Banquet of Lies by Michelle Diener

mouse, my lord.” Her voice was as bitter as burned coffee, and just as dark.
    “You are not a mouse.” His voice came out an octave lower than usual, and he cleared his throat. “You are more like a cat.”
    “A cat?” She looked at him sidelong, brows lifted.
    He realized anything he said now would be dangerous. To him, she was unpredictable, sensual and deeply mysterious. But he could say none of that to her.
    “I would like to be like le chat botté . Puss in Boots.” Her own boots tip-tapped on the cobbles. “Wily and courageous, and not afraid to take big chances.” She stopped, and he saw they were already at Aldridge House. She held out her hands for the baskets.
    “I’ll take them—”
    “No.” She said it kindly. “I will take them down the side alley and go in through the kitchen. You will go in through the front door.” She put her hands on the handles, and he felt the brush of her gloves on his wrists as she tugged the baskets away. “Thank you for your help, your lordship.”
    She walked away, swinging the baskets and humming a little tune to herself, and he stared after her.
    She’d treated him as an equal again.
    She’d told him how things must be, with a firm practicality. She had not deferred to him or felt the slightest bit uncomfortable giving him orders.
    But this same woman was afraid of the sound of men’s footsteps behind her, of people following her in the night.
    Jonathan waited until she disappeared into the kitchen and he couldn’t see her anymore.
    And then, as she’d told him to, he went in through the front door.

13

    G igi ground the coffee, each turn of the grinder turning something inside her: tight, pent-up, ready to burst with the need for action. She had to get a sample of Lord Dervish’s handwriting to compare to the letters in her father’s trunk. The only way she could see to do that, short of somehow stealing his correspondence, would be to write him a note and ask for a response. And still somehow remain anonymous—just in case she was wrong.
    “His lordship wishes to convey his compliments on the almond-and-courgette soup, Cook.” Rob placed the empty bowl on the table.
    “ Merci .” She tapped the ground coffee into its canister, then pulled the cherry-and-frangipani tarts from the oven. “Will you whip the cream for me, Iris?”
    She handed the deep bowl with the cream and a whisk across, and turned back to the table.
    Edgars was coming down the stairs, his eyes fixed on Iris as if he were in a trance.
    Gigi looked over her shoulder, trying to see what he saw. While Iris looked her usual lovely self, with cheeks pink from the exertion of whipping, she couldn’t understand what would catch his attention so. She looked back at Edgars, tried to follow his gaze, and then blushed.
    Iris’s bosom was jiggling and bouncing as she beat the cream.
    With a cry of surprise, Edgars fell down the last three steps and stumbled into the kitchen, arms flailing about.
    “You all right, Mr. Edgars?” Gigi asked.
    He gave her a dazed look, as if he’d walked into a door, and she turned away to hide her expression.
    “Here you go, Cook.” Iris handed her a bowl of glossy white peaks.
    “Perfect.” Gigi beamed as she took the cream. “Isn’t Iris perfect, Mr. Edgars?”
    “What?”
    Edgars stumbled across the kitchen toward his own rooms, realized halfway he had no reason to go there, and changed his path to the cellar to fetch wine.
    “We getting any o’ these?” Rob stood over the cherry tarts, his eyes as riveted to them as Edgars’ had been to Iris’s bosom.
    Gigi shooed him away. “Not enough good cherries. But I made apple tart for you instead. It is very nice.”
    Edgars appeared with a dusty bottle and kept his gaze firmly down, his pace faster than usual.
    Could it be he realized at last who Iris was? What everyoneelse saw when they looked at her? And how small his chances of success were, given the way he’d treated her in the past?
    Iris had