Banquet of Lies (16 page)

He was about thirty feet from the door, cut off by a large group of society mamas with their newly presented daughters, laughing and making social plans, when he saw her dart across the threshold, using two dowagers as cover.

All he had was an impression—slim, lithe, golden dress shimmering in the warm light from the chandeliers—and then she was gone.

When he at last fought his way clear and ran to the front door, he found nothing but a surprised doorman and a cool breeze that smelled of more rain.

“Did a lady come by here?” he asked. “Golden dress?”

“You mean Cinderella?” the doorman asked, a smile of genuine humor on his face.

“Cinderella?”

“Aye. Ran down the steps, she did, muttering about her shoes.”

“Where did she go?”

“Didn’t see, my lord.” He pointed to the line of carriages strung like beads down the street. “Once she was behind one o’ those, she could have gone any direction.”

Even straight home, to Aldridge House.

Jonathan started walking. And once he got beyond the line of carriages, he started to run.

T
hese shoes.

If she could have taken them off, she would have, but she had a feeling it would be worse. The streets weren’t clean and they weren’t smooth. Hobbling home wouldn’t get her there fast enough.

And she needed fast.

She didn’t try to understand the prickle between her shoulder blades, the sure sense that Aldridge wouldn’t give up but would chase her down.

She’d wasted precious minutes getting her cloak out of the tree but didn’t regret them. She couldn’t walk back into the kitchen in her gown; she would need the cloak to hide what she was wearing. Thinking of that, she reached up behind her neck as she walked and undid the clasp of her diamond-and-pearl necklace, then slipped it into the deep pockets of her cloak.

She was almost home. She’d taken the less direct route of
Grosvenor and then Park Street, coming out onto Chapel at the lower end.

She passed Goldfern, her steps slowing as she imagined shadows reaching long-fingered hands out to grab her.

But it was quiet. Completely dark.

Better to walk past the house than to chance South Audley and the thug from last night. She increased her pace.

Then Aldridge House loomed ahead and her hands moved up to her ears to take off the last of her finery. But before she even touched the dangling earrings she heard the sound of a man’s shoes scuffing the pavement.

She went still, and in the sudden silence he stepped out of the shadow, into the weak light of the streetlamps.

It was almost a relief to see it was Aldridge.

Almost.

He crossed his arms over his chest, breathing evenly but a little hard, as if he’d been running, and she tensed.

He looked dangerous.

Not dangerous like the men she’d met in Vienna and Russia sometimes did, with that cruel, blatantly sexual interest, although there was definitely heat in his gaze.

He looked as if he could move faster than she could run, could hold her with laughable ease, and was considering doing just that.

“Who are you, really?” He spoke quite normally.

“I’m the woman who cooks for you, Lord Aldridge.” She was so tempted to tell him the truth—but there was more at stake than making her life easier.

And why had he chased her down? Run all the way from the Crowders’ down South Audley to make it here before her? What did it matter to him?

“You’re very good at word games.” His voice dipped a little lower, and he took a step toward her, lifted a hand to her ear, skimming her diamond earring before tracing higher.

At the touch of his hot fingertip on the cold curve of her ear, she drew in a quick breath.

He paused, made a sound at the back of his throat, and pulled her close.

She didn’t resist. She didn’t understand it—how they could be close to arguing one moment, tension thick between them, and then suddenly pressed against each other. But she had no inclination to fight it.

She leaned in, rested her head against the scratchy wool of his coat, closed her eyes and let him prop her up with his warmth and the muscled strength of his body. Breathed him in.

She had never been in such an intimate position with a man, close enough to smell the wool of his coat, the warm sandalwood of his soap.

She lifted her hands and slid them under the lapels of his coat, burrowed a little closer, and his arms came up around her to grip her tighter, so she was completely encircled.

“I’m afraid to ask you questions, and I’ve never been afraid to do anything before.” His voice was a rumble against her temple, a vibration she felt deep in her chest.

“What are you afraid of?” she whispered.

“That you’ll run, like you did tonight. But not home. Away somewhere, where I won’t find you again.”

She sighed. Then pulled back. “You may feel differently one day. Might wish I would disappear. But I’m not going anywhere for the moment, my lord.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not.” And then he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers.

J
onathan deepened the kiss, ignoring the voice in his head that warned him not to do this.

He should be asking questions, trying to find out why his cook was at a ball she had no business attending—but he was honest with himself.

He didn’t care if she lied her way into a thousand balls. He only cared that she stood wrapped around him, kissing him back with shy, delightful eagerness.

Durnham would say he should care. That she could be a French spy, gathering information that would harm England’s cause . . .

Hell!

He jerked back, taking them both by surprise, and she stood quiet and pliant in his arms for another beat of his heart before she drew away.

At that moment, the rain started falling again. A light, steady patter on the stone cobbles around them.

“Were you at the Crowders’ tonight to cause some mischief?” He blinked the raindrops from his eyes.

“
Pardon
?” She stared at him, a frown creasing her forehead.

“To disrupt something, or eavesdrop?”

