A Proper Companion (3 page)

The dowager was halted in her reply as Emily
reentered the morning room to say that the earl's bedchamber was
ready. She absently indicated that Emily should be seated, and
continued her conversation with the earl. "All right, Robert," she
said. "I will not fight you. I wish you every happiness with your
bride. In fact," she drawled, "I intend to return with you to
London to meet this paragon. And I suppose the least I can do is to
stage a grand engagement ball in your honor."

Lord Bradleigh rose, bowed to his grandmother, and
took her hand to his lips. "My dear countess, you do us a great
honor. You are most welcome at Bradleigh House."

"Well, that is settled, then. Emily and I will begin
preparations at once," the dowager said. She settled back, smiling
mischievously. "I believe I will make a long stay in London.
Perhaps ride out the Season there. I haven't been to Town in an
age. It's such an ordeal, you know. But this is a special occasion.
I expect it will take us several weeks to prepare. You will stay
here with us, of course, Robert, and then escort us to London. And
now, you must be tired from your journey, and you are certainly
dirty. Emily, ring for a footman to show Robert to his rooms. We
dine at seven, my boy."

After the earl departed, the dowager suddenly looked
up at Emily in alarm. "Dinner!" she cried. Emily gave her a puzzled
look. "Anatole!" the dowager groaned.

Emily laughed. "I will take care of it," she said as
she left the morning room and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
Anatole, the dowager's French chef, would have to be told of the
addition of the earl to their dinner table. Emily was one of the
few who was able to approach the volatile Frenchman with
last-minute changes without him flying up into the boughs and
threatening resignation. This evening's meal had been planned for
only six. The addition of a seventh would likely represent little
difficulty for Anatole. Nevertheless, Emily steeled herself for the
inevitable outburst.

She made her way down to the basement and entered
the large, busy kitchen. One long wall displayed an impressive
batterie de cuisine
, including racks of copper pots of all
sizes, iron kettles, pewter trays and jugs, and an enormous
collection of fancifully shaped jelly molds. An adjacent wall
housed a row of several open-fire ranges, a separately fired oven,
and a large hot plate decorated with classical medallions on the
front. Though the high windows on the outside wall were propped
open, the air was close and warm. The somber blue walls added to
the oppressive atmosphere. Several kitchen maids scurried about,
and Lucien, Anatole's young assistant, was busily rolling out a
pastry on one of the large trestle tables in the center of the
room.

Emily found Anatole at one of his many stockpots,
testing a fish broth. He was a large, almost burly man with
thinning dark hair and piercing black eyes. He had a fiery Gallic
temper that often had kitchen maids cowering in corners, but his
manner always softened in the presence of pretty young women or in
the face of true appreciation of his art. As Emily provided both,
he was generally solicitous toward her. Emily waited quietly until
he was apparently satisfied with the flavor of the fish broth, and
was about to approach a large pot of beef stock being slowly
reduced to a
glace de viande
.

"Pardon me, Monsieur Anatole," she said softly, "but
may I have a word with you?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle Townsend," Anatole said. He
delicately wiped his fingers with a damp towel, which he then held
out to be taken by an attendant kitchen maid. "What may I do for
you? A preview of tonight's masterpiece, perhaps?" he asked as he
cocked his head toward the row of stock pots.

"You spoil me, monsieur," Emily replied, smiling.
"The aromas alone are enough to send me into raptures. I will wait
and sample your art in the dining room along with our guests. And
by the way, I am afraid we will have an additional guest this
evening."

"What?" roared Anatole. "
C'est impossible!
It
is too late to change our menu. We cannot do it!" He muttered a
string of French invectives, most of which Emily was fortunately
unable to translate. He pounded a nearby butcher block with his
fists and kicked over a straw basket of coal. His face turned red
with fury, and his black eyes seemed almost to pop out of his head.
When he appeared ready literally to explode, Emily quietly
interrupted.

"Please, monsieur, you must calm down. Have a care
for your health. It would be a tragedy if the great Anatole
succumbed to apoplexy in his own kitchen. Lady Bradleigh would be
desolate without you. Here, sit down for a moment," she said as she
led him to a bench along a short corridor leading to the adjacent
scullery. He stopped shouting but narrowed his black eyes and
glowered menacingly at her.

