“Monsieur Levoisier,” Duncan greeted in a calm interruption. He knew from experience that the more the chef reverted to his native tongue, the angrier he had become. The worse his outrage. The more astringent his venom. “I have a special request for you that must be addressed, if you please.”
The chef blinked owlishly, distracted from his rage. “Monsieur Kirkwood.” He bowed. “Good evening, sir.”
Duncan bowed in turn to Lord Greaves, whose jaw was on edge. The earl was a young fop with the sort of classical features that made ladies swoon. He knew so because several of his lady consorts—bored society wives, all—had remarked upon his rakish allure. To Duncan, the fellow was a purse with hair that needed trimming and an ego that needed clubbing.
But the businessman in him would never attend to said clubbing. “My lord, please accept my sincere apologies for any deficiency in your soup course. If you think it requires salt, I am certain Monsieur Levoisier shall be more than happy to remedy the oversight.”
The chef made a choking sound.
“The soup is bland,” said the earl in a dismissive, cutting tone. His nostrils flared.
“Indeed, my lord,” Duncan soothed. “Monsieur shall add salt as you recommend and return a fresh bowl to you forthwith.”
“It is not mere soup,” argued the chef, his ears going scarlet. “It is bisque of crayfishà l’ancienne. It needs no salt to thediscerningpalate.”
Duncan gritted his teeth. “A correction will be made, my lord.”
The earl raised a supercilious brow. “Excellent, Mr. Kirkwood. I knew I could rely upon your sound sense of reason in this matter.”
The chef began to speak.
“A special request,” Duncan reminded Levoisier. “From anesteemedguest to the establishment.”
The Frenchman’s eyes rounded, and Duncan knew he supposed he was referring to Prinny, and while the Prince Regent had honored The Duke’s Bastard with his royal presence on numerous occasions, this was decidedly not one of them. Duncan felt not a speck of compunction at deliberately misleading the chef, however.
The cost of the fellow’s pride was not worth the loss to Duncan’s coffers should the Earl of Greaves choose to eschew his club after a rift with an overzealous French chef. He turned to address his man. “Hazlitt, you will see to the correction of his lordship’s soup course, I trust?”
“Of course, Mr. Kirkwood.” Hazlitt swept forward, retrieving the earl’s bowl of soup and placing it upon a salver.
Hazlitt was more than capable of soothing ruffled feathers. As Duncan’s right hand man, the unwanted task often fell to him, and he always handled it with aplomb. Like Duncan, Hazlitt had been born into the stews. He had come from nothing, and had fashioned himself into something. He was loyal, trustworthy, and capable.
With another bow to the earl and a pointed look at his chef that brooked no opposition, Duncan excused himself and his employee. When they exited the dining hall, Duncan turned to the Frenchman.
“I require a supper in my private office,” he announced, even though he knew it was folly. “For two. Your finest effort would be appreciated.”
Lavoisier nodded. “For you and your esteemed guest, sir?”
Esteemed guest.
He supposed one could call her that.
Orproblem.
Minx.
Mayhem.
His downfall.
Yes, any of those would do.
But best to settle upon the former rather than any of the latter for the moment. He inclined his head. “Indeed, Monsieur. Add a pinch of salt to the earl’s bowl and then send your finest to me within the hour. I shall be waiting.”
*
“What do youprefer, my lord?”
Frederica blinked at the lovely, flaxen-haired woman before her and did her best to subdue her inherent jerk when her companion’s small, dainty hand landed upon Frederica’s thigh. “Ahem.” She pretended to clear her throat, her mind whirling, searching for diversion tactics. “I do enjoy reading. What do you prefer, miss…”
