside.

  Could he have walked down the street to check on Goldfern first? Mak
e sure all was well since the burglary?

  Edgars’ attention shifted from her to upstairs; he tipped his head back, listening.

  “I’m assuming by your silence not.” She raised a hand to the neck of her cloak to undo the tie, and stopped herself just in time, horror at the thought of Edgars seeing her ball gown making her momentarily light-headed.

  Edgars glanced at her. “You’ll know immediately if your performance of your duties isn’t up to scratch, madam.” He turned smartly and ran lightly up the stairs to the hallway.

  The way he’d looked at her . . .

  With trembling, shaking fingers, Gigi reached up to her ears, touched the earrings dangling from them. Two-carat diamonds with a lustrous pearl hanging below.

  Earrings no cook would ever own.

  19

  Jonathan stood in the small withdrawing room off Durnham’s hallway, waiting for the butler to tell him if Durnham was at home, and forced his hands to unclench.

  Rocking back on his heels, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared out the window at the rain-washed, windblown street.

  He was still angry with Edgars, even though two days had passed. His anger had been just beneath the surface with every interaction he’d had with his butler since his insinuations of a tryst with Madame Levéel. And last night and this morning, Edgars had behaved in a tight, affronted manner, which could only be the result of both him and Madame Levéel coming in within minutes of each other again after Lady Crowder’s ball.

  And even though it annoyed him beyond belief, edging his anger sharper, he felt a little splinter of contrition. Because even though Edgars was completely out of bounds regarding his relationship with Madame Levéel, Jonathan couldn’t help the flash of white heat that must have shown in his eyes when Edgars had voiced his suspicions.

  The blood had drained from Edgars’ face when he’d seen it.

  Now that Jonathan had had time to think of it—and he’d thought about it a little too much—how Edgars imagined that he’d tumbled his cook in a garden without getting any grass stains on himself was an interesting puzzle.

  He’d spent yesterday with his estate manager, a long-standing appointment he couldn’t change, and had found his thoughts turning the problem over, trying to solve it, all too often.

  Those thoughts had recently been replaced by the feel of her against him, the touch of her lips. The sensation of her glove on his cheek, and the look in her eyes before she’d run to the kitchen door.

  He drew in a deep, long breath. Began to move around the room to distract himself.

  One thing Edgars had done was remind him that he did have a trail to follow where his cook was concerned. The celebrated Georges Bisset himself had written her reference letter. And if the drunk and disorderly Wittaker would let Jonathan speak with Bisset, he would see what he could find out about her.

  “My lord, Lord Durnham invites you to join him in the library.” Durnham’s butler was at the door, and Jonathan turned away from the window and followed him down the hall.

  He’d been to Durnham’s house a few times before, back when Gerald was still alive and had been one of Durnham’s close friends.

  The place, especially the library, looked a little different. There were subtle changes, touches of elegance and taste where it had once been merely utilitarian.

  Durnham was seated in one of several chairs cozily arranged around the warm, friendly glow of the fireplace, and he stood when Jonathan came in. “I should have sent you a note the day before yesterday, or yesterday at least, Aldridge. I’m sorry I didn’t. There was so much happening I forgot about it.”

  “A note about Dervish, you mean?” Jonathan sat opposite him on an old leather armchair that was more comfortable than it looked.

  Durnham nodded. “I’ve taken over some of the projects he’s working on while he’s away.”

  “You obviously have strong evidence that Miss Barrington is in Lapland, then?”

  Durnham steepled his fingers under his chin. “Not really. Frobisher stressed it was only a rumor he’d heard, that it wasn’t confirmed, but Dervish wants it to be true so badly, there was no stopping him.”

  “He wants the letter?”

  Durnham tapped his fingers together, his eyes sharp and intelligent above them. “Dervish owes a debt to Giselle Barrington’s mother. He’s been uncomfortable with the favors we’ve called on Barrington to grant us over the years, because he’s always been aware Giselle was with her father, and we were asking him to put them both in danger. Barrington’s death has hit him hard. He feels guilty and responsible.”

  “He was walking the streets looking for Miss Barrington the day before yesterday,” Jonathan said. “I expect having a destination and some hope of finding her is a relief to him.”

  “Dervish’s butler said you paid a visit.” Durnham quirked his lips.

  Jonathan grinned. “Ratted on me, did he?” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I actually considered punching him to get into that study.”

  “He conveyed the impression that he thought you were going to. I think he feels lucky not to have a broken nose.” Durnham leaned forward. “What were you after?”

