15. Lizzy
Lizzy
Igot Max settled in Darcy’s bedroom and couldn’t help but pause.
It was strange to be in his space, and I took a good look.
His room was tidy and smelling of soap, beds made, windows open, clothes put away.
This manor house was sprawling but was still probably smaller than even, say, the east wing or whatever of Pemberley, his manor house.
He also probably had staff to do everything for him, but I liked that he respected where he stayed.
I skipped down the stairs, excited to see how Darcy’s cooking was going.
I bumped into Harry coming in from outside.
My body deflated, disappointed. Maybe because I was looking forward to talking to Darcy, just the two of us?
When I entered the kitchen, Harry and his camera close behind, Darcy was vigorously scrubbing the dirty pots, soapy water splashing all over the kitchen island.
“This is for the birds.” Darcy caught sight of Harry, swore under his breath, and raised his eyes to heaven.
I thought I could venture with fair accuracy that this guy hadn’t done too much washing up in his near past. There were a lot of elbows and water and swearing. But as with upstairs, where he’d left his room tidy, at least he was not leaving the dishes for Trystan.
He looked up, still overwhelmed and not pretending, despite the camera. “It’s all done and in the oven.” He attacked another pot, suds leaking onto the kitchen floor.
“Awesome,” I replied, a little discomforted by his change in demeanor.
I sniffed. “What’s that smell?” I asked. An earthy odor filled the air. More than earthy—it smelled off. I wrinkled my nose. Something wasn’t right.
“Must be the cheese,” he said, wiping up the floor. “Or the truffles.”
The randomness of his answer made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. This guy had no clue what ingredients smelled like. “But there were no truffles. And I know Stilton smells strongly, but what I’m getting is not a Stilton smell.”
“Then it must be burning?”
Urgency ripped through my torso, swift and sharp. “It’s not a burning smell.”
Whirling away from the sink, he shoved his hands into the oven mitts, lunged for the oven door, and yanked it open.
“What are you doing?” I asked, panicked, flying to his side. “Checking the dish?”
“I’m pulling it out. It’s burning.”
I moved closer. “No, don’t pull it out. It won’t be cooked.”
“Watch out, watch out!” He pulled the chicken out of the steaming oven.
I raised my hands and backed away. “It’s not burning. It hasn’t been in long enough. Put it back in.”
“Out of the way, I said! Out of the way!”
What a rude prat. With a tense face, he carried the tray over to the counter and set it down.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, furious. “It can’t be cooked yet. Have you gone completely bonkers?”
Ignoring my question, he pulled off his oven mitts and rudely raised a finger. “Shh. I need to make a call to a friend.” He pressed a button on his phone.
“What the— No, you shush,” I hissed, fully aware of the camera. “Darcy, this is not social time. Get off the phone. We need to talk about this.” My chest was about to explode with fury.
“Mr. Wainwright,” came the voice from Darcy’s speakerphone. Was his friend being ironic?
“Tom, remember that family chicken dish you make? With the truffles and cheese and heart nuts?”
Darcy pointed at his phone, then the pad and pencil nearby, like I was his assistant and supposed to take notes. Seriously, he’d never taken his own notes before? I shoved the pad closer to him to indicate he should write this down. He looked peeved.
“Yessss,” his friend Tom said on speaker, clearly uncertain where this was going.
“I’m away for the weekend, and I’ve made the dish, but it’s smelling a bit.”
“But, sir, Chicken Wainwright is tricky to make,” his friend Tom replied, with a definite note of panic in his voice.
I sucked in a breath. Sir? Was that a nickname?
Darcy pointedly did not look up at me. Shit. Darcy hadn’t made this dish before.
“What do you think is smelling, Tom?”
“What sort of smell is it?”
“Kind of…rancid.”
“Maybe the cheese is off? I can’t say for certain. Sorry, sir.”
“We had to use Stilton.”
“No, I wouldn’t use Stilton. By the way, Mr. Wainwright, I had planned a pork roulade for when you get home Sunday night. Would that be acceptable?”
Why was his “friend” calling him Mr. Wainwright? And why was he speaking so formally? A flash of red moved out of the corner of my eye—the cameraman. I held a panicked breath. This interaction was not something I wanted to be filmed.
“Sorry I don’t have time to think about dinner right now,” Darcy murmured, his eyes flicking away. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“Very good, sir. Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful about the chicken dish.”
Darcy rang off and put his phone back in his pocket.
I eyed him suspiciously. “Wait, wait, wait. Who is this Tom?”
“A. Friend.” His tone was defensive, and he bit the inside of his cheek.
“Oh my God, did you think I came down in the last rainfall?” I rolled my head back.
“A friend who has a pork roulade planned for your return. A friend who calls you ‘sir’ and ‘Mr. Wainwright.’ I’m going to take a wild guess and say, ah, let’s see…
” I tapped my lips. “Tom is your personal chef. I thought you said this was an old family recipe?”
“It is an old family recipe.”
“One your family chef makes.”
He gave me a flip wave. “Irrelevant. Water under the bridge. Let’s move on. Okay, it might smell a little, but believe me, this dish is to die for.”