Candice Hern (12 page)

They had been discussing the rout they were to attend that evening at Lady Bessborough's. The dowager was enumerating those acquaintances of hers who could be expected to attend. Emily had listened in fascination at the impressive list, filled with anticipation at the thought of her first foray into London Society.

"Of course, there are others," the dowager had said, her drawl particularly pronounced on the last word, "that one should also be prepared to meet. If not tonight, then surely some other night."

Emily had caught what looked to be a significant glance between the older woman and her granddaughter. What was going on here? She groaned inwardly as an idea occurred to her. Lady Lavenham had begun to speak but seemed to be uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

"You see, Miss Townsend," she said, "it's just that.. . well, we thought that... I mean, what I wanted to tell you ..." Her eyes had darted nervously to her grandmother.

Finally the dowager took over, placing her hand over Lady Lavenham's in a signal for her to be quiet.

"Emily, my dear," she had said, "I hope you don't mind, but I have told Louisa of your true background."

Oh, no, Emily thought. Here comes the matchmaking pitch again. Would she never be able to escape the dowager's manipulations? She steeled herself to hear of some gentleman of Lady Lavenham's acquaintance who would be perfect for her.

"Louisa is family, after all," the dowager continued. "She will keep your confidence, you may be sure. But the thing is, my dear, we are afraid there may be some awkward times ahead for you, and we think you should be prepared."

Awkward indeed. She had spent the last few weeks preparing for the excruciating humiliation inherent in the dowager's matchmaking plans. How clever of the old woman to have finally accepted the awkwardness of the situation. Had Lady Lavenham influenced her somehow?

"I am sorry to have to tell you, Emily," the dowager said, "that your uncle, the Earl of Pentwick, and his son, Viscount Faversham, are apparently in town for the Season." She paused, her brown eyes boring into Emily's, apparently expecting some reaction. "It is possible that you may never actually come face to face with them, but then again, it pays to be prepared."

"My uncle?" Emily whispered in some confusion. Good God, she had never even considered the possibility that her mother's family might also be in London. There had been so many other things to think about.

"I know that you have been estranged from the earl's family all of your life, my dear," the dowager said, taking Emily's hand. "I did not know how you would feel if by chance you were to meet up with one of them at some function or other. Of course, they don't run in the same circles as we do, but you never know whom you are likely to meet during the Season."

Her uncle. Her mother's brother. Her grandfather must be dead if her uncle was now the earl. She couldn't recall her mother ever mentioning a brother. But then she had seldom spoken of her family. Emily had learned most of the details of the estrangement from her father. It had always puzzled her that her father had shown more bitterness than her mother over the separation. She was aware that her father had made several overtures to the old earl but had been completely ignored. She also knew that her father, who had been raised as a Roman Catholic, had abandoned his faith, knowing it to have been a major cause of the old earl's enmity. Although Emily doubted that her father had ever been particularly devout, his rejection of his faith had nevertheless been a significant gesture which had been rebuffed. In fact, as far as she knew there had been no further contact whatsoever between the families.

These renewed reflections on her mother's family fueled a long dormant anger within Emily. Even as a young girl she had been incredulous and infuriated that anyone as beautiful and accomplished and compassionate as her dear mother could have been rejected by her own family. As a child she had pictured the old earl as a villainous ogre and had hated the very idea of him.

Now his son, her uncle, was in Town. It was possible that they might actually meet. What would she do? How would she react? Although she had been unaware that her mother even had a brother, it was also certain that he had done nothing to end the estrangement. He had not even acknowledged her mother's death. How could she feel anything but contempt for such a family? She truly had no wish to be associated with them in any way.

"I appreciate your concern, my lady," she said, squeezing the dowager's hand, "but I would not worry about it. I suspect that if Lord Pentwick and I were by some chance to meet, he would simply ignore me. His family has ignored mine for twenty-seven years, after all. And I certainly plan to ignore him."

