Banquet of Lies Read online

“Well, he won’t get any Reine Claude jam there.” Gigi forced her voice to hold the hint of a laugh. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

  Dervish had been D. He’d stood right in front of her.

  And now he was off to Stockholm. To look for her, she’d guess. And to deal with her father’s body.

  The thought nearly felled her.

  Rob grinned around his last mouthful and then left.

  She lifted her hand to her heart and pressed a fist against it, as if that could somehow alleviate the pain.

  She had to get out. Escape from Edgars’ watchful, probing eyes that would surely notice her distress.

  She forced herself to stand straight. She’d try to go again to Goldfern, boldly. And let nothing stop her.

  She almost pulled off her cook’s apron and hat, and then stopped. She’d be more invisible with them on. The shadow man knew her as a wealthy young woman who mixed in the best circles. He would dismiss a cook out of hand.

  Edgars was still lurking in his wine cellar, and she climbed quietly up the back stairs and out into the access lane, pushing the door closed without making a sound.

  She felt a little of the pressure lift. For a few moments, she could think of her father and not watch her expression.

  She walked first to Chapel Street and looked down the road in the direction of Goldfern to make sure there was no one about in front. The street was empty.

  The wind was picking up, and she shivered as she walked back past the kitchen door and along to where the lane met the back alley. She peered around the wall to see the lay of the land. The men who had been arguing earlier were gone, but the rag-and-bone man’s cart and pony stood a few houses down, on the left. There was no sign of the man himself.

  Gigi decided she wouldn’t get a better chance.

  She ran the first part of the way, until she was at the cart. The pony nickered as she went by, and she ran a hand along her flank and gave her hindquarters a pat. A little cloud of dust rose up, and Gigi coughed.

  The cart was piled high with junk—pieces of wood, old pots and crockery, an old mattress with stuffing oozing out of it at one corner. It made a nice shield, blocking the view of anyone looking down the alley from Aldridge House. Like Edgars.

  She looked at Goldfern’s back door, and then farther along the alley. There was someone a little way down with his back to her, clearing the lane with a shovel.

  She bit her lip, unsure whether to risk being seen.

  The shoveler had stopped his work and leaned on his spade, lifting a hand to wipe his brow. He was muscular, on the stocky side. He could be the man who’d followed her the night she’d gone to Dervish’s house.

  She turned away at the thought, and came face-to-face with a stranger.

  * * *

  Jonathan thanked his luck he’d decided to walk his fury at Georges Bisset off rather than take a cab. If he’d been in a carriage, he wouldn’t have seen Madame Levéel as he turned onto Chapel Street. She was looking in the opposite direction, toward the park, and then she scurried down the alley that ran beside Aldridge House.

  He ran, uncaring of how his behavior might appear to his neighbors, but by the time he reached the alleyway, she was gone. Not back into the house, he guessed. Her movements had been far too furtive. As if she were checking the coast was clear.

  He’d guess she was in the alley behind Aldridge House, where Edgars had caught her the other night. There was something about the lane that ran along the rear of the houses in the street that kept drawing her back. He raced to it and looked right and left.

  There was a cart and horse to the right, and no one else in sight. To the left he could hear the murmur of voices just beyond where the narrow alley twisted sharply, obscuring the speakers from view.

  Aware time was wasting, he went left, walking as quietly as he could on the rough cobbles.

  “An’ I said to her, I said, ‘Best keep your wits about you, my girl, because the young master’s got his eye on you and no mistake.’ ”

  “ ’E’s had ’is eye on a few of ’em over the years. Look where it’s got ’em.”

  “Out on the street with a babe they can’t afford, is what.”

  Jonathan rounded the corner and found two women, ruddy-cheeked and plump, standing in the lane. Each seemed to have come from one of the open doors on opposite sides of the way.

  Sir Ingleton’s, a few doors down on Chapel Street from Aldridge House, he guessed, and Lord Matherton’s from South Street.

