Banquet of Lies (10 page)

“So you went looking for her?” Jonathan asked incredulously.

Dervish shrugged, unembarrassed. “It’s better than doing nothing. My God, if she is alive, if she has that document, she’s in terrible danger.”

There was nothing to say to that; it was true.

“Anyway, I went past Goldfern, just in case she’s desperate enough to be hanging about there, and I saw some men fixing a window at the side of the house. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by going to inquire. Would you do so?”

“I already know. I went past the house myself last night, just to check on things after our chat at the club.” He cut into a brioche, eager to try jam that could bring the stony-faced Dervish to tears. “There was someone in the house. I chased him down, but he got away.”

“What was he after? Did you find out?” Dervish had almost stopped breathing.

“He was rifling through Barrington’s letter drawer. The caretaker tells me Barrington’s lawyer had collected the important
post only the day before, so there was nothing to find, but it’s telling.”

“It means they didn’t get the document from either Barrington or his daughter, if they’re breaking into Barrington’s house looking for something. Either that, or Giselle Barrington is alive and she saw them, and they’re trying to find some clue as to where she is.”

“Or both,” Jonathan pointed out.

“Or both,” Dervish agreed. “In which case, they must be desperate to find her.”

“I wonder where the hell she is?” Jonathan took a bite of his brioche.

I
f the shadow man was in the house, she had to know.

Gigi looked blindly down at the kitchen table, her mind racing. If it was him upstairs, he had found her. There could be no other reason for his visit.

“His lordship’s guest is very taken with your jam.”

Rob’s voice cut through her thoughts, and she gripped the table to keep herself steady. “He is?” She took a deep breath and turned to him.

“Yes. Not that I blame him. I nearly cried myself when I had your fancy buns and jam for breakfast.” Rob gave her a cheeky grin.

She went still. “He nearly cried?”

Rob shrugged. “Actually, weren’t no nearly about it. He
did
cry.”

That didn’t sound like something the shadow man would do. “What’s his name?”

Rob shrugged. “I didn’t let him in, Mr. Edgars did. Never
seen ’im before.” He edged closer to the staff dining room. “Any buns left?”

“Brioche,” she corrected absently. “Yes, there are.”

Rob disappeared and she looked down at the table again. She’d bottled the leftover Reine Claude jam, and now she lifted one of the smaller jars, weighed it in her hand.

Perhaps she could give the stranger who had a special interest in Goldfern the jam that brought him to tears.

She quickly went through to her rooms and pulled on the chef’s hat Georges had given her, covering her hair entirely, and swapped her apron for a new one.

Now she looked like a cook. Not the daughter of a famous, knighted scholar.

She stepped back into the kitchen and stood at the bottom of the stairs to the hallway, listening for any sound of Lord Aldridge’s guest leaving.

She didn’t have to wait long.

The low murmur of male voices floated down, and she forced her suddenly shaky legs to move up the stairs.

“
Excusez moi
.” Aldridge and the mystery man had their backs to her, with Edgars slightly off to the side, his hand on the doorknob to open the door.

If it was the shadow man, this would be the perfect way to see his face, with Lord Aldridge and Edgars right there to help her if he should attack.

Lord Aldridge and his guest turned. The man from this morning, while a little older than Aldridge, was very striking.
Not handsome, but he had a fierce, brutal beauty to him. He had suffered, this one, and clawed his way out with a will of iron.

The blue cravat she remembered from the glimpse she’d had of him just after dawn was a match for his eyes, and she wondered if a woman had chosen it for him.

There was a moment of electrified silence as both men stared at her.

She frowned, confused as to why they would seem so dumbstruck, and held the jam out to the stranger. As she did, she remembered she should probably curtsy, and dipped her knees. “Rob said
mon seigneur
liked my jam. Would you like a jar to take home?”

The man took the jar, but his eyes never left her. She hoped he would speak, because then she would know for sure. She hadn’t seen the shadow man’s face, but she had heard him. His voice haunted her nightmares and when he opened his mouth, she would
know
.

“I . . . thank you . . . Cook.” He stumbled over her title, but she didn’t care—he was not the danger she’d thought him to be, his voice of a deeper, richer timbre than the one she feared.

“Which part of France are you from?”

Relief almost made her miss the question, and she stumbled over her answer, ladling her accent as thick as the jam in his hands. “My family is from Bretagne,
mon seigneur
.”

“The reason I have such a fondness for this jam is because someone I knew from Brittany used to make it, years ago.
Yours tastes just as I remember it. Your family is not related to Adèle Barrington, are they? You even look a little like she did. She was the Marchioness de Morlaix before she was married.”

She stared at him, the sound of the sea in her ears. Then she blinked and shook her head. “Bretagne is the home of the Reine Claude. It is traditional to make the jam if you are from there.”

There was another silence, and Gigi glanced at Lord Aldridge. He was still watching her, but the look in his eye was guarded, maybe even angry.

“Thank you, Madame Levéel.” Aldridge didn’t sound himself. His words were thick, as if they were caught in his throat.

Taking it for the dismissal it was, she gave a quick nod of goodbye, turned, and ran down the stairs, strangely hurt by the curt way he’d dispatched her, and equally grateful to no longer be under scrutiny.

