Page 32 of The Princess and the Rogue

“Perhaps you’re not providing the entertainment they want.”

His lips thinned at the suggestion that his beloved Tricorn was anything less than perfect, and Anya suppressed a smile. He really was arrogantly conceited when it came to his business. When it came to most things, actually.

“And what is that?” he said testily. “We have cards, dice, roulette. The best French chef in London. An incomparable wine cellar.”

“You can get those anywhere.” Anya paused, enjoying the way he seemed to be hanging on her every word. “If you really want to attract Russians, you need vodka.”

His disgusted expression almost made her laugh out loud. “What’s wrong with brandy and port?”

“Nothing, but Russians prefer vodka. Believe me, nothing gets a Russian drunk enough to spill his secrets like vodka.”

He frowned, apparently considering this revelation. “All right, I’ll try it. It can be a novelty. Something thatsets the Tricorn apart from clubs like Crockford’s and Brooks’s.”

“You could host a whole Russian evening,” Anya suggested, warming to the idea. “Have your chef make all kinds of Russian foods in honor of the delegation. That will bring them in for a taste of their homeland.”

A frown marred his perfect forehead. “There may be a slight problem with that. Monsieur Lagrasse is not only the best French chef in London, he’s also the most temperamental. There’s a strong chance he’ll refuse to cook such foreign monstrosities.”

“Let me talk to him.”

With a shrug and a sigh that indicated she was wasting her time, Wolff led her down the curving main staircase and to the top of the steps leading down to the kitchens. The clatter of pans and a stream of French curses echoed up from below.

“I warn you, he won’t thank us for invading his kitchens. He’s a despot worse than Bonaparte. This is his own personal fiefdom.”

Anya sent him a droll glance. “I’m sure we’ll get along famously.”

“Can you cook?”

“Not at all. My housemate Elizaveta is the one who saves us from eating bread and jam every night.”

Wolff shook his head. “This is going to be a disaster.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and entered a large, airy kitchen. The room was set half-belowground—the high windows revealed a set of steps leading up to the cobbled mews at the back of the club. An impressive assortment of shiny copper pans and bunches of dried herbs hung from hooks on the ceiling, and a huge cooking range emitted a sweltering heat. Two maids were in the process of chopping vegetables, and a short, rotund gentleman wearing a black apron was elbow-deep in alarge copper bowl. This, Anya surmised, was the great Lagrasse.

As they watched, he withdrew a ball of bread dough, threw it down on the tabletop, and proceeded to slap and pummel it with his fists as though he wanted to ensure the thing was completely dead.

He glanced up with a fearsome frown, not at all subservient at the appearance of his lordly employer, and his thin black mustache quivered in irritation.

“My lord. Zis is a most inconvenient time. I am at a crucial stage wiz my dough. If you wish to ’ave food for two ’undred zis evening, I would appreciate no interruptions.”

Anya suppressed a smile.

“Monsieur Lagrasse,” Wolff said evenly. “This is my guest, Miss Brown. She has some suggestions for you.”

The chef glared, clearly astonished that anyone should be questioning the perfect composition of his menu. Anya stepped forward, keen to forestall any objections, and spoke rapidly in French.

“It is an honor to meet you, sir. I hail from St. Petersburg, and believe me when I say that tales of your culinary genius have spread even as far as there.”

The Frenchman broke out into a delighted grin. “Why, but you speak the mother tongue like a native, my girl!”

Anya smiled. “Please, call me Anya. And of course. We Russians love everything French. I spent a wonderful year in Paris before I came here.”

She held out her hand and the little man bowed over her fingers in formal greeting.

“What are these suggestions of yours?”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Wolff raise his brows in shock, although whether it was at her flawless French or the fact that she’d managed not to infuriate his volatile employee, was unclear.

“Lord Mowbray has assured me that you’re the finest chef in London, and from the food I tasted last night, I’m inclined to agree with him.”

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