The dowager and Lady Lavenham had continued to press the subject, convinced that Emily should be prepared to face the cut direct or some other public scene. Emily assured them that she felt confident that the situation would never arise, given her position. She did not tell them that her determination to remain in the background, as a small rebellion against the matchmaking schemes, would also make it very unlikely that she would ever come to the notice of the Earl of Pentwick. She was very touched, nevertheless, at the pledge of both ladies to stand by her no matter what happened.

Emily's attention was wrenched back to the present at the sound of a furious pounding. Lottie cautiously opened the door to find Lord Bradleigh standing before her. Visibly agitated, he looked over the head of the openmouthed maid to find Emily.

* * *

The irritating situation that had caused Robert to seek out Emily was almost completely forgotten as he took in the sight of her at her dressing table. God, but she was beautiful. Something about the intimacy of the setting caused his pulse to race, despite her modest attire and the fact that her maid was hovering nearby. What was wrong with him? He was on his way to pick up Augusta to bring her to tea, and here he was ogling another woman. He really must get a grip on himself, especially since Emily was to be a guest in his home for the next few weeks or longer. He must learn to cope with her presence with some level of composure. Despite the exquisite torture of watching her at her dressing table, imagining what she would look like as she prepared for bed, in a thin dressing gown with her hair tumbling down her shoulders. He shook his head and tried to concentrate on the business at hand.

"Miss Townsend," he said, running a hand carelessly through his hair, "I am sorry to disturb you, but I am quite desperate." He made a move to enter the room, but Lottie held her ground, blocking his entrance. Robert looked down to find her glaring defiantly up at him through narrowed eyes. If there had been any kind of heavy object at hand, he was sure she would be waving it in his face. He gave Emily what he hoped was an imploring look.

She jumped to her feet and came to the door, gently moving Lottie aside. The little maid stayed close at her back.

"What is it, Lord Bradleigh?" Emily asked. "How can I help you?"

"It's my cook, Mrs. Dawson," he said. "She and Anatole have apparently been at each other's throats all afternoon, and now she's threatening to leave. I can't allow that to happen. She's much too valuable to me. But I can't throw Anatole out, either, not as long as Grandmother is here."

Once he had begun to speak of the absurd kitchen fracas, his irritation returned in full force, no doubt fueled by the added confusion of his reaction to Emily. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and ran his fingers through his hair again, brushing aside the deep wave that had fallen over his brow. He really didn't have time to deal with a domestic crisis just now. He was due at the Windhursts', having promised to escort the ladies to Bradleigh House for tea with the dowager. It was enough of a concern that this meeting go off without a hitch. He had neither the time nor the patience to deal with the battling chefs as well.

"I have tried to intervene," he said, his fists clenched in irritation, "but those two fools are so enraged they hardly noticed me. Why, I was almost winged by a flying soup ladle flung at Anatole by Mrs. Dawson! He ducked."

Robert looked up at Emily, who was biting back a smile.

"Grandmother had mentioned to me," he continued, ignoring Emily's obvious amusement at his predicament, "that you are the only one who seems to be able to talk sensibly with Anatole. I was hoping . .. well, I was hoping that if you could somehow calm
him
down ..."

"That Mrs. Dawson might acquiesce as well?" Emily smiled. "I will see what I can do," she said as she headed toward the stairs, Robert close at her heels. "Quickly, tell me about Mrs. Dawson, my lord. What are her specialties? Where did she train? How long has she been with you?"

Robert gave a her puzzled glance. "Well, let me think," he said, somewhat distracted by the soft swishing of her muslin skirts against his legs as they hurried side by side down the stairs. "She has been with me five or six years now. Before that she worked for Lord North. As a young girl I believe she was taught by her father who was the pastry chef at Blenheim. She therefore, naturally, excels at pastries and breads. Lord, her breads are exquisite."

As they made toward the lowest level, the sound of raised voices stopped them. Emily looked at Robert, aghast. "Oh, dear," she said. "I hope they haven't come to blows." She stopped him with a touch to his arm. "Quickly. What else can you tell me of Mrs. Dawson? Besides the fact that she sounds a formidable opponent."

"Let me think," Robert said. "I am quite fond of her jellies and marmalades. Oh, and she sometimes creates quite elaborate presentations in aspic. Or mousse. I remember once she created a spectacular salmon mousse in the shape of a fish, with all the scales and whatnot picked out in carrots or cucumbers or some such thing."

