a pert look.
“Scamp.”
“If Lord Harford is indeed so naughty, it is a good thing I have not lost my heart to him. It would never do to fall in love with the man I chose for a husband if he is to leave me,” Penelope avowed.
“But what if he doesn’t go away, dear cousin?” Harford asked smoothly. He was definitely piqued at this little minx, who so easily accepted his kiss, then calmly declared she could never be in love with him. Surely that kiss must have affected her as much as it had him.
“Oh, dear, I hadn’t planned for that. I see I shall have to learn ways to be off-putting. Perhaps you can advise me there, Lord Harford?”
Chuckling, yet vaguely annoyed, he led the young women from the room. His appearance with the two girls, one his sister, the other his cousin, raised no eyebrows. But across the room Miss Carola Dunston narrowed her gaze.
Chapter 7
Once the party arrived back at Letty’s, it was to discover Mrs. Flint all atwitter. Henri had arrived! He awaited them in the morning room.
Penelope turned to Miss Nilsson in worried dismay.
It was difficult for Jonathan to comprehend why the news of the chefs arrival in London could put both ladies in such a taking.
Penelope tried to explain. “He is more than a mere chef, my lord. He is a wise friend. . . to both of us. He has always been there for me, over the years. He did more than teach me to cook, he revealed to me a philosophy of living. If he has come to town, it may be there is some trouble he seeks to tell me about. He knows how I feel about letters.”
“And how do you feel about letters?” Jonathan inquired, intrigued with this ever-puzzling young woman. He closed the door behind their party, for the Countess and Lady Charis had come in as well.
“Oh, I do not trust them. Recall how Cousin Letty put my letter aside and did not get my message. It is all of a piece, you know.” She nodded sagely at this comment.
There was little he might say to this argument, for she was undoubtedly correct in her estimation of what might happen. The group drifted toward the morning room.
Mrs. Flint fluttered about in the entry hall, fussing and fidgeting around in great agitation. Penelope listened to her disjointed murmurings, then sent her off to the kitchen to prepare tea, thinking that would occupy her mind sufficiently.
Turning to Lady Harford, Penelope said, “I cannot imagine what Henri will say to Cousin Letty’s latest start. He does a wonderful roast duckling.” Penelope drew a reminiscent breath, then stepped into the morning room. As expected, her chef awaited her there, a breakdown of proper convention totally unprecedented in Mrs. Flint’s experience.
“Good morning, Henri. Is something amiss?” Penelope demanded at once, going straight to the heart of the matters much to Lady Harford’s admiration.
“Mademoiselle, I have received news of my family. I feel I must pursue this line of intelligence. There is a possibility the family estate may yet come into my hands. Stranger things have happened. So I come to London to investigate, with your permission.”
The oddly elegant chef, dressed neatly in austere gray pantaloons and a precisely cut blue coat once owned by the previous Lord Everton and given him by Penelope, stood resolutely before the fireplace, hands behind his back, mouth firmly set. He was a fine figure of a man, his forty-odd years sitting kindly on his frame. His brown hair was simply styled. Shrewd gray eyes searched those of his employer with guarded probing, a hint of worry lurking in them.
Miss Nilsson sank down upon the chair nearest the door with a gasp. “Jag forstar inte.”
Penelope stepped closer to her dear companion, whose great confusion was readily apparent, for she had just spoken in Swedish—a thing she rarely did unless totally upset— revealing that she understood the situation no better than Penelope.
Jonathan inserted a thought into the pause. “Be careful, I have heard tales of men being lured to France with promises of these so-called restored estates, only to discover that all was not as warranted.” His warning appeared to be well-received.
“True, I have been cautioned by my friends as well. If I may remain as your chef—perhaps here?—I shall explore this to greater length before I take myself off to France.” His eyes beseeched Penelope with the familiarity of a servant of life-long standing.
Penelope turned to Jonathan, explaining, “Henri was brought home by my father from one of his trips. Henri had escaped the revolution—he was about one-and-twenty when he fled—and set himself up as chef in Austria. Papa enjoyed his cooking and Henri thought it might be better to find asylum in England, what with the way things were going. After my parents died, he came along with me to Fountains. He and Miss Nilsson are the enduring things in my life.”
Jonathan noted her warm glance at the chef, surmising the chef had indeed stood in place of a father for the growing girl, left alone all those years by her traveling parents. His look toward the newcomer grew a shade warmer.
“I believe caution and prudence are wise at this time,” Jonathan urged.
At this point Letty and the cat entered the room, both full of curiosity.
“I vow I have not had such interesting goings-on in all my time in London.” She gazed at the newcomer, pushing her spectacles up on her nose so as to better view him, before turning to Penelope.
“Letty, may my chef remain here for a time? He will be in my employ, so no drain on your household.” Penelope took her cousin’s hand, hoping her coaxing might be effective. “He is an excellent chef, I might add.”
“I eat nothing but vegetables, grains, and the like. Absolutely no fish, fowl, or meat,” Letty declared, giving the man a hostile glance. “And this is a feminine household. I cannot see how he can
