He led her out of harm’s way. “I need you sit down in this chair and stay here until the pain is gone, even if it takes all night. I’ll bring you a fresh towel with a bit of ice.”
“But what about the cake?” She gazed over his shoulder at the crushed disaster. “The first tables must already be expecting their dessert.”
Yes. John was aware of the problem. The question was what to do about it.
He gazed around the kitchen, taking in the wide-eyed expressions of the staff and the general mayhem of globs of cream cheese dripping from every visible surface.
At least it wasn’t on fire, he supposed. Anne’s skin was bruised, but her bones hadn’t broken. No one was screaming, or running for their lives. It could be worse.
It could also be…better.
To his surprise, he was not in the panic he might have expected himself to suffer upon experiencing such a disastrous end to an otherwise perfect evening. This was Allegra’s doing, he realized with a begrudging smile. She had forced him to confront the truth that even if everything that could go wrong, did go wrong, it would not be the end of the world.
The kitchen was his pianoforte, she’d told him. The ingredients, his ivory keys.
All he had to do was find the music and play.
Quickly, he assigned one maid to look after Anne, and two more to clean the floors and soiled surfaces. The next two footmen to enter the kitchen were dispatched to remove the ruined cake, leaving John with a large, empty surface to fill with…what, exactly?
“Charlotte Russe,” he said aloud.
“What?” said one of the footmen.
John waved him away and started fetching ingredients.
Charlotte Russe cake was not properly cake at all, but instead traditionally made from old bread. He would have to deviate from the recipe and take a few other creative liberties, but there was plenty of bread. Was there enough fruit for a compote? He ordered two footmen and a maid to start whipping cream for frosting, and dashed to the pantry in search of fruit.
There was not enough of any one thing for him to make one cohesive unit, therefore…he would not. Tonight’s dessert would be served in small individual dishes, rather than a large tureen.
He barked orders for clean pots and chopped fruits and rations of sugar, bringing several different pans of future compote to a simmer whilst a trio of maids set about preparing a bread base for the cake.
“We serve it warm,” he informed the staff. “Hot compote on top, as soon as each one is ready. We’ll send it out with a drizzle of brandy on top, and a bowl of whipped cream for each table, so that the footmen can add a dollop just before handing each guest their individual dish.”
They nodded in understanding, each fervently attuned to their station in order to get the first tray out the door as quickly as possible.
It took all of them working together, but with only the slightest of delays, guests were being served individual desserts and the supper was saved.
After the final tray left the kitchen, John yanked off his cravat to mop his face, hung up his apron and washed his hands, then snuck out into the corridor to spy on the closest dinner guests.
They were smiling.
Smiling.
Eating, and laughing, and chatting merrily, with absolutely no idea of the chaos that had reigned on the other side of these walls. If the dessert was not as elegant as they’d expected, no one pursed their lips in distaste. They all looked happy and satisfied, their furtive glances sent not toward the kitchen, but towards the ballroom, from which direction the sound of Allegra’s music soared joyfully through the air.
He slipped past the supper nooks to watch her from afar before guests filled the empty ballroom.
Even though she was not facing him, she somehow sensed his presence, and brought her song to an end.
“John!”
He reached her in less than ten strides, and drew her into a consuming kiss before reluctantly letting go. “Don’t stop playing on my behalf. You’ll have a revolt on your hands.”
“They’ll survive a five-minute respite.” Her eyes searched his. “How is it going?”
“The last of the dessert trays has been served.”
She beamed at him. “I knew everything would go smoothly!”
“It was a disaster,” he informed her. “One of the footmen turned the recipe book into glue and I have a bruised-and-concussed maid recovering on a wooden stool.”
Her mouth fell open. “But…”
“But,” he continued with a lopsided smile, “it all worked out, thanks to you.”
“Me! I’ve been in here the whole time—”
“You,” he said softly, “inspire me to be a better me. To turn a sad song into a beautiful melody. To be the music, and to find a way to share it with others. To make it up as I go along. Much like our daring Captain L’Amour as he swashbuckles his way through yet another high seas adventure.”
“I’m so glad!” She reached for him.
He caught her hands and brought them to his heart. “I have a proposal for you.”
Her brown eyes widened in alarm.
“I know you’re uninterested in marriage,” he said quickly. “I shan’t belabor the point and embarrass myself when we both know the answer to that question. There is an alternative, however.”
“An alternative to…marriage?”
He nodded. “But first, I need you to know that there are no strings attached to my offer. You are a fully independent woman who is about to become even more so.”
“When I inherit my small portion, you mean?”
“When you inherit a significantly larger portion than that.” He reached inside his waistcoat to retrieve his copy of the trust.
“I misread the contract?” she said in surprise.
“Your interpretation that your individual share is half the size of what would have been your dowry, is correct.”
She frowned. “Then I don’t see the cause for joy.”
“One thousand pounds was the base sum,” he explained. “Your portion on the day that the contract was signed. For the following two decades, the principal has been invested with compound interest, the minimum of which generated a five percent return.”
“What…do those numbers mean?”
“It means your half-portion is now three times what it was on the day the contract was drafted.”
“My portion is…three thousand pounds?” she said in disbelief.
“It absolutely is. If there were any doubt—of which I have none—any competent solicitor could argue the rule of precedent, in that your uncle’s commission as trustee is based on the rolling current value, rather than a fixed sum, which therefore implies all portions paid out from the kitty should forthwith be treated in a likewise equitable manner.”
She blinked and whispered, “Did you just…solicitor me?”
“I did,” he whispered back. “Was it too much?”
“It’s incredibly erotic. How do you feel about making love to me on this piano?”
“Too public,” he said sadly. “Buy your own, and I’ll think about it.”
“With three thousand pounds, I can purchase a pianoforte specifically for wild debauchery.”
“Exactly how any responsible solicitor would advise you to spend your money,” he said with approval. “I accept your offer, and shall now make mine.”