  “A note I saw someone drop off at Dervish’s the night before last. I was coming to see him about Barrington’s lawyer and watched the note being delivered. When the messenger slipped away, a thug popped up out of nowhere and followed him.”

  Jonathan never knew he had such a talent for lying.

  Perhaps it was because he was sufficiently motivated. And because most of his story was true. There was no way he was going to admit to knowing who the messenger had been, though.

  “I followed them both but lost them in the back alleys. I returned to Dervish’s house to warn him he was being watched, and to make sure he understood the note was important, only to find out he wasn’t even there. Hadn’t even been there when the note was delivered.”

  “That’s very interesting.” Durnham lost his amused look and frowned. “I suppose his butler has already sent the note on to him, so all we can do is wait until Dervish lets us know what it says. And I think I’ll have Dervish’s house watched.”

  “Not with Foreign Office men,” Jonathan said sharply.

  “No.” Durnham shook his head. “I don’t trust anyone there, either, not until we know who killed Barrington. My wife has connections we can use. Very discreet watchers.”

  “Your wife?” Jonathan looked at him in astonishment. Lady Durnham had previously been Miss Charlotte Raven, ward of Lady Howe and a great society catch.

  “Yes.” Durnham didn’t explain any further. “Now, you wanted to see Dervish about Barrington’s lawyer. Anything I can help with?”

  “There is.” Jonathan thought back to his meeting with Mr. Greenway. “The break-in meant something to the lawyer. He reacted immediately. But Dervish told me not to let him know Barrington was dead, and I felt that if I could have told him, he might have been more open with me. There may be some instructions in place from Barrington that could help us.

  “And aside from that, Greenway sent the letters the burglar seems to have been after to Barrington’s address in Stockholm, so if possible, Thornton or Dervish himself needs to fetch them, see if there is any clue amongst them as to where Miss Barrington could be.”

  “I’ll visit Greenway myself and tell him the circumstances of Barrington’s death, and the need to keep it quiet for now. If Barrington set up a safe house for his daughter, or if Greenway has any idea where she is and it’s not in Lapland, we need to know.”

  “You don’t think she is in Lapland, do you?” Jonathan stood, his voice soft.

  Durnham hesitated. “I want to. But she’s a young woman alone in a foreign country. I don’t think she could have gotten far, and if we haven’t found her, I can only imagine it’s because she’s nowhere to be found.”

  “Not all young women are helpless society misses,” a woman said from the doorway. The cool, low voice definitely did no
t belong to a helpless society miss. Jonathan turned and bowed as Lady Durnham walked into the room. She was as beautiful, as untouchable, as an ice princess. It was how he’d always seen her before. But when she looked at Durnham, he realized he’d been mistaken. There was liquid heat in her gaze.

  “Daniel told me about Giselle Barrington’s upbringing, and she sounds as if she could be quite resourceful if the occasion arose.”

  It took Jonathan a moment to realize she was talking about Dervish, when she’d said “Daniel.” He hadn’t realized Dervish was on quite such intimate terms with the Durnham household.

  Lady Durnham reached them and smiled at him, and it was such a warm, open smile, he wondered how he’d ever thought her cold. “Good morning, Lord Aldridge.”

  She cast another quick look at her husband. “There is someone from the Foreign Office waiting for you. I told Jeffreys I’d deliver the message, and that he could send him through. A Mr. Frobisher.”

  Jonathan recognized the name of the helpful informant who’d sent Dervish off to Sweden half-cocked. He looked expectantly at the doorway.

  A man stepped through it, beautifully turned out, with a nervous tension about him. His eyes flicked a round the room, as if assessing its value.

  Frobisher was also angry, although he tried to hide it. His step was a touch too stiff, and his lips tightened at the sight of Jonathan, then curled up into a sneer at Lady Durnham.

  “You’ve just come from the consulate in Sweden, Mr. Frobisher?” Lady Durnham watched him with the cool look Jonathan was used to seeing at society balls.

  “I arrived back yesterday morning.” Frobisher’s smile was forced. He turned to Durnham, a muscle jumping under his eye. “I have the document you asked for, my lord.” He didn’t offer the document up and turned his back slightly to Lady Durnham, excluding her from their circle.

  Durnham’s eyes narrowed and Lady Durnham stepped to his side. She smiled that summer smile at Jonathan again. “Perhaps you can walk me to the door, Lord Aldridge? I must be going, I’m afraid. I have a busy day.” She gave Frobisher a nod, let her husband take her gloved hand and kiss it.