Chapter 6
The key to the room next to the library was nowhere to be found.
‘Damn!’
Tilly gasped and threw her hands over her mouth. Swearing shocked her.
‘I can’t find my key. Have you seen it, Tilly. Have you stored it neatly away,’ said Lochranza.
She ran her fingers through her hair and tried hard to think of where she might have mislaid it. Did I tuck it down my cleavage? No. She was sure she had tucked it down inside a fold in her fan. The fan had been with her most of the night – except…
Ethan MacKinnon had been extremely charming, and it had come as no surprise to her that when he’d paid her court, every young lady present had eyed her with undisguised envy.
The orangery had been cooler than the ballroom and at his suggestion they had gone out there. The music had followed them out. She’d allowed him to put his arms around her and they’d danced, out of sight of chaperone and everyone else.
She’d asked him about Virginia and what the new country of America was like. He’d told her of blue mountains, thick forests and natives with reddish brown skins, deep-set eyes and hair as black as coal.
She’d pressed him about the war and his part in it. What side was he on? Who did he expect to win? Why were the French involved and was it true that he spied for the king?
He’d laughed and said there was a price to pay in exchange. ‘A kiss,’ he’d said. ‘And an embrace in the darkness out there.’
He’d jerked his handsome head at the terrace where earlier he had spent time with her uncle.
His suggestion both intrigued and annoyed her. What did he take her for? What ruinous gossip – unsubstantiated, of course – had reached his charming ears?
She’d come down on the side of caution – just. ‘Young ladies do not venture into the darkness with men they barely know.’
A mischievous look had come to his eyes. ‘I’m not asking them. They wouldn’t dare. But you would. You would dare.’
She had dared. Her face warmed at the thought of his kiss. The feel of it lingered.
Mrs Mackintosh calling from the orangery had ended the moment.
‘I have to go.’
‘Of course you do.’
The light was behind him. He was a brooding presence and she felt as though she was falling into him like she might fall into darkness.
He had not declared undying love – not unusual after such a short moment. Neither had he professed a desire to call on her, the norm after such an intimacy between gentlemen and young ladies.
The key! His arms around her, folding her hands against her back, the fan dangling from one of them. It had to be him. Worse than that it meant that he knew she’d overheard everything. So had her uncle.
‘Lord MacKinnon’s still here,’ Tilly declared breathlessly, her cheeks colouring up just mentioning his name. It was the servants’ habit to peer through the crack in a door so they could assess the guests without being seen. Ethan would have stirred them all.
‘Is he indeed,’ Lochranza said grimly. She would have liked to confront him about the key, but held back, her jaw aching with the effort of staying silent. She would not admit to having had the key – not to him or to her uncle.
Thanks to Ethan MacKinnon her intention to visit Mrs Wainwright had not happened. She voiced her intention to see the poor woman right away.
‘Fetch my cloak. I take it Molly Carpenter has found some food for Mrs Wainwright and her children?’
Molly Carpenter worked in the kitchen and was best friends with her maid, Tilly.
Tilly’s pink face took on an apologetic look. ‘Monsieur was still there.’
Lochranza frowned. The French chef had been brought in specifically to cater for last night’s ball. It surprised her that he was still there and that he had ordered that no food should be taken from the kitchen.
‘He said he would count everything. Nobody was to touch anything.’
Lochranza pulled a look of disbelief. ‘He sounds a brave man. I told Cook to distribute the food. I’m surprised he overruled her. I certainly wouldn’t, but there, let’s do what must be done. Get me my cloak.’
* * *
Heads popped up when Lochranza breezed into the kitchen, the smell of violets and the luxury of velvet entering with her.
Mrs Carpenter, the cook, was scolding a kitchen maid for dropping a custard, the sloppy remains lying thickly on the brick red tiles. ‘You stupid girl. Now clear it up this instant… and don’t be long about it. That’s a penny out of your wages, my girl…’
‘Stupid girl!’
The girl reeled from the slap of a meaty hand. She burst into tears.
Monsieur was an excellent chef with a vile temper.
‘Get this filthy creature out of here. Send her back to the gutter where she belongs…’
Lochranza wasn’t sure whether the chef had not noticed her and was suddenly remorseful about hitting the girl or had noticed her and the slap was a display for her benefit.
She moved quickly to place herself between the chef and the girl, who she addressed with kindness. ‘Grace! It is Grace, isn’t it?’
One hand covering the red hand mark on her cheek, the girl nodded and even managed a curtsey. ‘Yes, my lady.’
The chef bowed lower than anyone, his expression servile though scheming. ‘My lady.’
‘Your name?’
‘Henri Sevres. At your service, my lady.’ Again, the grovelling bow. This man, she decided, made a habit of being overly deferential to his superiors and downright bullying to those beneath him.
Lochranza stiffened. The palms of her hands itched with the urge to smack his fat pink face. ‘Henri Sevres. A French name. Why aren’t you in prison?’
His expression was one of surprise blighted by fear. ‘Madame… My lady… I do not know what you mean…’
‘You’re French. We are currently at war with the French. So why are you here? Are you a spy?’
For a moment, she thought he was going to fall at her feet, protesting his innocence.
‘No! Indeed not, my lady. I am not a spy…’
‘And you’re not French either.’
The decision whether to lie or tell the truth fought a battle that somehow diminished the man, making him seem smaller and far less confident than he had been.
‘I am Belgian, my lady. I studied in Paris, but I am Belgian.’
‘I see. French chefs are in short supply at present – for obvious reasons, so you thought it a good idea to offer your services as a French chef seeing as Belgium does not have a very exalted reputation for its cuisine.’
The chef now looked totally defeated, his head bowed and a worried look in his eyes.
Around them, kitchen staff, footmen, maids and even the butler continued with their work, their ears pricked, keen to know what would happen next.
‘Monsieur Sevres. Do you have any pies, joints, puddings and cakes left over from last night?’
‘Yes, we do, but—’
‘I need you to make up a food basket – no, not a basket. Three baskets. You will carry one, my maid Tilly will carry another, and Grace can carry the third. She needs the fresh air. Do you have a cheese?’
His mouth gaped.
‘Yes. I’m sure you do,’ she stated in a dismissive fashion. ‘I will carry the cheese. Wrap it up in a muslin cloth. A large piece of cheese. A large muslin cloth.’
* * *
The trio of servants stepping out behind her, Lochranza exited the kitchen door and took the path that led to Mrs Wainwright’s cottage, a self-satisfied smile on her face.
She did not see Ethan MacKinnon watching her from beside the door to the kitchen garden at the back of the house. Neither did she smell the aroma of the tobacco he smoked in a churchwarden pipe – his own tobacco as a matter of fact, grown on his own plantation.
An amused smile flickered around his mouth at the spectacle of the fiery-haired young woman striding out ahead of a rotund, red-faced chef, a chirpily cheerful-looking lady’s maid and a kitchen maid with a flushed expression and a wide smile on her face.
Slipping a hand into his inside pocket, he felt for the key he’d stolen from her ladyship’s fan. Had she noticed it missing? Possibly. It was also likely that she knew who had taken it.