  “Wha— ?” The woman from Sir Ingleton’s side gave him a quick look and, with a squawk, dived back behind her door and slammed it shut.

  The other stood staring at him.

  “You talking about Sir Ingleton’s son, Henry?” he surprised himself by asking her.

  “We don’t mean no ’arm, my lord.” But her eyes said different. Said she wasn’t sorry about the way they’d been talking.

  “Sounds like Henry means some harm, though. Perhaps I should have a word.”

  “Whatever you think is right, my lord.” She crossed her arms over her impressive bosom, all but sneering.

  He wondered if he didn’t look lordly enough, still had too much the air of the second son about him. Sneering at him seemed to be somewhat of a theme at the moment.

  He raised a brow at her, surprising her enough that she let her arms drop to her sides.

  “Beg your pardon, my lord,” she mumbled, neck and chest red. “Only”—she flicked him a quick look as she edged to her own door—“I’m tired of seeing good girls dragged down. This ain’t foreign parts. It’s London. But they treat us like we’re their har-reem or summat.”

  “Did a woman come by here, cook’s apron on?” he asked before she could take another step.

  “No.” She answered without thought, then narrowed her eyes. “You ain’t chasing your cook down the alley, are you?”

  Well, yes he was. But not like she meant. Well, not entirely.

  “I’ll talk to Henry. I think you’ll find he might listen to me. And if he doesn’t and the girl gets into trouble, send a note round. I’m Lord Aldridge.”

  “I know who you are, my lord.” She gave a suspicious sniff, then slammed the door on him.

  He turned and went back the way he’d come, and as he rounded the corner, he saw Madame Levéel standing next to the pony, a large flowerpot in each hand, talking to the rag-and-bone man.

  When she saw him her eyes went wide, and she turned away, speaking to the old trader for a moment longer before facing him again.

  He had missed his opportunity to see what drew her back here time and again, and frustration licked at him like a hungry fire as he approached her.

  “My lord.” She lowered her eyes, and he noticed a pink stain on her cheeks. “Au revoir, Mr. Rice. Thank you for the pots.” She gave a final nod to the old man and he doffed his cap to her, but his eyes were on Jonathan, missing nothing.

  “I’ll carry those for you,” Jonathan said, staring straight back at the trader. He took the pots from her, and Mr. Rice looked away before disappearing around the back of his cart. “What are they for?”

  “Some herbs and flowers, to brighten the wall outside my room.” She still had her eyes averted, and she was walking a step away from him despite the narrow alley, as if to ensure they did not accidentally touch.

  Something wild and dangerous rose up in his chest, and as they took the turn left into the alley down the side of Aldridge House, he deliberately began encroaching on the space she’d put between them, until she stopped and pressed herself up against the wall. He stood close enough to feel her breath on his face.

  Now, at last, she looked him in the eye again.

  “Just what is it you think I’m going to do to you?” He tried to keep his voice calm, but there was an edge he couldn’t suppress. “What is it everyone thinks I’m going to do?”

  “Everyone?” Her body went stiff, still plastered up against the stone wall.

  He brushe
d that away. “You. What do you think I’m going to do? Everyone else can go to the devil.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “You mean Edgars.”

  “We’ll come back to him. Just answer me.”

  “It isn’t what you’re going to do to me.” She looked straight at him, body tense as if steeling herself. “I’m not afraid of you. But you’re a dangerous complication.”

  There was so much more to it. It was in her eyes, in her expression, but he thought she was telling the truth.

  “Dangerous how?” He waited while she looked away, as if the answer would come to her from Chapel Street.

  “I do not want to answer you,” she whispered. “I’ll regret it if I do.”

  He leaned closer to her, until his legs were brushing her skirts and the pots he held rested against the wall on either side of her. “Take a chance, madame. Tell me.”

  She gave a twisted smile. “I’ve taken more chances these last few weeks than I have ever taken before. I don’t need to take another.”

  They were close enough that all he needed to do was lean forward an inch and their lips would touch. The last time he’d given in to the need to feel her under his hands, he’d lost the opportunity to find the truth. He clutched the pots harder, fighting the urge to set them down and pull her even closer.