“No.” She gave him a look as cool and controlled as it had been surprised and hurt only a moment before.

She seemed otherworldly, a figure from a fairy tale in her deeply hooded cloak, with the sparkle of rain dancing around her, catching the light.

“You just wanted to go to the ball?” Jonathan couldn’t help the amusement in his voice as he thought of the doorman, calling her Cinderella.

Her head jerked up.

He took a physical step back at the snapping anger in her eyes.

“You think this is a jest?” She tilted her head to look him directly in the eye. “This is not a jest.”

“I don’t know what it is. Why don’t you tell me?” He didn’t keep the anger at her lack of trust from his voice—all he wanted was for her to shed a little light from her hiding place in the shadows.

She stood taller. “I will. I will tell you, but not now. When I can, I promise you will be the first to know.”

“What if I tell you that isn’t enough?”

She gave a disgusted shake of her head and spun on her heel. She had almost reached the side alley before he had the wit to move.

“Wait.” In two strides he had his hand on her shoulder.

He couldn’t see her face well here, and he pushed back her hood. “Why do I keep getting the sense that I know you?”

She closed her eyes. Drew a deep breath. “You don’t.”

He didn’t want to let her go, but she was pulling away, and he reluctantly released his hold on her though every instinct screamed at him to hang on.

He wasn’t going to turn her in. He knew that. Whether she told him anything or not.

Which meant she would be with him a little longer. He had some time.

He turned and took a step away.

“Where are you going?” she asked on a sigh of exasperation, and he wanted to laugh despite the rain running down the back of his neck.

She was watching him, hands on hips and, if he wasn’t mistaken, impatience in every line.

“Going in by the front door.” He didn’t add,
like you always tell me to,
but her lips twitched as if he had.

She moved toward him, and he went still at the look on her face. She lifted a hand to his cheek, her glove touching his skin lightly. “Thank you.”

She didn’t need to say for what. They both knew he could have made this a lot harder, forced her to offer some explanation.

He caught her wrist and for a moment they were standing close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips, see the way the raindrops clung to her eyelashes.

She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. Then she turned and walked away.

T
he faint scent of lamb-and-artichoke stew, overlaid by the buttery, tangy scent of the crepes spread with
crème au citron
she’d made for dessert, enveloped her as she closed the kitchen door behind her.

She fought to slot the heavy key in the lock, still thinking of Aldridge. The way the rain left his hair curling along his forehead. The touch of his lips against hers. The solid, taut strength of his body.

She went still at the scrape of a chair behind her.

“I’d appreciate it if you would let me know when you’re taking the key, Cook. I am responsible for locking up in this house.”

She turned to face Edgars and frowned a little at the strange way he was staring at her. “Certainly. I didn’t want to be locked out, because I didn’t know how late I’d be.”

“Mrs. Rogers, the cook before you, never went out once in all the years she worked here. Sometimes not even on her actual days off.”

Gigi kept the irritation prickling under her skin under control as she walked down the stairs. “I am not Mrs. Rogers.” She gave a shrug.

“No. You most certainly are not.”

Still that strange, considering look.

She couldn’t let this bother her. Edgars had some fixed idea of how cooks comported themselves. Some standard according to which she was obviously failing, yet what had she really done but go about her private business?

“Mr. Edgars, is his lordship unhappy with my work?” She didn’t mean for it to come out quite so sharply.

Edgars said nothing.

“Has any meal been missed, or late, or inferior in any way?”

Above her, the front door opened, and she wondered why it had taken Aldridge so long to come inside.

Could he have walked down the street to check on Goldfern first? Make sure all was well since the burglary?

Edgars’ attention shifted from her to upstairs; he tipped his head back, listening.

“I’m assuming by your silence not.” She raised a hand to the neck of her cloak to undo the tie, and stopped herself just in time, horror at the thought of Edgars seeing her ball gown making her momentarily light-headed.

Edgars glanced at her. “You’ll know immediately if your performance of your duties isn’t up to scratch, madam.” He turned smartly and ran lightly up the stairs to the hallway.

The way he’d looked at her . . .

With trembling, shaking fingers, Gigi reached up to her ears, touched the earrings dangling from them. Two-carat diamonds with a lustrous pearl hanging below.

Earrings no cook would ever own.

J
onathan stood in the small withdrawing room off Durnham’s hallway, waiting for the butler to tell him if Durnham was at home, and forced his hands to unclench.

Rocking back on his heels, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared out the window at the rain-washed, windblown street.

He was still angry with Edgars, even though two days had passed. His anger had been just beneath the surface with every interaction he’d had with his butler since his insinuations of a tryst with Madame Levéel. And last night and this morning, Edgars had behaved in a tight, affronted manner, which could only be the result of both him and Madame Levéel coming in within minutes of each other again after Lady Crowder’s ball.

And even though it annoyed him beyond belief, edging his anger sharper, he felt a little splinter of contrition. Because even though Edgars was completely out of bounds regarding his relationship with Madame Levéel, Jonathan couldn’t help
the flash of white heat that must have shown in his eyes when Edgars had voiced his suspicions.