"Our additional guest this evening is her ladyship's
grandson, Lord Bradleigh," Emily said in the same tone she had once
used in the schoolroom to placate her young charges. "He has
arrived unexpectedly and will be staying here in Bath a short
while. He is a great admirer of your arts, monsieur," she said,
hoping it was true. "I know he expects greatness from her
ladyship's kitchen and awaits tonight's dinner with keen
anticipation. I have promised her ladyship that you will not fail,
and I know that you will not. After all, monsieur, when have you
ever failed to overwhelm us all with your extraordinary talents?
Who can remain unmoved by your
poulardes à la Perigueux
? Or
your
cotellettes d'agneau à la Toulouse
? Or"—she sighed and
closed her eyes—"your
escalopes de volatile aux
truffes
?"

She peeked through her lashes to find Anatole gazing
abstractedly into space, smiling no doubt in contemplation of that
particular triumph. She gave an ecstatic shiver, then slowly opened
her eyes.

It occurred to her that if she ever lost her
position, she could surely find a career on the stage.

"Ah, monsieur," she continued breathlessly, "you are
a genius. I know you will be able to think of some way to
accommodate Lord Bradleigh. True, we will have an uneven number at
the table, but that should pose a greater problem to Barnes and his
staff than to you, monsieur,
n'est-ce pas
?" She grinned at
him, knowing that her arrow had struck home. Anatole and Barnes
maintained a polite truce at the best of times. Barnes and his
footmen had never quite gotten used to the dowager's introduction
of a large round table in the smaller dining room, which she
preferred to use for more intimate dinners in the French style. The
round table wreaked havoc with Barnes' notion of corner dishes, and
he frequently fussed over where to position which dishes. The
resolution was a greater number of removes, which allowed Anatole
to better extend his talents.

Anatole grinned back at Emily. "
Soit!
" he
said, waving an imperious hand. "We shall not fail, mademoiselle.
We welcome Lord Bradleigh. He is a true connoisseur, and we shall
not disappoint him."

Emily thanked Anatole and assured him of her
confidence in his abilities, then made her way back upstairs.

* * *

Anatole smiled as he watched her leave, amused at
the persuasive tactics she always used with him. He would never let
her know that he would happily do anything she asked, as he was
very fond of her. But he was even more fond of their little game of
tyrant and diplomat, which she played so well. He sighed as he rose
and sought out Lucien to have him round up another pair of
ortolans.

* * *

Emily retired to her bedroom and began to study her
wardrobe for a suitable dress for the evening. There was not much
of a selection. She had few dresses, and only two or possibly three
appropriate for evening wear. Each was simply cut, absent of
elaborate adornment, and generally in dark blues or grays. Emily
had always felt perfectly comfortable in her plain gowns and had
dined with tonight's guests enough times so that there was no need
to impress. But she suddenly felt decidedly dowdy when she thought
of dining with Lord Bradleigh. He was certainly one of the most
attractive men she had ever met, and she had not failed to
appreciate his boyish charm in handling his grandmother. She was
quite surprised at his friendly, endearing manner. He was a
notorious rake with a somewhat dark reputation. She had expected a
more brooding, menacing demeanor. Instead, she had found his open,
amiable manner quite appealing. But then she also recalled that he
was known to be a gamester. This thought put an end to any generous
feelings she might have had for her employer's grandson. She blamed
her own current penniless state on her father's penchant for
gambling and therefore had no tolerance for men who won and lost
fortunes at the turn of a card.

Emily sighed and pulled out a gray silk gown from
her small wardrobe. She would not forget her place. She would not
worry about looking dowdy in front of a renowned rogue and gambler,
no matter how attractive he was.

She rang for a maid, and soon Lottie, one of the
under housemaids, was at her door bringing a pitcher of hot water.
Lottie was an incurable chatterbox but had a sweet and generous
nature, and Emily was fond of her. She smiled as Lottie sailed into
the room.

