Page 1 of A Measure of Menace

Chapter 1

October 1883

“Lord Clifford has arrived,” Mr. Davis, the Mount Street house’s butler, announced as he entered the kitchen.

I glanced up in surprise from my worktable, where papers, my notebook, and several cooking tomes were strewn about me. I’d seized the opportunity of having no family in the house to go over my recipes for the next social Season, which would begin in January. I’d be expected to come up with a myriad of meals for whatever gatherings my mistress, Mrs. Bywater, had planned, and I wanted to be prepared.

“I beg your pardon?” I demanded of Mr. Davis.

The Bywaters had taken Lady Cynthia, their niece, with them to their country house in Somerset to enjoy crisp autumn weather and the shooting. I knew neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bywater would actually creep through wet grass to aim a shotgun, but they would happily eat whatever their friends bagged. Mrs. Bywater was one for brisk walks but no exertion beyond that.

Cynthia, I imagined, would suffer continuous ennui. While she delighted in vigorous activity, she was not keen on her aunt’s and uncle’s rather vapid acquaintances in the country.

They’d left most of the staff behind, except Mr. Bywater’s valet and Sara, the upstairs maid who doubled as a lady’s maid. Mrs. Bywater had decided that anyone else would be too much expense in train tickets.

We were to keep the house in order and well stocked for the Bywaters’ return later in the winter. I’d half expected Mrs. Bywater to insist we take less pay, as the family would not be in residence, but I suspected Cynthia had prevented that.

“Lord Clifford asked that I make up a room for him,” Mr. Davis answered, clearly annoyed. He’d wanted this quiet time to inventory the wine, and Lord Clifford had the habit of pinching bottles from the cellar. “He tells me that he requires only a light repast for supper.”

I gazed around the empty kitchen in dismay. The dresser held a small box of aging potatoes and a few herbs. A pot of stock slowly burbled on the back of the stove as always. I’d retained enough in the larder to feed the staff, but there was little more than that.

“Oh, does he just?” I all but snapped.

“Indeed. Mrs. Redfern is settling him in, being very civil.”

Which meant that Mrs. Redfern was as annoyed as the rest of us.

Lord Clifford was Lady Cynthia’s father. Mr. Bywater’s sister had married him, connecting the Bywaters’ ordinary but well-off family with penniless aristocrats.

Lord Clifford was a rogue of the first water, who had more or less swindled his way into his title. By now, all other claimants had passed away, so he really was the Earl of Clifford, but at one point, he had definitely not been first in line.

I rather liked the rapscallion, who had an absent-minded kindness in him, and he had suffered the loss of two of his children. But whenever Lord Clifford appeared, trouble soon followed.

“Well, his repast will be very light.” I slammed my notebook shut and tossed down my pencil. “I can nip out to the market, but I doubt I will find anything at this hour.” It was late afternoon, and anything good in the markets would be gone.

Mr. Davis, having no reply to this, stalked from the kitchen and continued down the passageway to his butler’s pantry. The banging door sent a cold draft that fluttered my papers at the table.

I tidied my books and notes before I rose and snatched up my coat and basket. I ordered Tess, who’d just come in but lingered in the scullery to chat with Elsie, the scullery maid, to start slicing the potatoes. I’d given Tess the afternoon out, as we weren’t busy and I’d wanted the time to work on my menus, so she was bubbling with good spirits.

“Right you are, Mrs. H.,” she said cheerily, sailing into the kitchen.

“Put them in a bowl of cold water, so they won’t turn brown,” I instructed before I charged out of the scullery door, trying not to mutter under my breath about unheeding lordships who couldn’t be bothered to send word ahead.

The cool air as I ascended to the street calmed me somewhat—it was a lovely autumn evening—but Lord Clifford had caught us at a decided disadvantage.

However, I, a mere cook, could not turn out an aristocrat from his daughter’s home or refuse to feed him. If I dug in my heels and informed him he’d have to find a meal elsewhere, I’d soon be out a post, and when all is said and done, I am a practical woman.

Also, I was a bit curious as to why Lord Clifford had abruptly turned up. Mr. Davis had made no mention of his wife accompanying him, or Lady Cynthia either. Why he wasn’t at his country estate engaged in shooting fowl like the Bywaters and every other gentleman in Britain was a mystery.

The greengrocer in Oxford Street had slim offerings, as I’d suspected. I filled my basket with a few small cabbages, choosing those with the fewest dark spots, some additional potatoes that weren’t too soft, and carrots that were the crispest of the lot.

I had some salt pork in the larder, but that was hardly fit for an earl, so I stepped to the nearest meat market for sausages the butcher hurriedly wrapped for me. He was about to close up shop and not happy he had one last customer to wait upon. I thanked him sweetly, paid over the coins, and headed home.

Once Tess and I had chopped everything, I put the vegetables and sausages together in a pan along with the potatoes that Tess had already prepared, stirring vigorously with my metal spoon to relieve my pique.

When the meal was complete, I sent it up with a few homemade buns, hot from the oven. I always had fresh dough handy so I could bake what I needed to. For sweet, Lord Clifford would have to make do with cheese and a few sliced figs. Mr. Davis raised his brows over the offering, no doubt worrying about what wine would go with it.

He sighed and took himself upstairs, his stiff back telling me he hadn’t recovered from his irritation.

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