Murder Makes an Entree by Amy Myers Page B

‘This is your job,
     Herr Freimüller,’ he announced grimly.
    ‘I get champagne,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, Mr Didier. For the kidneys.’
    ‘Forget the kidneys,’ said Auguste wearily. ‘The geese. They must cook.
Dépêchez-vous!
’
    Heinrich did not understand French, but the meaning was clear.
    Oven doors flew open. James and Heinrich placed the geese, covered in their layers of goose fat, into their ovens. The die
     was cast. In three hours twelve roast geese would emerge succulent, rich and juicy. Would they be eaten? Auguste would take
     it as a reflection on his honour if they were not, despite the unseasonable time of year. Only the Prince of Wales could refuse
     his goose with impunity.
    How glorious seemed the morrow, Auguste thought, when he could resume his holiday; tomorrow, after supervisinga light luncheon, he would escort the delectable Araminta to the band concert of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light
     Infantry. There he would introduce her to Egbert and Edith. Even perhaps they would bathe. The thrill of seeing Araminta in
     bathing dress, even in the distance, segregated as the gentlemen were from the ladies, made his heart race. Truly there must
     be something strange about the seaside, when the mere sight of seeing an ankle had made his heart beat the faster. How dear
     Maisie, or Natalia, and certainly Emma, would laugh to see him enslaved by an ankle after their more generous gifts of person!
     Yet enslaved he was. He and Araminta had paddled together earlier in the week, an occupation he found most strange. But she
     had lifted her skirts a full six inches above the ground as she entered the water, and he was captivated. If he were a poet
     he would write a poem to that glimpse of bare ankle. True, Araminta had no idea of what a poached egg was, but what delight
     for a man to cook all his life for such an angel. This seaside air of Broadstairs was magical. Never again had he thought
     the love of woman could touch his heart, not after the pain of knowing Tatiana was lost to him for ever. Perhaps he should
     be practical and take a wife for comfort. He could marry Alice. How often had he said what a helpmeet she would be, if only
     Alfred Wittisham were not there. He could marry Araminta. His French practicality reluctantly came to the fore. Alice would
     be better.
    She came in with a further two bottles of champagne and took them, blue eyes shining, to Alfred, assembling the ingredients
     for the
Rognons à la Didier
.
    ‘Heinrich got the champagne for me already,’ Alfred pointed out tactlessly. Alice’s eyes clouded.
    Poor Alice, thought Auguste, she tried so hard, but he feared his lordship did not notice her save as a friend, an attitude
     of which James Pegg would fully approve. He looked round. Pegg had disappeared again. Augustepromptly despatched Alfred to hunt for him. Surely,
surely
Pegg could not be in pursuit of Araminta? Jealousy flared, a red dagger in his heart.
    Sir Thomas walked back to his room in the Imperial somewhat later than he had intended, though he was not destined to reach
     it quite yet. Out of the small sitting area at the end of the corridor Gwendolen Figgis-Hewett darted like a vixen from cover.
     Yet a third troublesome encounter, but perhaps the easiest to deal with.
    ‘How could you? Faithless, faithless,’ she moaned, clutching at his lapels. ‘Tell me it is not true, Thomas. That you did
     not mean what you said to me that day.’
    ‘My dear Gwendolen,’ he cut in impatiently, disengaging her from his new blazer. ‘Of course I meant it. I am extremely sorry,
     but I have just had a most trying time.’ He forced a laugh. ‘Among other matters. Mr Dickens’s Datchery has come back, you
     might say. And as to you, we are –’ remembering his diplomacy – ‘we are good companions, but I haven’t the least wish to remarry.’
    ‘You’re going to marry
her
!’ she shrieked.
    ‘Who?’ His face darkened.
    ‘Mrs