"Oh, miss," Lottie said breathlessly, "ain't it
wonderful havin' such a one as his lordship in the house? Have you
seen him yet? I hear he's devilish handsome. But then he would have
to be, wouldn't he, for all those women to fall at his feet. Such
stories I've heard!"

"Lottie!" Emily scolded. "Surely you are not already
gossiping belowstairs about our guest? He's only just arrived."

"Oh, no, miss, I'm not spreadin' any
new
tales, to be sure. We hear stories about His Lordship all the
time."

Emily bit back a smile as she contemplated the
distinction between old gossip and new gossip.

"It fair makes your hair stand on end, it does,"
Lottie said. "I tell you, us housemaids is all in a quake havin'
him here. A girl's not safe with him around. You'd better be on
your guard, too, miss. He's a regular rogue, he is. Why, only last
month we heard he ... well, he ..." She lowered her voice. "He had
his way with a grand duchess in a chapel in Westminster Abbey.
Right in the church!" Lottie's eyes had grown as big as saucers as
she spoke.

Emily turned away to hide her amusement at Lottie's
righteous outrage. She, too, had heard the story about the church.
But it had been St. Paul's, not Westminster Abbey, and in the
vaults, not a chapel. And it had been Lady Theale, a baroness, not
a duchess. Of course, they could be two different stories
altogether. Lord Bradleigh, after all, did indeed get around.

Emily gave herself a mental shake. Had she lost all
sense of propriety? She must be spending too much time in the
dowager's company. She actually found the stories more amusing than
shocking. Nevertheless, she decided it was best to attempt to put a
halt to any more storytelling while His Lordship was a guest in the
house. There was no stopping servants' gossip, but at least she
could try to discourage the more sordid tales.

"I think, Lottie," she said, trying to sound stern,
"that most of the stories you have heard are untrue or at least
exaggerated. His Lordship is soon to be married. I do not imagine
he would be cavorting around Town under the nose of his betrothed.
He is a gentleman, after all."

"Married!" Lottie squealed. "You're funnin',
miss."

"No, Lottie. I assure you it is true. So do, please,
have a care. It is not our place to judge others and certainly not
a guest in our house. I will trust you to make sure that the rest
of the housemaids behave with proper respect toward the earl."

"Yes, miss," Lottie said weakly and turned to leave.
"But I pity the poor girl that's to marry him," she called over her
shoulder as she closed the door.

Emily chuckled to herself and wondered if Miss
Windhurst was indeed to be pitied.

* * *

When Robert was shown to his room, he found that
Luckett, his valet, had already laid out his evening clothes and
was preparing a bath. Robert eyed the large copper tub by the fire
with pleasure as he watched a series of housemaids and footmen
enter with steaming buckets of water. When the last of the buckets
was added to the tub, and the last giggling housemaid had made her
exit, Robert turned to allow his valet to help him out of his
jacket.

"Ah, Luckett," he said, sighing contentedly, "I must
be getting old. Nothing could be more appealing to me at this
moment than that steaming tub."

"Indeed, milord," Luckett replied with a wry smile
as he proceeded to help Robert undress. He then continued unpacking
Robert's portmanteau, brushing and neatly folding or hanging each
article of clothing. In his usual casual manner, which had long ago
ceased to offend Luckett's rigid propriety, Robert carried on a
conversation with his valet while he soaked.

"And so Grandmother expects me to remain here in
Bath for longer than I had expected, Luckett. Shall I need to send
you out shopping for additional shirts and cravats?"

"I doubt that will be necessary, milord. I
anticipated that her ladyship would require your presence for
longer than a few days and packed accordingly."

"I'm sure I don't pay you enough, Luckett. Remind me
to increase your salary when we return to London."

"I will do that, milord."

"And so we are stuck here, Luckett, in dull old
Bath. At least I will have the lively and delightful company of
Grandmother to shorten the days. I trust
you
will not lack
for diversion, Luckett?" Robert said, grinning. His valet was as
notorious belowstairs as Robert himself was abovestairs. To his
knowledge, Luckett had never gotten a housemaid in trouble, but he
never seemed to lack for female companionship.