A Proper Companion (13 page)

She jumped to her feet and came to the door, gentiy
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 sweedy, "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!"

She smiled sweetly at Anatole and turned to leave
again, taking Robert's proffered arm. "My lord," she said, "we are
the most fortunate of households. The partnership of Monsieur
Anatole and Mrs. Dawson will surely create a sensation!"

The two chefs watched the departing couple in
astonishment. Anatole turned to Mrs. Dawson. "Madame," he said,
bowing and sweeping his arm toward his stockpots in a gesture of
welcome.

When Robert and Emily had closed the kitchen door
behind them, they looked at each other, both stifling chuckles as
they rushed up the stairs. Once in the entry hall they burst into
laughter.

"My dear Miss Townsend," Robert said, covering
Emily's hand with his own, "that was a masterful performance. They
could probably use your talents at the Home Office! Not only did
you end the battle before a shot had been fired, but you peacefully
managed to negotiate a truce. I have no doubt that our table will
henceforth be graced with extraordinary delights as those two try
to outdo each other. Ha! I am going to enjoy this!"

"Indeed, my lord," Emily said. "As will we all, I
suspect."

"Miss Townsend," he said softly, "you are a
treasure." He could not resist bringing her hand to his lips.

She bowed her head, blushing slightly, and gently
retrieved her hand. He smiled down at her warmly. Dammit, but he
admired this woman. The devil take this blasted betrothal for
cramping his style. Oh, God! Augusta!

"Good heavens," he said, stepping back from Emily,
"I am late! I am supposed to be at Cavendish Square to pick up
Augusta and her mother. I promised to escort them here for tea. I
must fly! Goodbye, Miss Townsend," he called as he hurried toward
the front door, where Claypool was waiting to hand him his hat and
gloves.

"Goodbye, my lord," she said.

"Oh," he said, turning back toward Emily and
flashing her a huge smile, "and thank you for your extraordinary
efforts downstairs. I have a feeling we may be in need of your
diplomatic skills yet again before this day is through." He
laughed, winked at her, and headed out the door.

Emily twisted the golden cord of her reticule as the
carriage made its way at a sedate pace toward Portman Square. Her
first foray into London Society had brought on an uncharacteristic
bout of nerves. At least she could be confident about her
appearance, as Lottie had done her job well.

"Oh, miss," Lottie had said as she surveyed the
final product of her efforts, "you look just like a fairy
princess."

She had beamed with satisfaction at her mistress,
who was dressed in shimmering peach silk embroidered in gold. She
had tugged at the square neckline, fluffed the melon sleeves, and
straightened the hemline so many times that Emily had wanted to
scream. But she knew the girl had been almost as nervous as she was
herself. Emily smiled as she recalled the proud stance Lottie had
taken when Emily had thanked her and complimented her on her work.
After one final inspection and a flick of the sleeves, Lottie had
smiled triumphantly and turned to leave. She had spun around,
however, when she reached the door and glared at her mistress with
a serious face.

"Now, miss," Lottie had said, wagging an imperious
finger, "mind you be careful tonight. As pretty as you look, you're
bound to attract admirers. But I know you ain't been out much,
bein' employed and all, so you don't rightly know how the Quality
go on here in town. I hear tell that London gentlemen—" she almost
spat out the word—"can be too forward by half. You just stay close
to her ladyship. She'll know who's nice and who ain't."

She had left the room and closed the door before
Emily could comment on her impertinence. Emily smiled ruefully as
she recalled Lottie's words. If she didn't know better, she would
swear that the girl was in league with the dowager.

Emily glanced at her employer, who was seated next
to her in the carriage. The older woman was obviously excited to be
back among London's
beau monde
and had taken some pains with
her own appearance. She was dressed in a satin gown of her favorite
shade of lavender trimmed in silver lace. She wore an elaborate
silver turban sporting three large purple plumes which scraped the
ceiling of the carriage. The dowager looked over at Emily and
smiled.

"I hope you will enjoy the evening," she said,
patting Emily's hand. "You look very lovely tonight, my dear, but
this will probably be such a sad crush that it will be fortunate if
we are seen at all. But," she said with a grin, "it can hardly be
more unpleasant than this afternoon's debacle." The purple plumes
quivered as she began to chuckle.

Yes, Emily thought, tea with the Windhurst ladies
had been embarrassing at best. Lady Windhurst had been every bit as
encroaching and supercilious as the dowager had led Emily to
believe. She had arrived at Bradleigh House along with her daughter
and Lord Bradleigh a short time after the return of Lady Lavenham.
She had marched boldly into the drawing room ahead of the engaged
couple with an air of familiarity that had set Emily's teeth on
edge. She had known at that moment that this was not going to go
well.

Lady Windhurst had been dressed fashionably, but
more youthfully than was suitable for her middle-aged girth, and
she was adorned with more jewelry than was considered proper for
daytime. She had fawned over the dowager and Lady Lavenham until
both ladies were rigid with disdain. She had nodded curtly at Emily
when introduced, raked her with a scathing glance from head to toe,
and thereafter ignored her completely. This had suited Emily just
fine, as she had taken an instant and irrational dislike to the
woman.

Miss Windhurst had said all that was proper during
the introductions, although she said little else. She had eyed her
surroundings with more circumspection than her mother, who had
openly scrutinized every corner of the room as she was led to a
sofa near the tea table.

"I am so pleased to welcome you all to the bosom of our
family," Lady Windhurst said in a syrupy voice to the group at
large. She glanced at Augusta, who was seated on a smaller settee
next to Lord Bradleigh. "La," she said, sighing, "such a handsome
couple our darlings make. They will surely be the toast of the
ton
. We will be such a cozy group, I declare. Why, I'm sure
when my Augusta is countess we will all practically be living in
each other's pockets. I have no doubt that I will be spending so
much time here that it will be like a second home for me in
London." She eyed the room covetously.