“Be sure to warn the poor girl, especially since she doesn’t have a large family,” added Ben. “Nora and Maggie will ask a hundred questions. You don’t want her running out the front door with her hands over her ears.”
The image sent Eli into a gale of laughter. “With both women following her down the stairs, still wanting answers, and Aonarach howling at their heels.”
The next thought sobered him. “If this man works for The Vicar, then Mr. Alberts did too. We have to include his name in any report made. He told her he did ‘very bad’ things for his employer.” What would happen between him and Miss Alberts? Would she hate him for reporting her father as a criminal?
Gus broke into his reverie. “If the man was smart enough to flee England, he’s safe unless he returns. Knowing what we do about this organization, her father would hang if he stepped foot on English soil again.”
Back on the street, Elijah considered his options. Tell Miss Alberts and risk her anger. She may never want to see him again. Don’t tell her, and she finds out later that he was instrumental in naming her father as a criminal. Or he could “forget” to include his name on any report.
He had to be honest with her, regardless of the outcome. He wouldn’t compromise his integrity or demean any possible victims by omitting Mr. Alberts’s possible involvement in a crime. It went against everything he believed in, but his heart ached with the thought of hurting her. Those emerald eyes swimming in tears because of him.
Elijah remembered Gus’s suggestion to inquire at the hospitals, checking on any major injuries which might have come through the night Eli saw Mr. Alberts. One nurse remembered a man carried in, but he said he’d been hit by a carriage. She had doubted the claim because of the injuries to his face and hands. “The ribs might have been broken by wheels, but I was doubtful about the rest. If I were a gambler, I’d wager he was lying. Looked to me as if he’d been a godawful scrape and got the worst of it.”
The man had refused to give his name, a common occurrence, and limped from the hospital after being bandaged. Eli stopped at home, checked on his grandmother, who shoved two pasties at him wrapped in paper.
“Are you seeing your diamond tonight?” she asked.
He laughed and pinched her cheek. “It’s Ruby, not Diamond. Yes, I’m seeing her later this evening.” Eli had asked her about the moniker he’d heard her father use. She had explained her father had given it to her as a little girl because of her hair. Now close friends used it too. When she gave permission for him to do so, he’d felt a rush of joy.
“Good, my grandson is too handsome not to have a pretty girl on his arm. You’re happy when you speak of her. There’s an expression on your face I haven’t seen before.” She pinched his cheek back and grinned. “When am I going to meet her?”
“Her half days are Thursday and Sunday, so maybe this Sunday?” he asked, enjoying the playful gleam back in his grandmother’s eyes.
“I’ll cook something nice. She’ll appreciate someone else doing the work for her. What about Maggie and Paddy? Shall we invite them?” Grandmama’s tone was uninterested, but he knew better. She was fishing.
“I thought, if our courtship continues, I’d take her for our Sunday dinner at the end of the month.” He grinned when his grandmother smiled knowingly.
When some of his brothers began moving out, Maggie had worried their weekly Sunday dinners would end. It was a time when the entire family gathered, discussed the week, and spent an evening laughing, singing, dancing, and enjoying each other’s company.
Sampson went first, explaining that his odd hours as a doctor made it easier to have his own place. He hated disturbing the family when he was summoned in the middle of the night. Then Clayton decided he needed his own place. Eli had moved out to help support his grandmother shortly after that. Ben now lived above his office; Harry and Mattie would live near St. James’s Park when they returned from their honeymoon. It was only Gus and Nora still at the O’Briens.
To accommodate everyone’s busy lives, Maggie decided that once a month they would all gather for a Sunday dinner. She continued cooking every Sunday for any of her children able to stop by, but monthly gatherings, when they were all together around the table, would be the time for celebrations and announcements.
“Smelling of April and May,” mumbled his grandmother as she followed him to the door. “Don’t forget tomorrow is your first day as an artist.”
“I’m ready as a fox in the henhouse.” He gave her a wink and pulled his collar up against the biting wind.
Last week, Elijah called upon other jewelers in Hatton Garden. He’d counted seven in the district, visiting one every day. Though they hadn’t reported any crime, he asked each owner to check their inventory. Eli explained his reason for the request, promising to return later this week, though urging them to make an immediate report to Bow Street if any pieces were found missing. He would visit the final two today.
***
Clara wiped her brow with her sleeve. She was exhausted. The Comte du Aveculót would entertain four guests tonight. It was her dinner party debut with the ton. Checking her list once again, she checked off the tea delivered from Twinings and the pâté from West & Wyatt.
Tomorrow morning, scotch eggs were on the menu, and her ladyship preferred chocolate in the morning. Not from the nib, but fresh from the bean, she’d told Mrs. Johnson. Clara had only made the sweet drink twice before, under the guidance of Henri, but found her skill increasing with each making. It was a longer process than making tea or coffee and more complicated.
First, the beans were roasted, then crushed. Water was added to make a paste. When that hardened, the cocoa was grated, mixed with liquid, and boiled. The drink was frothed by using a molinet. Clara rolled the wooden, ridged stick between her hands until the chocolate was mixed well. Henri often added an egg yolk, the hot chocolate somewhat cooking it, turning it into a breakfast in itself. Her mistress had not asked for the addition, so Clara didn’t include it. Now that she had gained confidence, this last batch was large enough to last a few days if kept in the larder to stay cool.
She often consulted one of her two cookbooks to ensure her memory wasn’t faulty or to see if there was a way to improve her own—and Henri’s—recipes. Always room to improve and heighten one’s reputation, he’d told her before she’d left. Her first cookbook, The Prudent Housewife, sat on the shelf next to New System of Domestic Cookery for Private Families by Maria Rundell and Apicius Redivivus, or The Cook’s Oracle by William Kitchiner.
Tonight, the guests would be served white soup, Casserole of Rice au Chasseur made with partridge, a salad of vegetables with broth, cheese soufflé, and roasted goose. Dessert included a creamy custard and madeleines, a sponge cake requested by the comte.
Mary brought her the bowl of chopped vegetables for the salad. “I’ve measured the rice and grated the cheese for the soufflé.”
“What would I do without you?” Clara asked, taking the medley from her assistant. “I hope the casserole turns out.”
“The first one was delicious. I’m sure it will be even better this time,” said the housekeeper from the door. “Is the tea ready?”
“Almost, Mrs. Johnson,” called Sally from the scullery. She appeared, wiping her hands on a cloth and pointing to a side table where a tray sat. “It’s been steeping just over five minutes.” She picked up the tray and handed it to the footman, who had entered behind the housekeeper.