  “Chances like looking through the papers in my study?” he made himself ask instead.

  She closed her eyes. “Yes. Chances like that.”

  “Who is forcing you to do this? What are they after? I don’t keep any important papers lying on my desk. If they thought you could get any privileged information from me, they’re mistaken.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “Forcing me?” She frowned. “What privileged information?”

  He suddenly remembered Bisset sneering at him, daring him to call in the Alien Office, as cool as could be. Perhaps it hadn’t been a bluff.

  “You aren’t after information on one of the projects I’m involved in.” He meant to ask it as a question, but it came out slowly, a statement of fact.

  She shook her head.

  “And you’re not going to tell me what you were doing?”

  She shook her head again.

  “If you tell me, I can help you.”

  She reached up a hand between them, and her fingers hovered, just near his chest, without touching him. “I don’t know that you can. That it is wise . . .”

  The kitchen door slammed open, caught by the wind, and Jonathan nearly dropped the pots.

  She eeled under of the cage of his arms, and when he straightened and turned, she stood demure, eyes downcast, more than an arm stretch away.

  “Your lordship?” It was Harry. He looked between them with no suspicion, just working out what to do, a genuine smile on his face. He stepped forward and tugged the pots out of Jonathan’s hands.

  “Pots for outside my room,” Madame Levéel told him. “If you could go round the side and put them there?”

  Harry gave a nod and disappeared around the corner, whistling cheerfully.

  “This isn’t finished.” He would not keep skulking, jumping with guilt whenever someone came near them.

  “I know.” She fiddled with her apron. “When it is finished, I hope you’ll find it in you to forgive me.”

  “Forgive you for what?” he asked, but her lips were drawn tight together, and she was glaring at the kitchen door.

  Edgars stood watching them. The look he sent Madame Levéel was shuttered, and it made Jonathan uneasy.

  “Your lordship.” He gave a little bow without meeting Jonathan’s eyes.

  “Thank you for carrying the pots for me.” Madame Levéel drew herself up and marched to the door, forcing Edgars to step aside to get out of her way.

  “I would like to talk to you after dinner tonight, Cook,” Jonathan told her, with no give in his tone.

  She paused in the doorway and looked back at him. Gave a brief nod, and disappeared amid the fragrant scent of roasting lamb and rosemary.

  Edgars didn’t follow her, standing, unsure, on the threshold. “You aren’t coming in this way, my lord?” he asked in a sort of hushed horror.

  “The world won’t come to an end if I do, but no, I’ll go round the front.”

  Edgars nodded, relaxing his stiff pose a little, and drew back into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

  Which would make it the second kitchen door slammed in his face today alone. And just think, he could have been sitting in his study, reading reports.

  Jonathan threw back his head and laughed.

  23

  Tonight, when Aldridge called her in after dinner, she would tell him the truth.

  Gigi took her carving knife and began to slice the lamb, pink and tender.

  Her reasons for not doing so already were good. She had spent the last nine years being trained to say nothing to anyone, and to understand that some secrets should never be told. That only those who asked for their help could be given or sent the information they were seeking; that to give it to anyone else could endanger lives and ruin nations.

  But no one could blame her for seeking aid in these circumstances. How could they?

  With Dervish gone, she had no way of knowing who to trust, and the time was approaching when the letter would lose its importance because it was not in the right hands and thought lost, and every sacrifice would have been for nothing.

  She would not let that happen. Her father deserved more than that.

  She laid the slices of lamb in a fan around the tower of potato gratin in the center of the plate. There were minted peas in a beautiful Chinese bowl and honey-glazed carrots roasted with tarragon.

  “I can’t even think, that smells so nice,” Babs said, coming in from outside, a coal bucket in hand.

  Rob lifted the tray. “At least you can knock off now, and ’ave some.” He tipped his head in her direction. “Mind Babs only has her share, Cook.”

