“Marriage is all right for some,” Cynthia conceded. “But I won’t do it if I have to be paired with an idiot.”
“Maybe Mr. Thanos will propose,” Tess suggested brightly.
Cynthia’s flush rose all the way to her fair hair. “Why should he? Bachelor’s life is good for Mr. Thanos. Besides, he hasn’t got two pennies to rub together. He can’t afford a wife. Well, must get upstairs before Auntie realizes I’m here and drags me away by the ear.”
She turned and nearly ran out of the kitchen, banging her way up the stairs. The slam of the door at the top echoed down the corridor.
Tess drooped. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said nothing. Didn’t mean to put me foot in it.”
I calmly laid out a few cinnamon sticks. “Not your fault, Tess. I think Cynthia would be deliriously happy living in a cramped flat with Mr. Thanos and making certain his socks match. I must do something about that.”
Tess clapped her floury hands. “Can I help?”
“Perhaps.” I had no wish for her to go blundering in with some mad scheme in her enthusiasm. “Now, pay attention, and I will teach you a new pudding.”
I had procured the meat of a coconut from a vendor not long ago. It had been a bit dear, but I’d kept it wrapped in paper and now shredded it into a jug of cream.
Now to combine the spice mixture. “Star anise, a bay leaf, cinnamon, vanilla, and a scraping of nutmeg,” I said, dropping each into a pot. “Mixed with a little cocoa powder and water. Grated chocolate would be best, but I could not find any that did not cost the earth. We warm this on the stove for a time, and then add it to our custard.”
Tess was fascinated by the coconut. She prodded the shredded, wet mass with her spoon. “I saw a coconut tree once at Kew Gardens. Big, tall palm, it was, with nuts as big as me head.”
“A wonder of the world,” I agreed. “We are lucky to be able to have such foods from all parts of the planet.”
“Sun never sets on the British Empire, they say,” Tess said, then she let out a laugh. “And it never shows its face in London.”
I finished the spice infusion, simmered it a time on the stove, then let it cool. Meanwhile I had Tess combine the coconut mixture with cream I’d boiled and sweetened a few days before. I strained the infusion into the creams and added a beaten egg, then the whole thing went into a pudding basin and into the oven.
“We have to watch it carefully so it doesn’t scorch,” I warned.
Tess, busy licking the spoon and bowl, couldn’t be bothered to answer.
The custard did turn out, and I sent it up for supper in individual cups nestled in a bowl of ice to keep them cool. For the rest of the meal, I did salmon, a soup of thinly sliced vegetables, filets of beef with asparagus, a salad, and a whole chicken. As usual, the plates came back empty.
Sometime later, as the kitchen calmed and after Tess had gone up to bed, I drew a much-needed breath and set a kettle on for tea.
I truly did not wish Cynthia to return to Lady Covington’s and endanger herself, but on the other hand, she was my eyes and ears inside the house. I did not trust the servants there—Symes might be sweet on me, but if he was loyal to whoever was poisoning Lady Covington, he’d hardly give the person up to me. He might even be pretending interest in me to steer me wrong.
A step brought me out of my contemplation. The figure of a man emerged from the cavernous darkness of the hall, a chance beam of light gleaming on his thinning hair, sharp face, and lines of narrow sideburns.
“Your lordship?” I curtsied, but kept near my table, aware of how alone I was. The kitchen echoed my words.
“Mrs. Holloway.” Lord Clifford entered, his shoulders slightly stooped under his tailor-made coat. “I came to tell you how much I enjoyed your pudding—the custard with the unusual spices. Most excellent.”
I curtsied again. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t be stiff-necked, my girl.” Lord Clifford came closer without unease, a man used to making his way into anyplace he liked. “I often descend to praise a good cook. And give her a token of my appreciation.” He dipped his hand into his frock coat and emerged with a coin.
A gold sovereign. Quite a lot of money for a tip. A cook could expect to be given a penny for her trouble, or perhaps a shilling if the person decided to be generous.
An entire pound was unheard of. If I tried to spend that, I might be taken for a thief or a counterfeiter.
“You are very kind, your lordship, but I cannot accept so much.”
“Absolute rot.” Lord Clifford opened his hazel eyes wide. “Of course you should have this. You earned it.”
I could discern where Cynthia obtained her casual charm. Lord Clifford obviously thought nothing of wandering downstairs and chucking high-value coins at a cook.
When I said nothing, Lord Clifford tossed the coin onto the table. It rolled across the flour I’d spread out to knead the piecrust for tomorrow’s breakfast tart. The coin teetered, spun, and clattered to rest on the flour-dusted board.
“Thank you, your lordship,” I said, as he seemed to be waiting for me to acknowledge the gift.
“And perhaps you won’t say a word to your supercilious butler about a bottle or two finding their way to my chamber.” Lord Clifford winked at me and touched the side of his nose.
So that was his game. Butter up the cook so she’ll let him abscond with Lord Rankin’s best vintage.
“Papa?” Cynthia’s voice rang down the passageway, and Lord Clifford winced, like a boy caught out of school. “What are you doing down here? Nicking more wine, are you?”
Lord Clifford flushed as Cynthia strode into the kitchen and halted beside him. Her suit was a mirror of her father’s.
“I was simply rewarding Mrs. Holloway for a meal well cooked,” he protested. “You are far too distrustful, my dear.”
“I know you well, is all.” Cynthia tucked her arm through Lord Clifford’s. “Mummy is searching for you.”
Lord Clifford glanced heavenward. “She wants to drag me to some dreary play in a musty theatre. Why aren’t you going with her, daughter? It’s the Season, isn’t it? The time when young ladies swathe themselves in jewels and try to catch a man’s eye. You’ll never marry at this rate, and you know you must.”
Cynthia kept her tone even. “I am exhausted and shocked from the events last evening.”
“Oh, right. The young lady dropping dead in the middle of the Crystal Palace. Was all over the newspapers. Poor thing.” To Lord Clifford’s credit, he did sound sad.
“It was awful. Yet Mrs. Holloway came home and made spectacular meals all day for us. You ought to give her a thousand guineas, Papa, not one small sovereign.”