Read Online 080072089X (R) by Ruth Axtell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Axtell
Tags: FIC042040, FIC042030, FIC027050, Aristocracy (Social class)—Fiction, London (England)—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction, Great Britain—History—George III (1760–1820)—Fiction
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pitying look. “Not so old . . .” he added in a suggestive way.
Rees glanced down to the end of the table to Mrs. Finlay, who was eating in the methodical way she did everything, addressing only an occasional comment to the scullery maids and the chambermaids nearest her. She was a woman of around fifty, with a trim figure and serious demeanor, her honey-brown hair half mixed with gray.
She looked up from her plate and said in a voice to be heard above the footmen, “Mr. Gaspard, did Lady Wexham discuss the menu for the dinner party with you?”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Certainement.”
Mrs. Finlay gave no sign that she noticed his scornful tone. “I should like to talk with you about it after breakfast. I must decide on which service to use for each course.”
“Bien sûr.” His eyes snapped to the scullery maids. “Ellie, Sarah, you will accompany me to the market this morning. We must look for ze truffes , ze lobster, ze morels”—he waved a hand—“and everyzing else for ze dinner.”
“Yes, sir,” the two girls murmured.
Rees fixed his attention on cutting a piece of ham on his plate. If Gaspard was at the market later in the morning, and the two footmen were busy blacking boots, perhaps he could do a quick search of the chef’s room. It would only be a small window of time, but he could at least do a cursory inspection.
He brought the piece of ham to his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, studying the man out of the corner of his eye.
If anyone in this household was a spy, he’d lay odds it was Monsieur Gaspard.
Or perhaps he was merely an arrogant French chef, for whom only food was worthy of respect. Rees suspected that even Lady Wexham was careful in her treatment of him. If he were the least ruffled, he couldthreaten to quit. A good French chef, no matter how temperamental, would be snapped up by another hostess in Mayfair before teatime.
As if sensing his observation, Gaspard turned his black eyes to him, a scowl creating a deep furrow between the heavy black brows. Rees held up his fork. “Delicious ham.”
“Humph!” he snorted.
Spy or chef, Rees intended to discover which.
Rees hid his impatience as he waited for Gaspard to leave for the market. At intervals, he found excuses to wander down to the kitchen, but each time, to his growing uneasiness, the man was still bustling about, showing no signs of departing.
Soon the footmen would be finished with their morning tasks, and a search would be too risky.
It wasn’t until the servants had partaken of their midmorning tea that Gaspard finally left with the two scullery maids in tow.
Rees wiped at an imaginary smudge on a brass doorknob before addressing the two footmen. “The wine cellar is in abysmal condition. I want each bottle wiped clean with a rag.”
Tom and William gaped at him. “The wine cellar, sir?” Tom, the boldest, dared ask.
Rees gave him a quelling look. “That is correct. When I was in there last with Lady Wexham, I was appalled at how dirty everything was.”
“B-but, sir, old Rumford never permitted us in there. He preferred the bottles to show their age. We cleaned them, o’ course, whenever he brought one up.”
“Be that as it may, I would prefer you wipe every bottle off.” He plowed on, sounding as uncompromising and obdurate as he imagined a good butler would. “I was obliged to lend Lady Wexham my handkerchief to clean her fingers after taking down a bottle.”
Tom shut his mouth on whatever he was going to say. “Very well, sir, if you think we ought. I just hope Rumford doesn’t chew us up for meddling in his cellar.”
“I shall speak to Mr. Rumford myself upon his return and explainwhatever additional duties I have required of you.” He turned away from them. “Very well, be about the task.”
“Sir—”
He swiveled around, allowing just a trace of impatience in his tone. “Yes?”
William cleared his throat. “The key. We can’t get in otherwise.”
He
Rees glanced down to the end of the table to Mrs. Finlay, who was eating in the methodical way she did everything, addressing only an occasional comment to the scullery maids and the chambermaids nearest her. She was a woman of around fifty, with a trim figure and serious demeanor, her honey-brown hair half mixed with gray.
She looked up from her plate and said in a voice to be heard above the footmen, “Mr. Gaspard, did Lady Wexham discuss the menu for the dinner party with you?”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Certainement.”
Mrs. Finlay gave no sign that she noticed his scornful tone. “I should like to talk with you about it after breakfast. I must decide on which service to use for each course.”
“Bien sûr.” His eyes snapped to the scullery maids. “Ellie, Sarah, you will accompany me to the market this morning. We must look for ze truffes , ze lobster, ze morels”—he waved a hand—“and everyzing else for ze dinner.”
“Yes, sir,” the two girls murmured.
Rees fixed his attention on cutting a piece of ham on his plate. If Gaspard was at the market later in the morning, and the two footmen were busy blacking boots, perhaps he could do a quick search of the chef’s room. It would only be a small window of time, but he could at least do a cursory inspection.
He brought the piece of ham to his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, studying the man out of the corner of his eye.
If anyone in this household was a spy, he’d lay odds it was Monsieur Gaspard.
Or perhaps he was merely an arrogant French chef, for whom only food was worthy of respect. Rees suspected that even Lady Wexham was careful in her treatment of him. If he were the least ruffled, he couldthreaten to quit. A good French chef, no matter how temperamental, would be snapped up by another hostess in Mayfair before teatime.
As if sensing his observation, Gaspard turned his black eyes to him, a scowl creating a deep furrow between the heavy black brows. Rees held up his fork. “Delicious ham.”
“Humph!” he snorted.
Spy or chef, Rees intended to discover which.
Rees hid his impatience as he waited for Gaspard to leave for the market. At intervals, he found excuses to wander down to the kitchen, but each time, to his growing uneasiness, the man was still bustling about, showing no signs of departing.
Soon the footmen would be finished with their morning tasks, and a search would be too risky.
It wasn’t until the servants had partaken of their midmorning tea that Gaspard finally left with the two scullery maids in tow.
Rees wiped at an imaginary smudge on a brass doorknob before addressing the two footmen. “The wine cellar is in abysmal condition. I want each bottle wiped clean with a rag.”
Tom and William gaped at him. “The wine cellar, sir?” Tom, the boldest, dared ask.
Rees gave him a quelling look. “That is correct. When I was in there last with Lady Wexham, I was appalled at how dirty everything was.”
“B-but, sir, old Rumford never permitted us in there. He preferred the bottles to show their age. We cleaned them, o’ course, whenever he brought one up.”
“Be that as it may, I would prefer you wipe every bottle off.” He plowed on, sounding as uncompromising and obdurate as he imagined a good butler would. “I was obliged to lend Lady Wexham my handkerchief to clean her fingers after taking down a bottle.”
Tom shut his mouth on whatever he was going to say. “Very well, sir, if you think we ought. I just hope Rumford doesn’t chew us up for meddling in his cellar.”
“I shall speak to Mr. Rumford myself upon his return and explainwhatever additional duties I have required of you.” He turned away from them. “Very well, be about the task.”
“Sir—”
He swiveled around, allowing just a trace of impatience in his tone. “Yes?”
William cleared his throat. “The key. We can’t get in otherwise.”
He
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