That it was his mother’s house, the house where he’d last known joy, the house that came closer to any other to being his home—mattered not a whit. In the end, it was merely another part of his past now, a piece of his history, one as shadowed by loss, anger, and grief as every other memory he had of the lonely years he’d spent in Fairford.
He’d tear it down, and once it was gone, the memories would no longer haunt him.
Slowly, he reached for another piece of paper, dipped his pen, and began to write.
Dunwitty. I require your nephew’s presence at a house party at Grantham Lodge, my country seat in Fairford. Send him at once. Grantham.
That was all, but Lord Dunwitty would know it for what it was. Not an invitation, but a summons, and one he wouldn’t dream of disobeying. No, he’d count himself fortunate to have the chance to discharge his debt with a favor instead of money he didn’t have, and he’d pack his nephew off to Fairford.
Just like that, it was done.
Some claimed he was ruthless, merciless—even cruel. Perhaps it was true, but it wasn’t as if he were dooming Miss St. Claire to a nightmare of a marriage. Viscount Dunwitty was handsome, fashionable, and wealthy, and by all accounts a decent fellow, if a trifle dull-witted.
He’d make the girl a tolerable husband.
He held the candle to the end of the stick of wax and watched it drip until a blood-red puddle formed on the seam of the cream-colored paper, then he stamped it with his seal.
The Grantham crest.Qui suffert, vincit.
He who endures, conquers.
CHAPTER12
“Ican’t find the lemon peel.” Rose rummaged through the spice chest in the corner of the kitchen, pulling open the little drawers and examining the contents within. “There’s parsley, marjoram, dill, mustard, and so on, but none of the spices used in sweets.”
What would become of the Christmas pudding? One couldn’t have Christmas pudding without lemon peel, or . . . no, there was no orange or candied citron, either, and no almonds or cinnamon. Perhaps she could make do without the citron, though it wouldn’t be the same without it, but for pity’s sake, what was a Christmas pudding without cinnamon?
She turned to the housekeeper, who was fussing with the duke’s tea tray. “Is there no cinnamon, Mrs. Watson?”
“Oh, dear. There may not be, I’m afraid. We eat rather simply here at Grantham Lodge, Miss St. Claire.”
Simply? How odd. Grantham Lodge was many things, but simple wasn’t one of them. Why, she’d imagined the kitchen in such a grand estate would be stuffed to the brim with the finest of everything a cook could desire, from the most delicate mace to the sweetest vanilla.
Really, it was excessively disappointing, but then Grantham Lodge was a strange place, wasn’t it? Both luxurious and empty at once. “Does the duke’s cook not bake, Mrs. Watson?” Perhaps the duke didn’t care for sweets. Perhaps even sacks full of the finest white sugar couldn’t turn that sour tongue sweet.
“Well, as to that, we don’t have a cook. Not a formal one, leastways.”
“Nocook?” An estate this size, with no cook? Why, such a thing was unheard of. She must have misunderstood. “You mean to say the Duke of Grantham doesn’t keep a cook?”
“There’s Mrs. Cowles who comes in on weekdays to prepare meals, but otherwise, no, and she’s no baker, is Mrs. Cowles. Oh, she does the bread and the odd scone here or there, but no sweets to speak of.”
“But, this kitchen, Mrs. Watson!” Rose glanced around the spacious, light-filled space. For a man who didn’t employ a cook, the duke had the loveliest kitchen she’d ever seen, with every convenience one could imagine, as if it had been designed for one of those uppity French chefs the aristocrats were so fond of these days. She’d nearly swooned when she walked through the door. “Why, it’s criminal, that such a kitchen as this should have no cook!”
It was like a horse with no rider, or a barn with no cats. A Christmas pudding with no cinnamon, or . . . or . . . a duke, with no duchess.
Now, where had that thought come from?
She pushed it aside and turned her attention back to Mrs. Watson, who’d taken the kettle off the stove and was pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves. “We haven’t had any need of a cook, Miss St. Claire, what with the duke keeping away from Grantham Lodge as he has. There’s not much call for fancy meals without a duke to feed, is there?”
“I suppose not, but that will have to change now.” Rose nodded at the tea tray, where Mrs. Watson was arranging two withered-looking tea cakes.
“Aye, I suppose it will, at least as long as he remains in Fairford. Mrs. Clancy, His Grace’s London housekeeper, is sending their chef, Monsieur Blanchard, to us for the duration of the house party, and thank goodness for it. I do hope he arrives before the guests.” She cast a disconsolate glance at the two pitiful tea cakes. “Oh, dear. They don’t look particularly appetizing, do they?”
“I’m afraid not, but never mind. I’ll make up a fresh batch for the duke’s tea.” Rose took the plate with the tea cakes off the tray and set it aside. “I daresay you have flour, eggs, and milk? Is it too much to hope that you have currants?”
“Why, how kind of you, Miss St. Claire. But you must be done in after your ordeal at Hammond Court. I can’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t ask, Mrs. Watson. I offered, and I’m pleased to do it. I love to putter about in the kitchen, especially one as pretty as this one. I’m quite a competent baker if I do say it myself. Not a cook, mind you, but I can be trusted with sweets.”
