Page 54 of Miss Delectable
Rye was pondering the whole exchange as Agricola paused in his progress to leave a steaming pile of manure on the path. Had the horse not stopped, Rye might have missed the horseman half hidden along a row of plane trees.
“Deschamps, good day.”
The Frenchman rode forth on an elegant bay. “Goddard, bonjour. Comment allez-vous?”
“I am well enough, but when in England, I speak English.” Mostly. He’d probably slipped into French when kissing Ann.
“Very well, then we speak English. How was your chat with yon brigadier?”
“Pleasant. Were you eavesdropping?” Deschamps was dressed in the first stare of London fashion, but he was no longer the charming young aid-de-camp. His eyes held a coldness, and the left side of his riding jacket lay slightly askew at the waist.
He was armed, when merely hacking out in a public park in broad daylight.
“I was trying to avoid an encounter with Upchurch, if you must know. He has aged, and old soldiers are prone to tiresome reminiscences. I hear you peddle champagne these days.”
In a former life, Rye had known exactly how to deal with Deschamps. The Frenchman had been the open spy, the delegate given safe passage into the enemy camp by the exigencies of war. Rye himself had performed that office on occasion, though infrequently.
In that former life, Rye could commiserate with a French counterpart about the horrors of war without in any way compromising either party’s determination to win that war. But this version of Deschamps was a puzzle. He had no charm, no warmth, no sense of toiling along parallel paths that were likely to intersect mostly on a battlefield, to the manly regret of all concerned.
His dark good looks were turning sharp-edged, his gaze bitter.
“What brings you to London, Deschamps?”
Deschamps cocked his head, a ghost of his old insouciance in the gesture. “The fine weather. The excellent company. The magnificent entertainments.”
Rye glanced up at the sunny sky. “You have a knife in each of your boots, a pistol at your side, and a pocket full of sand, the better to blind footpads who think to take you unaware. That horse is blood stock, fast enough to outdistance any who give pursuit. You have enemies in London and would not come here but for dire necessity.”
Deschamps urged his gelding forward, so Rye allowed Agricola to toddle on as well.
“This is why I lost my enthusiasm for warfare,” Deschamps said. “The generals can hold all the peace conferences they like, but that doesn’t create peace. It only creates terms of surrender and a means of enforcing an armistice. Your champagne is quite good, I’m told.”
“The best to leave France.” What game was Deschamps playing?
“Then I wish you every success in that venture, Colonel, and in all of your endeavors. Our paths had best diverge before we break from the trees,non? London has eyes and ears, and not all of them are loyal to you. Some of them quite the opposite, I believe. But then, you know that and know to be careful as you navigate the streets of this fair city.” He tipped his hat and turned his horse down a smaller path leading off to the left.
What in blazing hell was that about?Rye turned Agricola for home and wished that he’d spent his morning sipping coffee in his office rather than let himself be lured into the park on a promise of sunshine and fresh air.
* * *
Jules had gone quiet,and the whole kitchen felt the tension. For the third day in a row, he was at his post shortly after noon, sending Ann—and Hannah—the sort of brooding looks that boded ill.
“Pardon me, ladies,” Henry said. “Mrs. Dorning is asking for a word with you, Miss Pearson.” Hannah looked up from the bushel of peas she’d be expected to shell before sunset. The object of the exercise was not only to prepare a sufficient quantity for the evening buffet, but also to give Hannah so much practice at a simple chore that she became efficient at it.
Already, her nimble fingers had the pattern down: twist off one end of the pod, twist off the other, split, run a thumb down the middle to dislodge the peas, discard the husk into a slop bucket.
“I won’t be gone long,” Ann said, untying her apron. “When the bushel is done, you will have some bread and butter, Hannah.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I can help for a bit, shall I?” Henry offered.
“Wash your hands before you touch one of my peas, Henry Boardman,” Hannah replied, “and you’re to help, not shirk your own duties while you gabble my ear off.”
How well Hannah knew the adolescent male. Henry saluted with mock seriousness and marched over to the sink.
“Mrs. Dorning is the colonel’s sister, isn’t she?” Hannah said.
“She is.”