There was no pleasing her, obviously.

Except she
was
pleased. Aldridge’s strange behavior was nothing compared to the relief she felt. The visitor wasn’t the shadow man. She could have run out of time, but she hadn’t.

Whoever he was, he’d known her mother, though. Her father, too, if he’d been around eating jam at their house.

She wondered which of her parents’ many friends he could have been.

Iris was emptying a dustpan into the ash bin as she reached the bottom, and Gigi remembered she’d gone up with the omelette before Edgars had let the stranger in.

“Who is the man with Lord Aldridge? Did you hear Edgars announcing him?” She knew she sounded a little breathless, but mention of her mother had stripped her of her calm.

“Lord Dervish, Edgars said.” Iris looked up, her strong, beautiful face smudged with ash. She looked like the Scandinavians of Norway, from good Viking stock. Perhaps her far-off ancestors had raided the coast of England and left more than just huts burned to the ground.

“Are you from the coast originally, Iris?” She couldn’t help the question, even as she sifted the name Dervish through her memories and came up with nothing.

“Aye. From Kent.” Iris straightened. “Why do you ask?”

“You look like a beautiful Viking maiden. I can see you with a raven on your shoulder, riding into battle to choose who will fall and who will be spared.”

“Eh?” Iris stared at her, holding her ash-smudged hands away from her white apron.

“The Valkyries. From Norse legend. They rode horses into battle, and chose who was to fall and die.”

“Not sure I’d like to have that sort o’ responsibility.” Iris turned and rinsed her hands at the sink. But she seemed pleased, as if the story appealed to her, gave her a new view of herself.

Above them came the sound of the front door being closed, and Gigi thought of the letters in her father’s chest. The letters of a man who signed himself D.

Dervish?

If he
was
involved in the secret business her father sometimes
undertook, her father wouldn’t have mentioned him. He’d been fearful of telling her anything that might endanger her if she was questioned. So she never had any names, any idea what the documents said or why they were taking them. She’d trusted her father that it was better that way, but now it left her running blind.

It would be useful to know where Lord Dervish lived. If he
was
the mysterious D., she could give the document to him.

“Iris, I need something for this evening’s meal. I’ll just step out to see if I can get it.” She was already walking into her rooms as she spoke, ripping the chef’s cap off her head, throwing the apron over a chair and pulling her hat and cloak from the peg.

“You don’t want me or Babs to go, Cook?” Iris asked, a little hopefully.

“
Non
. I need to find it myself.” She ran up the stairs, slipped out into the alley, and raced down to Chapel Street. There was no one to the left, in the direction of Goldfern, but when she looked right, she saw Dervish just turning right onto South Audley.

Holding her skirts to one side, she ran, following him as he turned left onto Farm and then right onto John Street, keeping well back.

John Street was narrow, an exclusive enclave very close to Berkeley Square, and she watched as Dervish climbed the stairs of a thin, smart town house and tried the door. His own house, then. He was juggling the jam and the knocker when the door opened and he stepped inside.

Once the door was closed she walked down the street toward his house, fast and with her head down, as if she were in a hurry. She turned her head at the place where Dervish had gone in and noted the number.

Now all she needed was a sample of his handwriting, and she could determine if he was Mr. D.

And if he was, then, finally, the document would be safe.

T
he look Madame Levéel cast him when Jonathan had sent her scurrying down the stairs like a naughty schoolgirl had been laced with surprise and hurt. Jonathan didn’t want to even think about the look Dervish had given him.

Surprise, too. And pity.

He flicked out a crinkle in the newspaper he was pretending to read, unable to get comfortable.

Madame Levéel had taken him unaware, popping up from behind them like some kind of exotic jack-in-the-box, all sweeping dark lashes and plump lips, tied up in an apron that showed all her dips and curves.

And she had no idea how she’d affected them.

He’d noticed her frown of confusion at their staring, and he knew when she’d held out her jam, Dervish had barely been able to understand what she was saying to him.

Jonathan had been hard-pressed to grasp it himself, and he hadn’t been the subject of her intense scrutiny.

Because she had watched Dervish with all her concentration.

Jealousy had swept over him like a London fog, obscuring his common sense. But he could think better now, with a little distance, and he had the feeling it wasn’t interest but trepidation that had had his perplexing cook watching Dervish with those huge green-gold eyes.

Dervish had hardly said a word after Jonathan had banished his cook belowstairs. He’d rubbed his face, muttered something about not enough sleep and, seeing ghosts everywhere, he left. Jonathan wondered if the small progress they’d made in their friendship this morning had been wiped out for good.

If it meant Dervish would never see Madame Levéel again, he could live with it.

Jonathan lowered his paper slowly.

Had he really just thought that?

He folded the paper and set it aside. Stood up. He needed to walk, to
do
something, rather than sit and brood over things he had never brooded over before. Like the look his cook had given an acquaintance.

He needed to see Barrington’s lawyer and let him know about the burglary. It was as good a reason for a walk as any.

He went to the hall and grabbed his hat and coat. Edgars appeared as he turned the door handle.

“I’ll be back in time for dinner. Tell Cook I’d like to eat early.”