grab the handle of the heavy iron skillet and set it off the flames.
“Well, it can’t be that hard, can it? Not when most of the food is at least half prepared.”
Mrs. Conklin warily eyed the stove. “I dunno, missus….”
Tory lifted her skirts, walked purposefully across the kitchen, picked up Mrs. Reynolds’s apron and tied it round her waist.
“We’ll simply have to do the best we can. Between the four of us, we’ll figure things out as we go along.” She forced herself to smile. “I have every confidence this dinner will be one his lordship’s favorites.”
But several hours later, as she wiped grease off her hands and brushed flour off her apron, she knew that would have been far too easy.
Instead, she filled a silver terrine with too-salty oyster soup, loaded a silver tray with slices of overcooked beef and another with roast partridge still pink in the joints. As she scooped scorched sausage stuffing into silver bowls, Tory ordered the footmen to keep the wineglasses filled to the brim and prayed the guests would be so inebriated by the time the food actually reached their fancy gold-rimmed plates they wouldn’t notice.
At least working in the hot, steamy kitchen all day, she and Claire, Miss Honeycutt, Mrs. Conklin, and the newly hired footmen, Mr. Peabody and Mr. Kidd, whose services she had enlisted, had developed a certain camaraderie. And during that time, she had gleaned all manner of gossip.
There were few secrets in a household the size of the earl’s. Chiefly notable was Lord Brant’s ongoing search for his cousin, Captain Sharpe. Even more intriguing, Miss Honeycutt, through bits and pieces of conversation picked up between the earl and his cousin, Lady Aimes, informed her that Lord Brant intended to wed an heiress.
“His father, the late earl,” Mrs. Conklin put in, “lefthis son in a bit of a pickle—God rest the poor man’s soul. Lost most of ’is money, ye see. But the son—he’s a smart one. He fixed things back the way they was before.”
Still, his goal, it seemed, wasn’t simply to replace the losses but to make the Brant fortune increase.
It was information she almost wished she hadn’t learned.
“Here come the footmen.” Miss Honeycutt’s voice drew her thoughts back to the chaos in the kitchen. “’Tis time to serve dessert.”
They began to scurry around, helping Mr. Peabody fill the dessert trays while Mr. Kidd hefted one of them up on his shoulder. All four of the women grinned as a silver dome was placed over the rum-soaked fruit cakes—very rum-soaked—and carried in to the guests.
“Those ought ta finish ’em off,” Mrs. Conklin said. “By the time they get through eatin’ those and drink a bit more wine, they won’t notice the molded heart looks more like the face of a pig.”
Claire cast Tory a glance, clamped a hand over her mouth, but couldn’t stifle a giggle. As hard as she tried not to, Tory started laughing, too.
It was true. The molded heart looked exactly like a pig. Miss Honeycutt and Mrs. Conklin joined in, filling the room with gales of mirth.
The laughing came to a very sudden halt when the kitchen door slammed open and the earl walked in. He took one look at the stacks of dirty pots and pans, the food strewn all over the counter and the flour on the floor, and his eyebrows climbed toward his forehead.
“All right—exactly what the devil is going on?”
Claire’s whole face turned pink. Mrs. Conklin andMiss Honeycutt began to tremble in terror. All Tory could think was how her hair was sticking out in ugly little curls beneath the mobcap she had retrieved during the afternoon’s debacle and that her skirt and blouse were spotted with grease.
“Well, Mrs. Temple?”
“I—I’m sorry, your lordship. I realize the meal didn’t turn out quite as well as we planned, but—”
“Quite as well as you planned!” he roared. “My guests are reeling drunk, and the meal—if you could actually call it that—tasted
“Well, it can’t be that hard, can it? Not when most of the food is at least half prepared.”
Mrs. Conklin warily eyed the stove. “I dunno, missus….”
Tory lifted her skirts, walked purposefully across the kitchen, picked up Mrs. Reynolds’s apron and tied it round her waist.
“We’ll simply have to do the best we can. Between the four of us, we’ll figure things out as we go along.” She forced herself to smile. “I have every confidence this dinner will be one his lordship’s favorites.”
But several hours later, as she wiped grease off her hands and brushed flour off her apron, she knew that would have been far too easy.
Instead, she filled a silver terrine with too-salty oyster soup, loaded a silver tray with slices of overcooked beef and another with roast partridge still pink in the joints. As she scooped scorched sausage stuffing into silver bowls, Tory ordered the footmen to keep the wineglasses filled to the brim and prayed the guests would be so inebriated by the time the food actually reached their fancy gold-rimmed plates they wouldn’t notice.
At least working in the hot, steamy kitchen all day, she and Claire, Miss Honeycutt, Mrs. Conklin, and the newly hired footmen, Mr. Peabody and Mr. Kidd, whose services she had enlisted, had developed a certain camaraderie. And during that time, she had gleaned all manner of gossip.
There were few secrets in a household the size of the earl’s. Chiefly notable was Lord Brant’s ongoing search for his cousin, Captain Sharpe. Even more intriguing, Miss Honeycutt, through bits and pieces of conversation picked up between the earl and his cousin, Lady Aimes, informed her that Lord Brant intended to wed an heiress.
“His father, the late earl,” Mrs. Conklin put in, “lefthis son in a bit of a pickle—God rest the poor man’s soul. Lost most of ’is money, ye see. But the son—he’s a smart one. He fixed things back the way they was before.”
Still, his goal, it seemed, wasn’t simply to replace the losses but to make the Brant fortune increase.
It was information she almost wished she hadn’t learned.
“Here come the footmen.” Miss Honeycutt’s voice drew her thoughts back to the chaos in the kitchen. “’Tis time to serve dessert.”
They began to scurry around, helping Mr. Peabody fill the dessert trays while Mr. Kidd hefted one of them up on his shoulder. All four of the women grinned as a silver dome was placed over the rum-soaked fruit cakes—very rum-soaked—and carried in to the guests.
“Those ought ta finish ’em off,” Mrs. Conklin said. “By the time they get through eatin’ those and drink a bit more wine, they won’t notice the molded heart looks more like the face of a pig.”
Claire cast Tory a glance, clamped a hand over her mouth, but couldn’t stifle a giggle. As hard as she tried not to, Tory started laughing, too.
It was true. The molded heart looked exactly like a pig. Miss Honeycutt and Mrs. Conklin joined in, filling the room with gales of mirth.
The laughing came to a very sudden halt when the kitchen door slammed open and the earl walked in. He took one look at the stacks of dirty pots and pans, the food strewn all over the counter and the flour on the floor, and his eyebrows climbed toward his forehead.
“All right—exactly what the devil is going on?”
Claire’s whole face turned pink. Mrs. Conklin andMiss Honeycutt began to tremble in terror. All Tory could think was how her hair was sticking out in ugly little curls beneath the mobcap she had retrieved during the afternoon’s debacle and that her skirt and blouse were spotted with grease.
“Well, Mrs. Temple?”
“I—I’m sorry, your lordship. I realize the meal didn’t turn out quite as well as we planned, but—”
“Quite as well as you planned!” he roared. “My guests are reeling drunk, and the meal—if you could actually call it that—tasted
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