She peered at the cake. Maybe one more spoonful of brandy.
“Neofedd!”muttered Mrs Pugh as she sorted through a crate of vegetables. “I’m quite certain the gardener has not grown enough Brussels sprouts this Christmas. I’ve only counted eighty-six, I have.”
Isabelle shuddered. “That’s more than sufficient, I’m sure. And do you think we could ask Cook to perhaps…sauté them in butter? With plenty of pepper and nutmeg?”
“I prefer leeks,” declared Elen, prodding a plum pudding as though it were a bag of tripe. “I feel a great affection for them as I read that our illustrious Welsh King of Gwynedd ordered his warriors to strap a leek to their armour in order to distinguish them from the enemy in battle.”
Everyone stared for a moment before returning to–
“Harken!” came a male drawl. “The sweet musical voices of festive tidings and the beauteous ladies gathered here in joyous celebration.”
Mrs Pugh rolled her eyes and slapped a fat leek on the chopping board. “Master Cadwalader.”
Gwen placed down her brandy spoon and hastened to greet Hugh, who was propped at the kitchen door – handsome as ever with his tousled blond hair and bright blue eyes. Last night, as it had turned out, he’d not attended dinner and it was good to see him.
“Lady Gwen, my sweet,” he enthused, bussing her cheek, “you grow evermore exquisite each time we meet. A lustrous buttercup of lusciousness.”
She patted her yellow skirts and thanked him. As per usual, Hugh was himself elegantly dressed in an indigo-blue jacket and silver waistcoat. “And you grow evermore injured, Hugh. I hear a pheasant and a swooning duchess were to blame on this occasion?”
The ladies all paused in their duties.
“Only a graze. Alas, I promised all parties involved to speak nary a word of it, however…” He leaned close and waggled his eyebrows. “I can tell you that although I failed to bag the pheasant, the swooning duchess was only too pleased to be ensnared.”
Gwen rolled her eyes, Miss Brecken tittered, Elen frowned, and with a shake of head, Mrs Pugh chopped the leek in half with a cleaver.
Due to his grievous graze, the rakish Mr Cadwalader was permitted to sit at the table while Isabelle poured him a curative cooking sherry and Gwen returned to her Tipsy Cake.
“And how are your travel plans proceeding?” he asked her. “I hear you are interviewing for a companion. Any suitable candidates?”
“No. None as yet.” Though she’d presently no idea if she was leaving at all. Rome sighed her name from afar but Tristan still held her heart here.
“Perhaps…” Hugh slid a sly glance. “You should take Tristan with you?”
Gwen narrowed her eyes.
Did he know something he shouldn’t?
Hugh, she had gleaned over the years, acted the libertine around Town yet beneath that blitheness, she knew him to be most capable and perceptive. She also knew there was more to his frequent injuries than he divulged, that he was involved in some form of dangerous occupation, perhaps for the Crown.
Solely on one occasion had she witnessed that blitheness slip. A note had arrived by messenger for him during an eventful house party here at the Llanedwyn estate, and after reading it, he’d roared, then smashed a fist through the plasterwork of the library wall.
She’d failed to swallow her gasp at the doorway and fierce blue eyes had contorted in her direction, his jaw gritted, brow angered, knuckles clenched to white, and she had stepped back in alarm.
But within an instant, he’d grinned, poked at the damage and wittered on about mice scurrying behind the plasterwork.
Mrs Pugh wiped the cleaver clean. “I’d better ask Aled to take some tea to Lord Tristan, who’s not dead after all. His Grace instructed he be given tea every half hour.”
Isabelle’s brow scrunched. “Why?”
“How should I know?” Mrs Pugh shrugged and stomped towards the pantry. “I only work here, Your Grace.”
Isabelle tapped her lips in thought while Gwen peered at her Tipsy Cake and wondered if another spoonful was needed.
Just a scant one.
“Arrggghhhh!” came a petrified cry from the pantry. “No! No, I beg of you. Save us all!”
Before anyone could so much as gasp, Hugh had drawn a dagger from his boot and dashed for the pantry door. “Mrs Pugh?”
