At a quarter past seven, Ambrose Oliver appeared in the dining room doorway.
Miss Newport noticed his entrance and ducked her head, making a show of looking for something in her reticule.
Mr. Oliver swaggered inside, leaving his ... associate ... standing guard at the door.
What a pompous prig, Frederick thought. As if any of them would swarm the man, celebrated author or not.
But then Frederick had cause to repent of his acidic thought. The mother-daughter duo left their seats, mincingly approached the writer’s table, and began telling him how much they enjoyed his latest novel, lifting their copy as proof.
The man at the door straightened to attention, but Mr. Oliver waved him off.
“Why, thank you, ladies,” Mr. Oliver politely replied. Gaze lingering on the charming younger female, he added, “Would you like me to sign my autograph inside?”
His autograph? Frederick rolled his eyes.
“Ohhh! Would you?” Both women cooed and offered up their treasured volume.
Mr. Oliver signaled the waiter and asked for pen and ink, which was quickly appropriated from the desk of the maître d’hôtel.
The author signed his name with a flourish, blowing it dry with thick, pursed lips. He ended up with a smear of ink on his mouth, or perhaps it had been there already and Frederick just now noticed.
Looking back at his table companions, Frederick saw that Miss Newport had returned her attention to Miss Lane, asking for more details about her travels, although she seemed to barely attend the answers.
———
Rebecca was able to relax when the first course arrived and everyone’s focus turned to their meals. Thecrême d’aspergesoup was hot and savory with asparagus tips floating in a creamy broth and served with crusty rolls and butter. This was followed by trout amandine and then tender filet mignon adorned with mushrooms, potatoes, tiny kidneys, and crisply fried onions.Delicious.If Miss Joly ate half as well, then no wonder she was happy.
After the main course had been served, Mr. Mayhew entered the dining room with a shorter man dressed all in white, from double-breasted jacket and apron to the pleated toque atop his dark head. The two men moved from table to table, accepting compliments.
Mr. Mayhew approached them and said, “If you will pardon the interruption, my friends, I should like to introduce our most talented chef, Monsieur Marhic.”
“Merci, mon vieux,” the man humbly replied. He looked from person to person, wearing a closed-lip smile, then asked, “Everything you want you have?”
Around the table, they all nodded and declared everything delicious.
He touched fingers to the double row of buttons near his heart and bowed. “You gratify me.”
Then the chef turned to Rebecca, his dark eyes merry. “And what to follow, mademoiselle? Cheese? A little fruit?”
“Nothing more for me, thank you. I cannot remember the last time I ate so much and so well.”
The chef beamed, bowed again, and departed a happy man.
After the meal, Rebecca visited Lady Fitzhoward’s room and found Miss Joly offering the older woman a draught and laying a cool cloth on her brow.
Concern washed over her. “Are you unwell, my lady? Shall I fetch some bouillon, perhaps? Or ask Mr. Mayhew to summon a doctor?”
The patient frowned. “A doctor? Why? I am not on my deathbed—however much my husband’s son might wish it. A simple case of the megrims. A doctor! Let us have none of that tribe here. I go on very well as it is. Do I not, Joly?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Are you certain?” Rebecca persisted. “It is not like you to miss dinner.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, they sent up a tray, and I even ate a few bites. Don’t fuss, Miss Lane.”
“But there must be something I can do. A book from the library, perhaps?”
Lady Fitzhoward winced. “My head pounds harder at the mere thought of reading. But you could do one thing.” Her eyes brightened. “Tell me what I missed at dinner.”
