“Not to mention rice and the rest.” They exchanged rueful smiles, then Penelope donned a plain medium-blue round gown of light kerseymere and the paisley shawl that Muffin liked so well. Her hat concealed her face well.
“I shall not disgrace you or Henri,” Penelope promised. “Say what you think best if someone asks for me.”
With that, she slipped down the back stairs, far from Letty’s room, then off to enter the hackney that awaited her. Miss Nilsson had thought of everything, it seemed.
This time Penelope felt more at ease in preparing for the evening’s dinner. It was to be much the same group of men, from what Mr. Darling said. They gathered to enjoy fine foods, sip excellent wines, and gossip, as near as she could figure out. Only now, a wager was not involved.
After being assured that his lordship had gone out, Penelope tiptoed into the upper part of the house, admired the fine table setting in the dining room, then took a look about her.
A beautiful console table inlaid with lapis lazuli, porphyry, and various colored marbles stood against the wall, having pride of place in the hall below a tall looking glass framed in gilt. The dining table was inlaid with brass, and the chairs drawn up to it were an elegant curving design.
She wandered on, peeking into the library, taking note of the marvelous collection of music that was piled up on the far side of the room. Had she seen this before, she might have been prepared for last night. She still glowed when she thought of the gentle compliments showered upon her from the one she admired.
On an impressive desk she observed a buhl inkstand, with his seals, a tray holding his pen and nibs and other impedimenta for writing, everything neatly arranged. Feeling like a spy, she backed from the room, then hurried to the kitchen before she could get caught.
The remainder of the day was a whirl of activity. She sat for a brief bite to eat at Mr. Darling’s insistence, then plunged into the final preparations for the meal.
Mr. Darling wrote out copies of the menu for each guest. Following that, he made trips to the wine cellar, bringing back bottles of sherry, Madeira, Johannesburg, Bordeaux, sauternes, champagne, Tokay, Malaga, and Lafitte.
“Mercy!” Penelope declared. “They shall all be under the table if they drink every bit of that.”
“A different wine for each dish, I believe, Lady Penelope,” Darling replied with a smile.
She sniffed, knowing that what he said was likely true. Just because she rarely drank didn’t mean she was unaware of what others consumed. And what was not drunk at the table would be returned to the kitchen.
Before dinner he uncorked the various bottles, except the champagne, setting that to cool. Penelope decided that she ought to taste each of them to see what complemented which food, according to Henri’s notes. She enjoyed the Johannesburg, for it was light and delicate. The Bordeaux was fine, if a bit dry for her taste. The others, she sipped, her head to one side, listening to Darling’s evaluations with growing appreciation for the finer points of wines.
Was she a bit tipsy? Oh, not foxed, just a little elevated? Insufficient food in her stomach, the warmth of the kitchen, and the relaxed feeling that followed the finishing touches to the dinner that went up to the dining room in course after course contributed to the state.
She giggled at Cook, who surveyed the meringue decorated with Chantilly cream and angelica. “It looks like a wedding cake.” She hiccupped, then giggled again. “Fine thing to serve a party of bachelors. I ought to put a ring in for luck; whoever gets it is the next to wed.”
Cook smiled at the nonsense, then looked concerned as Penelope took off a simple gold band she always wore and plopped it into the sweet.
“My lady,” she protested, “you may never see it again.”
“Oh”—Penelope tilted her head and loftily waved her hand at Darling—”he’ll get it back to me. Won’t you, old man?” She hiccupped again and forgot to apologize.
Darling and Cook exchanged concerned glances.
When a bottle of Johannesburg returned to the kitchen not quite empty, Penelope poured out the remaining trifle and slowly sipped it down, thinking that Jonathan lived very well. He must have ordered a lot of wine when the peace came, for he didn’t seem the sort to be financing the enemy by buying smuggled stuff. Of course, this particular wine was imported from the vineyards along the Rhine.
She rose on legs that seemed to be oddly unsteady and wondered if Darling would be so good as to call her a hackney, or perhaps a sedan chair. If she could have the men come into the house so she could merely step right in, and not have to negotiate the steps, it might be just the thing, she decided with another hiccup.
She heard the door open behind her and turned, opening her mouth to make her request. Her mouth gaped open, but not a word came out, for rather than Darling, Jonathan stood there, looking like a winter storm.
“Oh, dear,” she finally managed to say.
“I rather hoped you had not gone as yet.” In contrast to his severe expression, his words sounded smooth, yet somehow rather dangerous.
“You knew I was here?” She gave him a wary smile. “Odd, I thought you’d never guess that I took Henri’s place. I’m a very good cook. You said so yourself,” she enunciated with extreme care, for the words seemed peculiarly difficult to say.
“I brought the remainder of the champagne down so we might have a toast to a very good dinner.” He strolled over to the table, placing the bottle down while waiting for glasses, then watched her.
“That’s nice.” She beamed at him with all the goodwill of a slightly tipsy lady.
“And to return your ring, which I recognized immediately,” he snapped out as he poured the sparkling wine into the two flutes
