“You could sell a few of your jewels.”
“It’s paste,” he hissed. “All of it. The gowns aren’t paid for and neither are the boots on my feet. It’s why we’re here. My trustee stipend paid for two months at Siren’s Retreat. That has to be long enough. We cannot show our faces back in London unless there’s coin in my pocket to settle our accounts, and we are running out of time.”
“You could let your daughter marry the man she loves,” Allegra said softly. “Once you have wed your wealthy widow, surely there can be no fear of Portia starving in an alley.”
Uncle Townsend curled his lip. “I don’t know why I bothered trying to reason with you. Of course you refuse to understand. All I ask is for you to stay out of their way. If you love your cousins, you will not ruin their chances—or mine.”
He spun on his unpaid boots and stalked away before Allegra could respond.
She watched the dance floor thoughtfully as she finished the reel and began a minuet. Uncle Townsend was not alone in his practical concerns. For young ladies in particular, marrying well was often the only path to securing one’s future.
But Portia was in love. Did that count for nothing?
What’s more, if it did matter, if being in love should indeed take precedence over practical concerns…
Then what did that mean Allegra should do about her own future?
Chapter 21
The beads of sweat gathering inside John’s loosened cravat had little to do with the steam rising from the simmering pot before him. After vowing to never again attempt to cook for strangers in someone else’s kitchen with the (questionable) aid of someone else’s staff, here he was, attempting exactly that.
Thus far, things were going unsettlingly well. Thanks to the journal of meticulous notes comprising every detail gleaned from his interviews with the prior chef de cuisine, John had discovered every tool and utensil exactly where he expected it to be, and the personality and competencies of every worker exactly as foretold.
Rather than relieve the tightness in his shoulders, John was even more on edge. When not at his sturdy desk in his private office scrutinizing legal documents, he was a man whose personal life was a Shakespearean comedy of absurdly bad luck.
Yet, beginning with the moment rampant horses had declined to crush him to dust where he stood, John’s fortune had turned improbably…good. He liked Brighton enough to want to stay. He enjoyed the brisk, salty air and the soothing sound of the sea. He adored his apartments at Siren’s Retreat, and the plentiful circulating libraries within walking distance.
And he loved Allegra.
She had not run off screaming into the night upon discovering his desire to be a chef, rather than a solicitor. She had encouraged him. No, more than that: she had all but twisted his arm and prodded him into the kitchen like a herder driving a stubborn donkey down the right path. Only an arse would fail to make the most of it.
He checked his notes on the final savory course for the hundredth time, then carefully replaced his journal out of harm’s way on the table behind him. John could not risk it tumbling from his pocket and being trampled on the stone floor.
He not only wanted to bring gastronomical pleasure to the hundreds of guests enjoying tonight’s ball, but also needed to show Allegra that she was right to have placed her faith in him. He was the man for the job. The tea room of his dreams would sell to someone else long before he could save enough blunt to purchase a building, but he would find somewhere.
As long as he made it through tonight.
John placed a silver lid atop the final platter and motioned to a footman. “Here’s the last tray.”
Next would be the dessert course, which tonight was Mr. Young’s famous—
The footman lifted John’s recipe journal rather than the supper tray. “Did someone leave a book here?”
“Put that down,” John barked. “Step away from it.”
The footman flinched at John’s tone, causing the precious recipe book to leap in his suddenly fumbling hands. Pages riffled in the air as the journal turned a somersault.
John reached for it.
So did the footman.
Rather than catch the falling book, their hands collided mid-air, knocking the book sideways and up like a wild swing in a cricket match.
Right toward the mobcapped head of the maid placing decorative shavings of candied orange and lemon on the elaborate spice cake pyramid John had spent the past two hours baking and covering with buttery cream cheese.
“Anne!” was all he managed to blurt out before chaos ensued.
At the sound of his voice, the maid turned her head—and took the hard corner of the leather book to her temple for her troubles. One elbow sank directly into the center of John’s exquisite cake sculpture. Her other arm flung out automatically, as though to ward off an attacker—sending the book flying straight toward the stove…where a giant iron pot currently bubbled over an open flame, in the hopes of dislodging the crust stuck to its edges.
John reached out, but was too far away to intercept the book before it splashed down into boiling water, sending a scalding spray of dirty lava shooting across the floor and splattering what had, seconds ago, been the grandest, most dazzlingly perfect dessert confection of his life.
A drop of Anne’s blood drizzled from her rapidly purpling temple. She swayed on unsteady legs.
John caught her beneath the armpits seconds before she would have sagged to the dirty floor in a dead swoon.
The footman stared at him in horror, taking in the boiling book quickly turning to gooey paste in the iron pot, the enormous cream-cheese-frosted pyramid dented in the shape of a woman’s body, the barely conscious woman slumped against John’s apron, both of which were now smeared with frosting and dotted with blood.
“Kershaw,” John said as evenly as he could through teeth clenched tight enough to shatter. “Would you please take the last savory tray to the final table waiting to be served?”
The footman nodded so vigorously, one would be forgiven for thinking his head had come unhinged. He spun on his heels, slipping only slightly on the wet floor, before scooping up the tray with the silver platter and hurrying out of the kitchen.
John would not be surprised if, after delivering the serving dish, Kershaw decided to set down his tray and keep on walking right out the door.
Heaven knew, John was debating doing the same thing.
“Uhhh,” Anne moaned. “What was that?”
“That,” John said grimly, “was the recipe book for tonight’s ball.”
He helped her to her feet just as a scullery maid arrived with a clean rag dipped in cold water for Anne’s temple.
Diners would be expecting the dessert course to begin at any moment.
There was no hope of serving the painstakingly constructed spice cake pyramid. Even without the human-sized dent squashed into the middle, it had been sprayed with filthy water from the boiling pot.
There was also no time to whip up twenty-five more cakes, cool them, stack them, carve them, and frost them with two gallons of fresh cream cheese.
“I knew my fortune couldn’t hold,” he muttered.
The perfect night was ruined.
“Tell me what you need me to do,” Anne mumbled. “I’m all right.”