“Damn the man!” Jonathan slammed his fist against the wall. “Collison lured him away just when I most needed him, with that dinner on this evening. What a rotten thing to do! Even if it is a wager, I expected better from Collison, and the chef. Where am I to find a superb French chef in so short a time, I ask you?”
“You seem quite desperate,” inserted Penelope, her eyes sparkling with sudden hope.
“Do you happen to know a French chef who could take over this menu on a moment’s notice?” He picked up the card upon which he had jotted his proposed dinner and waved it in her direction. “I think not!”
“Oh, but I do.” She gave him a demure yet confident smile and settled on her chair a bit more comfortably.
Startled, he paused in his pacing and stared at her. “Do you, by Jove? Where may I find this man? And who is he? What is his experience?”
“Not he, but she. That is to say. I am the chef. I have been carefully trained by our own French chef, Henri. I assure you, I can cook anything, and splendidly, too.”
“Nonsense! Utterly absurd!” He looked at the companion and noted that she sat with a serene smile on her face. Could it be true? His spirits leapt up.
“I shall make a bargain with you.” Penelope rose from her chair, then crossed to take the menu card from his hand. She looked it over, nodded. “I will cook your dinner, and do a better job, or, at the very least, as good a job of it as your former chef.”
“And in exchange I will . . . ?“ he replied with a sinking heart. Something told him the price she would exact.
“You will do as I proposed.”
Chapter 3
“I feared you would ask that of me,” Lord Harford replied in his most distant manner. “But what can I do? I have been placed in a damnable spot.” He recalled the presence of ladies, and apologized. “Forgive me, my anger outruns my tongue.”
Miss Nilsson nodded with gracious forbearance while Penelope stood, her head tilted in consideration. She tapped the menu card against her chin; then, looking at Lord Harford with determined eyes, she stated her argument.
“I should say that you have little choice in the matter at this point, my lord.” Penelope waved the card beneath his nose. “Agree to the terms now, for there is no time to waste if I am to have that dinner ready when your guests arrive.”
He glared at the sparkling eyes that defied him to say no to her proposal. How could he have thought her pretty? She was a gamine in a lady’s clothes. It was wicked, positively wicked, to even think of an earl’s daughter descending to the kitchens to cook! “Oh, for pity’s sake! I concede. I’ll do as you wish. But you must be discreet, mind you.”
“No one shall know that I have prepared your dinner unless you tell them, my lord,” Penelope teased, her humor restored now that she was to have a bit of fun in the kitchen and get her adviser, just as she had wished.
“Nor shall they know that I am responsible for your clothes, coiffure, or demeanor.” He ran his hand through his carefully arranged hair, totally destroying the effect his valet had worked so diligently to achieve. “Much less the approval of your suitors. Egad, what a coil.”
Penelope merely smiled, then turned to the butler. “Please show me to the kitchen, Darling.” She had observed that Lord Harford pronounced the name as though it was spelled Dare-ling, and she followed suit. To Miss Nilsson she added, “I imagine you had best smooth things over with Letty, should she realize I am gone. If you wish, you may return here, but I shan’t require you.” Her bonnet dangling from the ribbons in her hand, Penelope paused by the door to cast a reassuring look at her companion and dear friend.
The Swedish lady merely nodded and coolly replied, “I believe it best to say as little as possible to Miss Letty. Leave her to me. I shall see you later, for I intend to assure myself that your lessons from Henri were not in vain.”
Jonathan watched them all leave. Darling escorted Lady Penelope off through the green baize door, while the quiet Miss Nilsson let herself out the front.
Jonathan paced the floor of his elegant morning room. Had he gone mad? To permit a lady of rank to cook the dinner for his guests just to win a wager? While it seemed an unthinkable proposition, he was up against the wall. It was also inconceivable that he permit Collison to win that blasted bet. Then he recalled those twinkling blue eyes, that exquisite silvery-blond hair, and groaned. How on earth could that exquisite little thing, for she couldn’t have stood above five feet and perhaps five inches, cook a dinner? He wondered how she would feel in his arms, or that perfect little mouth beneath his, then shook himself, irate with his musings.
He marched up the stairs to his room, calling for his valet, Perkins. Once impeccably dressed in his usual style, his hair restored to casual perfection, he took himself off to White’s. If he could forget for a few hours the total disaster that surely awaited him when his guests arrived for dinner this evening, he might just survive the day.
The thought crossed his mind that should she fail her task, he would be free of his promise. Even that prospect didn’t cheer him. He confessed that he devoutly hoped that Lady Penelope Winthrop, third cousin once removed, actually knew how to cook.
* * * *
At White’s he established himself in the morning room with a group of friends. Willowby entered the room shortly after Jonathan arrived, looking as though he was vastly amused about something. Jonathan strongly suspected he knew what
