Page 71 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
The young women spoke a short while more, then Nancy left to finish her tasks.
When they’d parted ways, Cressida let herself inside the kitchen.
Less busy than that of the fully housed Devil’s Den, with its servants rushing about to see to the needs and wants of both the proprietors and patrons, Lord Wakefield’s townhouse kitchen possessed a welcome, calm, and quiet energy that Cressida deeply appreciated and welcomed, particularly now. Though it was welcome in her life in general, which was so very chaotic and uncertain.
The minute Cressida stepped inside, everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her. How strange to go from being completely unnoticed to an object of extreme scrutiny. From last night’s auction to this morning’s meeting with Benedict and Lord Rothesby, and then the kitchens, and now this kitchen.
Cressida smiled into the quiet. “Good morning.”
The cook and chef exchanged looks, both of them clearly in a silent argument as to which one should come see the temporary lady of the house.
Cook, a fellow nearing his thirtieth year or so, tossed down his dough, wiped his hands along the front of his apron and, with a sigh, headed for Cressida. With his size, strength, and slightly bent nose, the servant looked better suited as a guard at The Devil’s Den than a man who spent his days in the heat of a kitchen.
“Miss, if there’s something you require,” he said, “I can have one of the servants come meet you. There’s absolutely no reason for you to enter the kitchen.” By the strained quality of his low baritone, he far preferred it that way.
Ah, unwanted. Now, this was a familiar feeling. “I wondered if I might be able to join you.”
He gawked at her. “Join me for what?” He directed that at Cressida but looked around at his fellow staff members for some kind of clarification.
Everybody just lifted their shoulders in a shrug.
When her question went unanswered, Cressida cleared her throat. “I am a proficient baker.”
He glanced down his hooked Roman nose. “You want to bake?”
She might as well have just said she intended to overthrow the monarchy and claim the crown for herself.
“I won’t be any trouble,” she vowed. Baking had always soothed her. She’d always loved to bake. It had also proven a costly endeavor and been one of the first luxuries to go when all the money started to go too.
Cook grinned slowly. “So you want to bake?” This time, he turned back to the other fellow near an age to his own.
He flicked a thumb in his direction. “This one’s for you, Hankley.”
The dessert chef sputtered and squawked. “I don’t have time to give a lesson now, miss.” He grunted. “I’ve got to prepare the evening meal and the bread for the staff and his lordship.”
She beamed at him. “Oh, his lordship won’t be coming back this evening.”
The kitchen gave her another collective look.
She blushed. Yes, she could see how that was confusing, given the fact that this was Benedict’s holding for his mistress,and, as such, they’d expected he would be spending the night with his new mistress.
“If I told you I don’t need a lesson, that I am perfectly capable of baking myself and that I’ll stay out of your way and…”
At the tightening of his mouth, she let her request trail off. And could see there was nothing he wanted less.
“Perhaps another time, Miss.” Hankley said.
The finality in his tone left no doubt that there wouldn’t actually be a time in the future, and so to save what little face she had left this day, Cressida walked out with her head held high. The minute she closed the door behind her with a soft click, she heard the activity come alive in the kitchen. There also came whispers and words uttered, no doubt the servants commiserating in like horror at the lady who’d been underfoot and attempting to distract them from their responsibilities.
Cressida made her way abovestairs and returned to her rooms, closing the door behind her. She leaned against the panel and looked about her new quarters. She wasn’t accustomed to being purposeless. Every part of her existence required she do something. She wasn’t one of those ladies who sat about and waited for callers. She didn’t embroider. She didn’t sit about and play the pianoforte or make floral arrangements, though she dearly would have loved to do so. She did love flowers; they reminded her ever so much of Somerset. And being here where she had no role, no purpose, left her confused and not elated as she expected it should. She was used to darning socks and tending linens to try and earn funds. She helped prepare the meals. She wasn’t a kept lady. She wasn’t any sort of lady.
Cressida remained there, watching the pretty ormolu clock atop the marble fireplace mantel tick away the passing seconds, then minutes, and eventual hours. And then, when the sun faded from the sky and night crept in, only then did Cressida head overto the fully stocked armoire and collect a black satin evening dress with a scandalously low neckline.
Wrinkling her nose, she considered it a long while.
What woman had worn this before—Cressida thrust the thoughts aside.
It would have to do. After changing into the garment and fetching a cloak, she drew her hood up and then waited for her moment to leave.
