Kesgrave smiled and assured her she was giving the matter too much thought. “He is a grasping mushroom—no more, no less.”
“That is what he wants you to think,” Bea said, selecting a slice of ham and taking a bite.
Amused, he agreed it was possible, for the description did in fact apply to his destruction of le peu guillotine. “Disposing of it was smart, but only someone remarkably stupid could get away with doing it. But what is his motive?”
“Greed,” she said.
He rolled his eyes at the simple blatancy of the answer. “Well, yes.”
“No, but think about it. Having Auguste Alphonse Réjane in his kitchen was lucrative for him as it advanced his objectives both socially and financially. You heard him—even Prinny has been to dine. He was an irresistible lure, and despite what Mr. Mayhew says, I do not believe he would simply permit him to walk out of his house and into the house of a competitor,” she said, examining the tray pensively. Foie gras or more ham? “It is not only that he would lose business opportunities if the great chef went to work for another banker in London. He would see it as a loss of honor as well. He would not allow that Mr. Réjane was acting reasonably because a reasonable person would not have asked for the loan in the first place. Furthermore, Mr. Mayhew feels entitled to things, as if they belong to him. I am sure he considered Mr. Réjane his and his alone, and would be outraged at the idea of his possession exerting its own authority. That’s why I believe he could have killed him and why the assault was so violent. Mine, he would think, as he swung the cleaver. Mine, he would think, as he chopped through bone.”
Although Kesgrave agreed wholly with her assessment of both Mr. Mayhew’s character and conceded that perhaps violence did undergird his resentment, he could not believe that a man of business would act so rashly. “For all his ridiculous fawning and dinner invitations, he is still a banker occupied with practical concerns. What you’re suggesting doesn’t make pragmatic sense. Réjane planned to return to Paris, not accept a position with Thomas Coutts. Perhaps if he intended to remain in London, Mayhew’s sense of entitlement and outrage would be a factor but the chef was leaving the country. I have to assume that as a matter of expediency, Mayhew would allow that resolution to prevail rather than slicing off his head. The latter is simply too messy in every sense of the word.”
“Well, yes, that is all true,” Bea replied, “but Mr. Mayhew did not know that Mr. Réjane was returning to Paris. Nobody in the house knew.”
The duke found this to be a very curious thing and lowered the sliver of Wiltshire he was about to eat to examine her inquisitively. “How are you in possession of information that is unknown to the people with whom he resided?”
“Mrs. Wallace,” she said as she spread foie gras on a thick slab of bread.
Having little expectation of his housekeeper’s introduction into the conversation, he stared at her in confusion. “Mrs. Wallace?”
Oh, yes, of course, the Duke of Kesgrave knew nothing about the romantical dealings that may or may not flourish among his servants. Why in the world would he? “Mr. Réjane told her because they had a bit of a flirtation.”
Although she spoke with conviction, he assumed she was jesting and he laughed for several seconds before breaking off abruptly. “Truly?”
Since Bea herself found the relationship highly perplexing, she was not at all surprised by his attitude. It had progressed to the stage of a marriage proposal, and yet both parties seemed to treat the offer as a matter of blithe consideration.
“Truly,” she said, relaying a general summary of the couple’s romance as described first by Joseph and then later by the housekeeper. “By all accounts, neither party seemed especially upset by her refusal. Mrs. Wallace, in particular, admits to being a little confused as to why the offer was made in the first place, which I can only assume indicates she had not realized the depth of Mr. Réjane’s regard.”
But the idea of his brisk, practical-minded housekeeper being courted by an effusive French chef was too far beyond Kesgrave’s comprehension for him to entertain theories about the latter’s intentions. “I am certain you misunderstand the situation.”
“I do not,” she said with a hint of amusement. “Mrs. Wallace confirmed the story herself.”
“But was it an actual proposal?” he asked, settling into a theory of miscommunication. “It is possible he said something that she mistakenly construed as a proposal?”
The poor dear was grasping at straws, Bea thought, giggling at the outlandish suggestion. “Yes, yes, of course, Damien, you have hit the nail on the head, you clever man. He said, ‘Will you carry tea, and she heard, Will you marry me.’”
“That’s not quite what I meant,” he muttered in a disgruntled tone as he raised to his lips a glass of champagne, recently poured and still deliciously chilled. “Perhaps he was discussing his return to France and said something to the effect of: ‘I would love to show you Paris.’ And she misinterpreted from there.”
Now Bea laughed harder, for the image of the brisk, practical-minded housekeeper creating a romantical proposal out of half cloth was even more entertaining. Restraining her mirth, she conceded that it was an intriguing theory. “Without question, it is. But recall that the original report came from Joseph, who was in the stillroom and overheard the conversation. If Monsieur Alphonse had spoken otherwise or was there for another purpose entirely, then Joseph would have—”
But she was struck by her own words: another purpose.
Another purpose…another purpose…another purpose.
Oh, yes, of course!
Squealing with exhilaration, Bea leaped across the bed, upending the tray and tackling her husband without care or consideration for the food
