Dark sugar, sticky and sweet, and warmed brandy.
He’d never smelled anything more delightful in his life. Even Monsieur Blanchard, his chef in London, had never produced such a tempting scent as that.
It was coming fromhiskitchen, wafting up the back stairway, beckoning like a crooked finger. He opened the door and made his way down the narrow staircase, the delectable scent leading him by his nose into the kitchen and tugging an irritable whine from his stomach.
Was this where all the servants were, then? Sitting about in his kitchen, drinking warmed brandy? As if in answer, there was a burst of raucous laughter and the sound of excited voices coming from the other side of the door.
He jerked it open, then stood there gaping, amazed.
Every servant in his household was squeezed into the kitchen, which was quite a trick, really, despite the size of the room, as he employed a great many servants. Damned if he knew all their names, or any of their names, come to that, but here were half a dozen footmen, all the missing housemaids, Mrs. Watson, and Monk, and, yes, there was Townsend, a ridiculous grin on his face as he peered into the iron kettle hanging over the fire.
They were all so preoccupied with whatever they were doing, they didn’t even notice he’d entered the kitchen. Why, he might have sat in his study all bloody night, perishing from hunger and cold, and not a single one of them would have been any the wiser.
He opened his mouth to let out a proper ducal howl, but then snapped it closed again when he saw who was presiding over the kettle.
Well, he might have bloody known, mightn’t he?
There, right in the middle of the melee was Miss St. Claire, a spoon in her hand, peering down into the contents of the kettle, as if waiting for something. Locks of her fair hair had escaped the ribbon at the back of her neck and were flying about her face in a wild profusion of corkscrew curls from the steam rising from the kettle.
The apron she wore was at least two sizes too large for her and had been wrapped twice around her petite frame. The front of it was stained with some sticky substance that looked like beaten eggs. There were breadcrumbs in her hair, and a daub of flour dusted one of her cheeks.
It wasnotcharming. No, there was nothing at all charming about this chit taking over his kitchen and kidnapping his servants. Still, he froze for an instant, a strange sensation in his chest that felt a bit like longing.
Which was utterly ridiculous, of course, as there wasn’t a single thing here he wanted. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest to keep any unwanted emotions from sneaking back in, and barked, “Having a pleasant time, are you?”
His voice rang out through the kitchen, cutting through all the chatter. Dozens of heads all jerked toward him at once, and one by one, the big smiles on his servants’ faces faded, replaced with looks of horror.
Every face, that is, but one.
Miss St. Claire turned toward him, her cheeks rosy from the heat, and her face wreathed in smiles. “Oh, Your Grace! You’ve come just in time!”
“Just in time, Miss St. Claire?” He marched across the kitchen toward her, the servants stepping back to allow him to pass, parting for him as if he were Moses, or, well . . . admittedly, something less miraculous. “I’d sooner say far too late.”
If she noticed the servants’ uneasy shuffling, she paid no mind to it. “Not at all, Your Grace. You’re just in time to have the first stir of the Christmas pudding.”
“I’m referring to my tea, Miss St. Claire. It’slate.” He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and made a show of studying the face. “Forty minutes late, to be precise,” he added, with a cool glance at Mrs. Watson. “I might have perished from hunger, with none of you any the wiser.”
Mrs. Watson darted forward, wringing her hands. “Oh, dear. I do beg your pardon, Your Grace. We were just—”
“Perish, from a late tea? Why, what nonsense.” Miss St. Claire laughed and offered him the spoon. “Come, Your Grace, have a stir, and make your wish.”
“What I wish for, Miss St. Claire, is my tea.” He eyed the spoon in her hand. “I don’t recall expressing a desire for Christmas pudding, or authorizing the making of one at the expense of my tea.”
Her brows drew together. On a less open face, that expression of innocent confusion might have looked like a ploy, but she appeared genuinely baffled. “But it’s well past Stir-up Sunday already, Your Grace. The Christmas pudding is meant to be prepared on Stir-up Sunday. No one in the household has had a chance to make their Christmas wish.”
“I despise Christmas pudding. Mrs. Watson, my tea, if you would be so kind. As for the rest of you, I daresay you have something else to do?”
He turned to go, but he only made it a few steps before Miss St. Claire stopped him with a word. “No!”
“No?” He whirled around to face her, not so much angry as stunned. “Did you just saynoto me, Miss St. Claire?” No one said no to him. Ever.
Given the way everyone else blanched, she should have realized her mistake at once and slunk away in shame, but instead, her chin shot up, and she met his gaze without flinching. “I did, indeed. You might not care for it, Your Grace, but I daresay the others would like to make their wishes.”
“Wishes, Miss St. Claire, are for children.”
That stubborn chin rose a notch higher. “Stir-up Sunday is a tradition, Your Grace.”
Tradition be damned. He didn’t care one whit for it, and he nearly said so aloud, but the words stilled on his tongue when he noticed the expressions on his servants’ faces, the way they shuffled their feet, and averted their gazes.