  Babs was washing at the sink, and Gigi saw the moment when she decided to flick water at Rob.

  “If,” she said, standing directly in front of Rob, shielding him, “my food gets even one drop of water on it”—she stared Babs down—“the person responsible will have bread for dinner.”

  Babs ducked her head. “Sorry, Cook.”

  “All right.” She shooed Rob up the stairs and turned back to the table. Mavis was standing at the rear stairs, and the look on her face made Gigi go cold.

  “What is it, Mavis?”

  “I done a wrong thing.” She looked down and twisted her apron like it was a chicken’s neck.

  “We all do the wrong thing now and then.” Gigi walked toward her. The girl’s fear was palpable, and she knew that gut-wrenching feeling all too well. She drew Mavis away from the stairs and led her to a chair.

  The girl collapsed.

  “What is it, Mae?” Babs crouched down beside her, and when she didn’t answer, looked up at Gigi, a little frown of worry on her broad, open face. “I’ll get Iris.”

  Gigi nodded. Iris had taken Mavis under her wing from the start. If anyone could get the story out, it was her. Babs rose and disappeared up the stairs, and Gigi poured some tea, loading the cup with sugar.

  “I’m sure whatever it is, we can fix it, Mavis. You don’t need to worry so.” She pressed the cup into Mavis’s hands and rubbed her shoulder.

  “I broke his lordship’s wooden box, the little one on his chest of drawers, while I were putting away his laundry.” She shuddered out a sob. “Cracked, it did. Right down the middle, split right open, and now it’s s . . . s . . . smashed.” She shook, her chest heaving.

  “It was an accident, Mavis. Lord Aldridge will understand.”

  She raised red-rimmed, puffy eyes to Gigi’s face. “Mr. Edgars don’t. He were angry.” She looked toward the rear stairs. “He sent me down while he puts things to rights. But the box can’t be put to rights. There’s no savin’ it.”

  Babs came down the stairs from the hall with Iris in tow, just as E
dgars came down the rear stairs on the opposite side of the kitchen.

  He’d worked himself into a high rage, and Gigi thought of Rumplestiltskin again as he stomped down the last few steps.

  “You are a clumsy, ham-fisted waster.” The finger he pointed at Mavis shook. “Now I have to explain to Lord Aldridge what’s happened to his box.”

  And Lord Aldridge wasn’t exactly pleased with him at the moment. Edgars was cornered and, like any wounded animal with no place to go, he was lashing out.

  Gigi might have felt some sympathy, as she was partly responsible for his predicament, if the person he’d been lashing out at wasn’t the most defenseless person in the house. She put both hands on Mavis’s shoulders and drew herself up. “I’ll explain to his lordship. It was an accident.”

  Edgars moved his gaze slowly from Mavis to her, and he dropped his arm. “I am quite capable of doing my own job, Cook. And I’ll thank you not to interfere in it.” He said each word through clenched teeth.

  “If you were interfering with Mavis as you’ve been interfering with the rest of us all day, you’re probably the reason she knocked that box, because I’ve never known her to be clumsy before.” Iris spoke into the dead, cold silence of the room.

  Babs gasped audibly at her nerve, and Edgars took a step back, as if he’d been struck.

  “That is enough of undermining me. Enough cheek out of all of you.” He pointed his finger at Mavis again. “You’re sacked, and you can thank your friends for that. And Iris, one more bit of cheek from you, and you’re out, too.”

  He tugged hard on his waistcoat and walked past them to the main stairs. “Now excuse me, while I go and explain to his lordship that the antique box he inherited from his mother is smashed beyond repair.”

  Iris and Babs shuffled out of his way as if he were contagious, and they stood in silence until he was gone.

  Gigi knew she must look like the others. Completely shocked.

  “Mavis, I’m so sorry,” Iris whispered. “I should’ve kept me mouth shut—”

  “No.” Gigi sighed. “It was me. Offering to speak to his lordship like Edgars couldn’t do the job. I thought I’d be doing him a favor, but he thought I was saying he wasn’t up to it.”