“Well, that’s something, at least. I’ll endeavor to acquit myself with—”
“Miss St. Claire? What are you doing down here?”
Rose had just set the kettle to boil and gathered a handful of nutmegs, but at the sound of the abrupt voice, they slipped from her fingers and rolled under the worktable. “Oh, dear. I—”
“Not to worry, Miss St. Claire.” Lord Dunwitty stood. “I’ll fetch them for you.”
“Thank you, my lord.” But she hardly spared Lord Dunwitty a glance, because standing in the kitchen doorway was the Duke of Grantham, his gaze flicking between her and the viscount, the strangest expression on his face. Beside him stood a small, dark-haired gentleman with pinched lips and a Gallic nose. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I was just making a baked custard for—”
“Baked custard!” The little gentleman beside the duke gave a disdainful sniff. “My dear madam, if His Grace requires a custard, I will preparecannelés de Bordeaux.”
Was that a pudding? She’d never heard of it.
The haughty little man peered at Rose, the tip of his nose twitching like an outraged mouse. “I am not accustomed to sharing my kitchen, Your Grace. Custard, indeed!C’est intolérable!”
His kitchen? Ah, this must be Monsieur Blanchard, the duke’s French cook from London. Why, what a thoroughly unpleasant little man! He might have his kitchen all to himself, and welcome.
But the duke didn’t reply to Monsieur Blanchard. He didn’t give any indication he’d even heard him but continued to stare at Rose, his dark brows drawn together in a scowl.
Goodness, what in the world was the matter with him? Was he angry at her for making use of the kitchen? He never had been so before, but—
“Here you are, Miss St. Claire.” Lord Dunwitty emerged from under the worktable and offered her the nutmegs. She took them in trembling fingers.
“I see you’re making productive use of your time, Dunwitty.” The duke’s voice was perfectly civil, but the look in his eyes . . . dear God. He looked as if he could happily wring someone’s neck.
No, notsomeone’s. Lord Dunwitty’s.
But if the viscount noticed, it didn’t seem to trouble him in the least. He leaned a hip against the worktable and offered the duke a bland smile. “Always, Your Grace.”
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” Monsieur Blanchard interrupted in a petulant tone. “I must insist that your servants stay out of my kitchens. I can’t haveles filles idiotesrunning about, distracting me with their custards. I must have quiet when I am working onmes créations—”
“Miss St. Claire isn’t my servant.” The duke’s gaze slid from the viscount to Rose, and his hard expression softened ever so slightly. “And she may do as she pleases in the kitchens, whenever she pleases. Are we clear, Blanchard?”
Monsieur Blanchard shot Rose a resentful look, but he muttered, “Oui, Your Grace.”
“Good.” The duke didn’t linger. After one last narrow glance at Dunwitty, he turned on his heel and disappeared through the kitchen door without another word, leaving Rose with an outraged French cook, a flirtatious viscount, and a handful of nutmegs.
CHAPTER18
“My goodness, Grantham, what’s put you in such a temper this evening?” The Duchess of Basingstoke, who’d agreed to act as Max’s hostess for the evening, studied him over the top edge of her wineglass. “You’re positively glowering.”
Glowering? Nonsense. What did he have to glower about? “I’ve no idea what you mean, Francesca. I’m perfectly content.”
She snorted. “As content as a hunting dog who’s lost the fox, perhaps. That scowl of yours has put poor Lady Dowd off her baked custard. Rather a pity, really, as it’s delicious.”
Max pushed his custard cup aside. “It has too much nutmeg.”
Dunwitty’s fault, no doubt. What did a viscount know about custard? Miss St. Claire would have been better off keeping her custard out of reach of Dunwitty’s clumsy hands.
Not that it mattered tohimwhat she did, of course. She might crack eggs and grate nuts all day long with Dunwitty, and he wouldn’t bat an eye. No, if hewasout of temper, it had nothing to do with Rose St. Claire.
His plan was proceeding precisely as he’d intended.
The more perfectly conceived a scheme was, the greater the chances of a flawless execution, and that was what he was seeing at the dinner table this evening—the flawless execution of his wicked, deceitful scheme to see Miss St. Claire safely wed to Viscount Dunwitty.
He couldn’t be any happier about it. He was downright jubilant. So overjoyed, in fact, that if Dunwitty’s hand brushed Miss St. Claire’s shoulder one more time, he might just explode with . . . bliss.
“Take care with that glass, Grantham.” Francesca nodded at the wineglass clutched in his fist. “It’s one white knuckle away from shattering in your hand. It’s not quite the thing, bleeding at the dinner table, is it?”
