“Monsieur Fivepenny!” The cook greeted her with enthusiasm. “What does your lady have for ours today?”
“A hare, half a dozen pigeon squabs, and some early strawberries from the succession houses,” said Kat, cheerfully. “Some other vegetables, as well, but just wait, Monsieur. The gardener says the forced rhubarb will be ready next week. Does Mrs. Dove-Lyon like rhubarb?”
The cook clasped his hands together, a look of bliss on his face. “I shall make a rhubarb clafoutis, and rhubarb parfaits,” he mused.
“Yes, Monsieur,” said one of the other kitchen staff, “but remember the message for Mr. Fivepenny.”
The cook blinked at the interruption to his own reverie, but recovered to say, “Mr. Fivepenny, Mrs. Dove-Lyon wishes to speak with you. Please take a seat while I send a message to see if she is free.”
Kat sat down on one of the benches along the side of the large table, and the maid who had taken a shine to hermale persona brought her a glass of lager and an apple tart fresh from the oven. “Are you walking out with anybody, Mr. Fivepenny?” she asked, batting her eyelashes so hard Kat fancied she could feel an increase in the breeze.
The footman Kat pretended to be might have been tempted. She was a pretty girl, round in all the places that men liked a bit of flesh, with fine sparkling dark eyes and a wealth of curly brown hair.
The girl needed to be discouraged, for her attentions were becoming embarrassing. The truth would scare her away, but spoil Kat’s game. However, Kat had never had a problem inventing a story when the truth would not serve.
She placed a hand on her chest, and said, “Alas, Polly darling. If anyone could tempt me from my worship at the feet of my lady, it would be a sweet peach like yourself. But my heart is true. I’ll love no other woman all my days.”
She held up her hand when the maid would have spoken. “I know what you are going to say,” she declaimed. “A footman and a lady? I know it is impossible. The Lady of Carr Abbas is as far above me as the stars, and I know my place. If I can serve my lady, and admire her from afar, that is reward enough for me. I’ll never give my heart to another woman—or any other part of me, come to that.”
The entire kitchen was hanging on her words, and the last sentence was rewarded with a satisfied sigh. Everyone loved a doomed romance. Now, if Kat could only win over the lady of this house, she might be able to also give them a happy ending for the temporary Lady of Carr Abbas. And wouldn’t that be a fine thing?
“Polly, go scrub those potatoes,” scolded the assistant cook, “and leave Mr. Fivepence alone. A fine gentleman like him is not for the likes of you.”
Poor Polly. Kat was sorry for the girl, but better a bit of embarrassment now than her horror if she found out about Kat’s masquerade.
“Is Mr. Fivepence here?” The speaker was a footman in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s personal livery.
Kat stood up, and the man said, “This way, sir.” He led Kat up through a warren of passages and staircases until they came to a passage that was several classes above the narrow servants’ ways, and to a highly-polished door into a beautifully-appointed sitting room.
At a glance, Kat took in the luxurious carpet, the large oak desk in the modern style, the exquisite wallpaper and toning drapes. From the sparkling chandelier to the sumptuously upholstered furniture to the fine plaster detailing on the ceiling, everything spoke of wealth and good taste.
The lady who sat on the sofa was a match for the room. From her finely coifed hair to the pair of beaded slippers on her feet, she was richly and fashionably dressed.
Since she was gloved and veiled, even in what was clearly her private sanctuary, Kat could not tell her age. She sat straight, with the carriage that was trained into the upper classes from the cradle, but such posture could also be learned. She was, at least, not of an age where the ravages of time overcame the force of habit to cause a stoop, or a quaver in the hand. More than that, Kat could not say about her age.
As to her character, Kat had been listening in the lady’s kitchen. Mrs. Dove-Lyons’ servants described her as firm, fair, and astute. According to them, she was hard on careless aristocratic men, but sympathetic to honest workers and to ladies. They had also given her excellent marks as a matchmaker, and while Kat might doubt rumor gleaned from the newspapers and the conversations of the toffs, a person’s servants usually knew what they were talking about.
The lady’s voice was firm and ageless. “Mr. Fivepenny, I believe. You have been delivering presents to me from the Lady of Carr Abbas. Please give my thanks to your lady.”
Kat bowed. “Of course, ma’am.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon proceeded to give credence torumors of her excellent sources of the intelligence. “Tell me, Fivepenny. Why are you pretending to be man, why is your lady claiming ownership of a manor that does not belong to her, and what does your lady want of me?”
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. With her secrets exploded, Kat decided on the risky strategy of telling the truth. She took a deep breath and began.
Also The Lyon’s Den, a few days later
Captain Harraway hadtaken another of the widow’s bets. Jake was beginning to think his employerwantedto win himself a wife. This time, like the last, there was a stupid contest. Someone must have been in the West Indies, or perhaps in India, for the challenge was one Jake had heard about from soldiers who’d whiled away idle hours in one or both places.
The contestants were each handed a bowl full of the fiery fruit known as bird peppers. The peppers had been sliced, and contestants needed to pick them up one at a time and eat them. The winner would be the first to finish his bowl.
It was diabolically fiendish of Mrs. Dove-Lyon to provide ale to aid the process—an endless flowing jug, said her master of ceremonies. Jake, who had eaten a bird pepper for a bet once when he and his master had been in Spain, figured some of the contestants would be falling-down drunk before they completed the task.
Perhaps the Black Widow of Whitehall, as they called her, had designed the bet for the captain. Jake wouldn’t put it past the lady to have found out that Captain Harraway had a cast iron stomach and that he enjoyed spicy food too hot for others to handle.
The rules this time were a bit different, too. Each of the contestants had paid a substantial sum to enter the contest, and a huge crowd were betting ridiculous sums on the outcome—a portion of which would stay with the house as fee. But in addition, Captain Harraway and the other contestants had all signed to say they would pay the bride fee if they won.
Skippy assured Jake that this was unusual. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was known for taking large sums of money from ladies who had had difficulty finding a man to court them thanks to something about their appearance, character, reputation, family, background, age, or some other characteristic.