"Breads, pastries, jellies," Emily said. "Perfect. All right, my lord," she said, taking a deep breath. "Let us enter the fray."

The earl opened the door to the kitchen, and Emily preceded him into the spacious work area. Most of the kitchen help appeared to be huddled in the adjacent scullery, while a wild-eyed Anatole and Robert's cook, a middle-aged, fiery-haired Amazon, screamed at each other in the center of the room.

"
Sacré bleu!
' Anatole shouted. The red-faced Frenchman was holding a large wire whisk with which he was gesturing wildly. "Do not dare to approach my pots! One look from you, madame, will curdle my hollandaise!" The whisk flew out in an expansive gesture toward the stove, accidentally knocking over a sugar loaf, which crumbled into pieces.

"You clumsy oaf!" shrieked Mrs. Dawson as she aimed a loaded pastry bag in his direction.

Robert caught a twinkle of amusement in Emily's eyes as she watched the scene unfolding before her. She leaned toward him and whispered, "I must act quickly before any more damage is done."

Nevertheless, she stood at the door for a moment and appeared to take Mrs. Dawson's measure. Robert's excellent, and generally unflappable cook was above average in height and solidly built, though not precisely plump. She had bright blue eyes, fueled for the moment with fury, and wisps of red hair had escaped her mobcap. Though he had never seen it himself, Robert had heard of Anatole's rages, and he could not help but admire Mrs. Dawson for facing him square on.

He was equally admiring, and fascinated, as he watched Emily stroll calmly into the kitchen and approach the screaming Frenchman.

"Monsieur Anatole," she said quietly.

To Robert's amazement, the shouting stopped and attention was turned to Emily. Anatole glowered at her while Mrs. Dawson simply stared.

"Please, monsieur," Emily said, "I have come to see how you are settling in. This must be Mrs. Dawson," she said, turning to that lady, smiling and offering her hand. "I have heard so much about you from Lord Bradleigh. I am Miss Townsend, her ladyship's companion."

Mrs. Dawson, clearly astonished, reached out a tentative hand, for there was nothing else she could do.

Robert watched Emily in wonder. How did she
do
that?

"Monsieur Anatole," Emily continued, "did you know that Mrs. Dawson's father was pastry chef at Blenheim, and she was trained at his knee? Why, Lord Bradleigh has sung high praises indeed of her breads and pastries. Not to mention her renowned aspics and mousses. Why, Lord Bradleigh was only just telling me about a wonderful salmon mousse. Isn't this marvelous, my lord," she said turning to Robert, "to have two such talented chefs under one roof?"

"Indeed," Robert said, thoroughly bemused. He mentally added
conciliator
to the already long list of Emily's finer points.

"Mrs. Dawson," Emily continued, smiling sweetly, "you will be pleased to know that Monsieur Anatole is famed for his stocks and sauces. And he is a master of the
rôtisserie
. Why, it is really quite splendid," she said, smiling at one and then the other, "to think how your talents will complement each other. How wonderful that you can now each concentrate on your own special areas of expertise. Mrs. Dawson can give all her attention to her breads, pastries, jellies, and aspics, while Monsieur Anatole can focus on his favorite viandes and sauces. My lord," she said with excitement as she turned again to Robert, "you will be the envy of all your friends! You will surely have the cream of London Society beating a path to your door in hopes of a dinner invitation."

"You are quite right, Miss Townsend," Robert said, following her lead with no little admiration. "The Regent himself cannot be so well favored."

Mrs. Dawson and Anatole eyed each other skeptically. Although neither had yet spoken a word, the fury of a few moments earlier had completely dissipated.

"Well," Emily said brightly, "I must join the dowager. We are having guests for tea. Mrs. Dawson, perhaps you can convince Monsieur Anatole to share with you his famous
millefeuille
recipe. It is quite delicious. I'm sure he would appreciate the opinion of someone of your training and experience." She turned to leave. "Oh," she said, turning back to Mrs. Dawson, "and you simply must taste his bordelaise sauce. It is heavenly!"