Sycamore Dorning could exaggerate a point for the sake of emphasis, but he wasn’t given to outright lying. “Why is Jules leaving in such haste?”
Mrs. Dorning sent her spouse a look.
“I could tell you,” Mr. Dorning said, “that Jules is at pains to avoid an awkward interview with the magistrate, and that much is true. My fancy French chef colluded with Brigadier Horace Upchurch to steal four hundred cases of champagne from Colonel Goddard, though I believe Upchurch will see most of the goods returned and pay the purchase price for any missing bottles.”
“He had better,” Ann muttered, getting up to pace. “Does Colonel Goddard know of Jules’s involvement?”
Orion had escorted Ann to her doorstep at dawn. They’d spent the night loving, talking, and drowsing, but he had neglected to mention Jules’s hand in the theft of the champagne—if he’d been aware of it.
“He should know,” Mr. Dorning said, “but the champagne isn’t the half of it, Miss Pearson. You haven’t been to the Coventry today, have you?”
“Not yet. I planned to look in on Hannah this afternoon.” Orion was paying a call on Deschamps this morning, and then he’d promised Ann he would call on her too. They had more to discuss.
Much more.
“We saw firsthand what happens in the kitchen when you aren’t there,” Mrs. Dorning said. “Pandemonium wrapped in chaos tied up with mayhem. Hannah and Henry were of more use than Jules or his so-called sous-chef. That the guests were fed at all is only because you left instructions and set enough of a good example that some of the staff could carry on in the face of utter uproar.”
The Dornings had declined a tea tray, which was fortunate, because at that moment, Ann was so muddled, she could not have managed the sugar tongs.
“The staff works hard,” she said, resuming her seat. “Jules is truly leaving?”
“He’ll be on a packet headed for Calais on tonight’s outgoing tide,” Mr. Dorning said. “Will you take the post of chef?”
A year ago, that question would have embodied every hope and aspiration Ann’s heart held. A year ago, she would have answered with an unreserved yes, and part of her still longed to.
“May I have some time to think about it?”
Another look passed between husband and wife, one suggesting that Mrs. Dorning had predicted that Ann would not immediately accept the post.
“Provided you continue running my kitchen in the meanwhile, you may ponder the question as long as you please,” Mr. Dorning said, getting to his feet and offering a hand to his wife. “My soul shrivels to contemplate the state of the kitchen last night, Miss Pearson.”
“As does mine,” Mrs. Dorning added. “Matters were truly dire, but Hannah rescued your instructions from the rubbish bin, and we muddled along with extra champagne rations for the guests. There is many a sore head in Mayfair this morning thanks to your departure from the kitchen, Miss Pearson. We really do need you.”
Ann saw her guests to the foyer and was just offering them a farewell curtsey when a hard rap sounded on the door. Mr. Dorning performed the butler’s office and stepped back to allow Orion to join the small crowd in the foyer.
“Dorning.” Orion’s bow was little more than a nod. “And Nettie.” He kissed his sister’s cheek. “A pleasure to see you, but what brings you to Miss Pearson’s abode so early in the day?”
Mr. Dorning drew in a breath as if to hold forth about pandemonium and mayhem, but his wife passed him his hat before he could launch his diatribe.
“We came to ask Miss Pearson to take pity on our kitchen,” Mrs. Dorning said. “I fear we are too late, for it appears she’s had—or is about to receive—a better offer. We’ll bid you good day. Come along, Sycamore.”
She all but pulled her husband with her through the front doorway.
Orion set his hat on one hook and draped his cloak over another. He looked well, if tired, and he wasn’t wearing his eye patch.
“You are upset, Annie. If Dorning offended you, I will have a very stern word with him. He’s my brother-in-law, so I can’t thrash him outright, but a short discussion—”
Ann wrapped her arms around Orion and held fast. “They asked me to be the chef at the Coventry. Jules helped to steal your champagne, and I gather last night did not go well in the kitchen.”
“Jules is not my brother-in-law. He’d best be on his way back across the Channel, or I will take a potato masher to his handsome French phiz. Let’s sit down, shall we? I’ve a need to hold you in my lap.”
“Orion,” Ann said, not turning loose of him, “Sycamore Dorning offered me the post of chef at the Coventry.” She needed to hold on to him while they had this conversation.
“You already are the only chef worth the name at the Coventry. What you mean is, he’s offered to pay you what you’re worth. Come.” Orion took Ann by the hand and led her not to the guest parlor, but to the family parlor.
“Orion, be serious.”
“You did not get enough sleep last night,” he said, closing the parlor door and scooping Ann into his arms. He settled into a wing chair with Ann in his lap and rested his cheek against her temple. “I apologize for that, but when we marry, you might occasionally go short of sleep. You can turn Dorning down, you know. Just because you will be family to him by marriage doesn’t mean you have to indulge his little dramas. There are other cooks in London who can put on a fancy buffet—though, of course, none as talented as you.”
“You speak as if I could accept his offer.”
“Do you want to accept his offer?”
The previous night should have made it plain that Orion Goddard liked to leaven complicated discussions with affection. He’d told Ann the details of Uncle Horace’s situation, including Aunt Melisande’s straying and Emily Bainbridge’s role.
“I thought you and I were to be married, Orion.”
“I desperately hope we are. But what has making me the happiest man on earth to do with making profiteroles to inspire envy from the angels?”
He did not sound as if he was being purposely obtuse. “This is not France. If I am your wife, people will expect me to stay home and have your babies.”
“I already have half a dozen babies of the half-grown variety, and no wife stays home with them. Melisande has a child in the nursery whom she doesn’t even see some days. What do you want, Annie? What would make you happy?”
“I love to cook, and I want to be your wife.”
“Then cook and be my wife. Dorning had better pay you what he paid that inebriated bouffon, or—”
Ann kissed him. “Gentlemen’s spouses don’t typically work for a wage.”
“I am not a gentleman. I am a humble wine merchant who wants his wife to be happy. I thought you dreamed of writing a cookbook? If last night’s meal is any indication, Annie, your recipes will sell better than Byron’s naughty poems.”
“I do want to write a cookbook, and I’ve had an idea.” This idea had come to her in the middle of the night, between bouts of loving and talking.
“Do tell. I’ve had a few ideas, too, and one of them involves a special license and a wedding journey to Provence.”