I held up a quick hand. “I would never make trouble for Stoker. Of any sort. You are wrong, you know. He is not a good man. He is the best of men.”
I had expected my loyalty to Stoker to demonstrate that Nanny MacQueen had nothing to fear from me. We might presently be at odds—although how much Nanny knew of that I could not say—but I felt, in my marrow, that we would somehow come right in the end. I could not contemplate a destiny that unfolded otherwise.
I waited, anticipating an accord with Nanny.
Instead, she surveyed my figure slowly from top to toe. Finally, she took a long draw on her cigarette and spoke. “I’ll grant you’ve a good set of milkers if you mean to nurse any bairns you might have, but your hips is far too narrow to make easy birthing. I’ll give you even odds of making it out of childbirth alive.”
She sat back, primming her lips with the air of a duelist who has just put a bullet into the heart of her opponent.
“Thank you for the warning, but I can assure you, motherhood is one adventure I shall never undertake.”
I left her with as much dignity as I could muster, but as I shut the door behind me, I could distinctly hear the sound of wheezing laughter—whether from Nanny MacQueen or the parrot, I could not say.
CHAPTER
11
After leaving Nanny MacQueen, I was feeling both slightly tipsy and entirely out of sorts. Being both reluctant to ring for a maid and sorely in need of sustenance to counteract the effects of the parsnip wine, I went directly to the kitchens, muttering about poisonous old women as I wound my way through baize-lined doors and around passages until I heard a voice that pulled me up short. The tone was rich and melodious, and the accent lilting and familiar.
“Julien!” I exclaimed as I entered the main kitchen. Julien d’Orlande, one of Stoker’s dearest friends and a particularly beloved acquaintance of mine, was standing in the middle of the room surrounded by a heap of crates newly arrived on the early train from London. He never wore a proper toque, preferring instead slouching caps of luscious velvet. This one was raspberry pink, a delectable foil to his dark skin and starched white coat and a wonderful contrast to the plain black dresses of the kitchen maids. He was standing in a lordly pose, arms folded over the breadth of his chest as he issued orders in a calm, stern voice. Various maids and boys hopped to attention, carrying out his commands as Tiberius’ usual chef was nowhere in evidence.
“Veronica!” Julien came and kissed my cheeks in the Continental fashion. He had been born in the Caribbean and educated in France, accounting for both his exquisite French and his even lovelier manners. He was a sensualist, loving food and women in equal parts, and the fact that he invariably fed me rather than attempted to seduce me was in large measure why I adored him so.
“What on earth are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I am cooking,” he said, giving a Gallic shrug. He looked over my shoulder to where a maid in a vast cap that hid half her face was hefting a crate that rattled ominously. “That champagne cost more than your entire family earns in a year,” he told her severely. “Let one of the boys carry it. That is why we brought them. Take the grouse to the larder.”
She muttered something unintelligible and put the crate down, exchanging it for a basket that dripped a little blood as she hurried from the room.
“But Lord Templeton-Vanehasa chef,” I said, turning back to Julien.
“Is he as good as me?” Julien demanded.
“No one is,” I promised him.
He smiled, showing one deep dimple in his left cheek. “You see, this is why Lord Templeton-Vane needs me. He wants dinners to dazzle his guests, dinners fit for royalty. I am his man.” He puffed out his chest a little.
“Where is his usual chef?” I asked, poking into a basket of cheeses.
Julien smacked lightly at my hand. “Leave those. They are for tonight and they must breathe.”
“I thought only wine breathed,” I protested.
What followed was a string of fluently insulting French, so beautifully delivered I did not even mind when he called me an unsophisticated philistine.
“But I require sustenance,” I protested.
He sighed and dove into one of his assorted baskets, emerging with a small pie of the most delicate proportions and delectable aromas. He tied it into a bit of linen and presented it to me with a flourish.
“Julien will never let you starve,” he promised. “But you must not spoil your appetite for tonight. I will give you such a dinner!” He kissed his fingers and released them heavenwards. “And now you must leave. I have much to do.”
He fairly pushed me from the kitchen, and I went with good grace. It was curious to find him at Cherboys—I knew they had met but did not realise Julien was well acquainted with Tiberius, much less ever employed by him. Julien’s usual place of work was the Sudbury, one of London’s finest hotels, an expensive and exclusive enclave that charged hideous prices, in no small part to pay his extortionate salary as their head pastry chef. But he would not be the first to accept independent commissions to create fanciful meals for special occasions. The queen’s own chef at Buckingham Palace often did the same. And there was nothing suspicious in bringing some of his own staff to help him prepare the meal. After all, who would be more likely to know his ways and cater to his whims than his regular chefs, maids, and porters?
No, there was not an untoward thing about Julien or his people. Except one.
I found her in the larder, removing the feathery corpses of grouse from the basket and grimacing at the blood dripping onto the stone floor.
“If you are going to pass yourself off as a kitchen maid, you really oughtn’t be squeamish over a bit of blood,” I said as I stood in the doorway.
