And that was a problem he wouldn’t dwell on at the moment. He had a breakfast to consume.
“Have you seen Richford this morning?” Riverdale was asking King now, frowning.
“What am I, his mother?” King shook his head. “He is a man grown. He can look after himself.”
“You don’t think your potion was too strong, do you?” Riverdale pressed.
“It wasn’t fashioned of arsenic, you know.”
“Whatwasit made of?” Riverdale countered.
“If I told you, it would no longer be a secret,” King said patiently, in the tone he might have used for a very small child.
Riverdale responded by taking up a forkful of poached egg and launching it at King from across the table. The soft yolk landed with a thud upon King’s coat, and their friend’s reaction was the same, Rhys imagined, as it might have been had Riverdale challenged him to pistols at dawn.
“Did you just throw egg at me?” he demanded, incredulous.
“Yes,” Riverdale said, grinning. “I do believe I did.”
King used his napkin to wipe the egg piece away with a flick of his wrist. “That’s an act of treason, you know. Wet egg yolk is despicably difficult to remove from fine silk.”
“Is it?” Riverdale asked innocently. “I was rather thinking it made an excellent brooch.”
King glowered. “I don’t wear brooches, you arse.”
“The two of you are little better than a pair of squabbling children,” Rhys commented lightly, still utterly unaffected by the vignette unfolding before him.
King responded by hurling a hunk of Bayonne ham at Riverdale. The piece hit him in the temple with a resounding thwack. Their friend’s astonishment was comical. Shock followed by an icy calm.
“You know what this means, do you not?” Riverdale asked.
“I’m sure I don’t,” King said mildly, returning his attention to his plate.
“War,” Riverdale declared.
And then the egg and ham began to sail through the air.
The icesfor this evening’sGlace à la Dudleywere in their molds and would spend the next two and a half hours in their ice caves. Miranda had devoted the morning and most of the afternoon to making both a cream ice and water ice, the latter of which had been quite rigorous. She had pounded bananas, juiced oranges and a lemon, chopped pistachios and preserved ginger, and added the perfect combination of carmine and apricot yellow to form the water ice. For the cream ice, she had blended rose water, cream, vanilla, and kirsch syrup, before coloring the roses in her molds with more carmine and sap green.
Whilst the ices and molds were chilling, Miranda slipped from the kitchens, pleased with her creations and yet oddly on edge. With a heavy sigh, she meandered through the labyrinth of servants’ halls to the stairs, mounting them swiftly on sore and tired feet, trying not to think about the Duke of Whitby.
And failing utterly.
Not wanting to risk herself by venturing to the gardens for air again, she made her way instead to her room, knowing Rhys would be playing host to his guests. She intended to throw herself into the task of planning tomorrow’s dessert, to be paired with salmon filets, quailà la Chaponnay, an assortment of potatoes, and asparagus in Hollandaise as theentréesandrelevés.
Perhaps her Monte Carlo violet ice would make a nice accompaniment, she thought. Or nougatine with almond cream. There was the princess basket as well, which always looked lovely filled with an assortment of ices formed to resemble fruit. Then again, she had offered nougat baskets yesterday with her chocolate mushroom-shaped ices.
Miranda reached the ordinarily deserted hall where her chamber was located and was surprised to see another woman bustling toward her. A lovely woman, with golden hair and a pink silk gown that proved she was no servant. Who was she,and what was she doing in this largely deserted wing of the manor house?
Frowning, she drew up short. Was it someone looking for Rhys, perhaps a former lover or admirer? Regardless of who the woman was, she looked as startled to see Miranda as Miranda was to find her there.
The woman came to a halt, her skirts swaying as she pressed a hand over her heart. “Good heavens, you gave me quite a fright.”
“Forgive me,” Miranda apologized, taking note that the unexpected woman appeared a bit younger in age, with brilliant blue eyes and something about her countenance that was vaguely familiar.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest the fault was yours,” the woman said, smiling warmly. “I simply meant that I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in this wing of the manor house.”
“Nor was I,” Miranda offered, thinking belatedly that she ought to have donned a mask, for although the other woman appeared friendly, it was possible she might be a gossip. “I expect you are one of the houseguests?”
