“I am too pragmatic to value manners over comfort, Colonel, and I did not surrender all of the biscuits to the children.” Then too, Ann wanted to see his office, a space where he would not normally welcome a social caller.
He’d seen her kitchen, after all.
“Cider and biscuits?” he asked, detouring into the kitchen. “Or could I tempt you to try my hot buttered rum, in deference to the weather?”
“Is the recipe yours?”
“My grandfather’s, then my father’s, and now mine.”
Ann was torn between the notion that a lady did not take strong spirits and a burning curiosity to know his recipe.
The colonel leaned closer, as if the children laughing and carrying on in the hall might overhear him. “I’d take it as a kindness if you’d say yes. My hip is predicting colder weather, and a medicinal tot would enliven my afternoon considerably.”
“In the interests of facilitating your good health, I will accept a small serving of your hot buttered rum.”
The ingredients were few and readily at hand: dark rum, butter, brown sugar, water, spices, and—Ann would not have thought to add this—a precious dash of vanilla.
“You don’t measure the spices?” she asked, itching to take notes regarding the order in which the nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and allspice went into the mix. No ginger, which was sensible. Ginger had a pungent quality the other warm spices lacked.
“A pinch per serving,” he said, giving his melted butter-and-spice mixture a stir. “The real question is how much hot water to add, and that’s a matter of personal taste. Shall we take our drinks to my office, where we can enjoy them without the sound of pitched battle from across the corridor?”
“A happy battle,” Ann said, taking the steaming teakettle off the hearth swing. “I’d like my drink to resemble yours as nearly as possible.”
He poured off his mixture into two sizable, plain mugs. “I prefer mine at what we used to call marching strength.”
“If I’m to learn to make this concoction to serve at the Coventry, then I must acquaint myself with the version that will appeal to a robustly healthy male in his prime.”
“About as much water as rum,” he said, stepping back. “And I will cheerfully carry you home if the dose is too extreme for the patient.”
He could do it too. Toss her over his shoulder and march back to her house, there to delight Miss Julia and Miss Dianna with his manly vigor.
Ann poured the hot water into the mugs, creating the most delicious scent imaginable. Buttery heaven, redolent of exotic spices and a rich, rummy undernote.
“I will carry the drinks,” the colonel said, “and you will leave the mess for Mrs. Murphy to tidy up.”
“If Mrs. Murphy is smart,” Ann replied, leading the way to the steps, “she’ll pour a dollop of rum into the dregs of the butter mixture and make herself a midafternoon treat.”
“Mrs. Murphy is smitten.” Colonel Goddard collected the mugs and followed in Ann’s wake. “She has a swain of recent acquaintance, and I fear she will soon trade the glory of keeping my house for the joys of holy matrimony.”
“Don’t you mean the bonds of holy matrimony?”
“Left at the head of the stairs,” the colonel said. “Bonds are not always a bad thing, Miss Pearson. Soldiers who’ve bonded with their comrades will fight more fiercely than those who do battle simply to earn the king’s shilling. You are employed by a pair of siblings, and if I were to offend one Dorning brother, I have no doubt the remaining six would see me taken to task. That door,” he said, nodding. “You are sworn to secrecy regarding unpaid bills and personal correspondence.”
Colonel Goddard’s office was, like the man himself, tidy and unassuming. The scent was leather, books, ink, and a hint of pipe tobacco. A manly space, and—as promised—well heated.
“You spend a lot of time in here,” Ann said, inspecting the artwork. No military portraits or battle scenes. Instead, a landscape hung over the mantel, pastures and tilled fields under a pretty summer sky, a Tudor manor off to the side with red roses climbing halfway up one wall.
Opposite the windows hung a pair of portraits, the first of an older gentleman in the finery of the previous century. The second portrait was of two children, a boy and girl, the boy several years older than the girl. She had russet braids and a serious gaze that put Ann in mind of Jeanette Dorning. The dark-haired boy, who stood with a hand on the girl’s shoulder, bristled with mischief and high spirits.
“You were a rascal.” Ann set her reticule on the desk that faced the hearth. Two wing chairs stood between the desk and the fireplace, a hassock before one of them. “That has to be you and Mrs. Dorning.”
“Guilty as charged. My childhood was mostly happy, though I cannot say Jeanette’s early years were as sanguine as my own. I was the indulged only son, the apple of my papa’s eye. We lost our mother too soon, though that took a harder toll on Jeanette than on me. You must not let your drink get cold. I believe you promised me biscuits, Miss Pearson.”
“And I always keep my word.” Ann wanted to make a circuit of the study, to handle the three little netsukes on the mantel—an elephant, a tiger, a horse—and to open the delicate cloisonné box on the windowsill to see if it held snuff, mints, or nothing at all.
The usual office accoutrements were in plain sight—abacus, paper, wax jack, pen tray, ink, quill pens, blotter, pounce pot, correspondence—but the small touches made the room as much a haven as a place of business.
The colonel brought her drink to her. “What does that look portend? Does the sight of my slippers offend?”
“Not at all.” His scuffed slippers were tidily placed before the hearth, where they would stay warm until he had need of them. “I’m asking myself why the Coventry’s kitchen has no small touches. Why not display a pretty painted tray on the deal table, or bring in the occasional flower from the garden?” Ann’s own kitchen wasn’t any more welcoming than her place of business.
The colonel touched his mug to hers. “To your health, Miss Pearson.”
“And yours.” Ann cradled the warm mug in her hands, a pleasure in itself, as was the spicy scent. She tried a cautious sip. “That is a powerful brew, Colonel.”
“I’ll fetch the teakettle if you’d like to add some water to yours.”
Ann took another sip. “Warms the innards, which I believe was the point.” The toddy also delighted the tongue with its smooth texture and spicy flavor.
“My grandmother liked hers with a dash of raspberry liqueur and fewer spices,” the colonel said. “Shall we be seated?”
“My imagination will gallop away with that idea—raspberry liqueur and rum—and you will make a sot of me as I concoct my recipes.”
The colonel took one of the chairs before the fire, Ann took the other.
“Raspberry liqueur makes a nice addition to champagne, according to some,” he said. “Others like to blend the juice of oranges with a humble champagne, or even lemonade. I can’t see it myself.”
Ann could taste these ideas and smell them and see the pretty results. “You mentioned cold weather earlier. Can you truly predict the weather with your old injury?”