Page 24 of Miss Delectable
“The sandwiches have not even a hint of mustard, no dried onion, not so much as a pinch of basil. Miss Pearson is a firm believer in spices.”
Sycamore took another bite. “How would you know what my undercook believes in?”
“She told me so. What must I do to get you to provide Hannah a job with Miss Pearson?”
Sycamore munched for a moment. “Why not apprentice her to Delacourt? He’s the outstanding talent in my kitchen. The whole staff considers themselves lucky to work with him.”
Goddard slanted a look at Sycamore, and exactly how did a man’s gaze manage to be pitying when that man gazed out of only a single eye?
“Delacourt will take offense at your hiring him an apprentice he hasn’t chosen for himself—a female, no less—and Hannah honestly knows little of what goes on in a kitchen. She will need a patient instructor, not a half-drunk, self-adoring drill sergeant. Decide what the price for this favor will be, and I will gladly pay it.”
Sycamore took a considering sip of his cider and wished Jeannette were on hand. The price should be regular calls on Jeanette, but she would not want her brother coerced into socializing with her. Sycamore did not need coin—which Goddard well knew—but Goddard had to have something useful to offer.
Something Goddard would value. Something Sycamore valued as well, lest the exchange be insulting to Goddard.
“How is it Hannah is among your dependents, Colonel? Is she the by-blow of a fellow officer?”
“Most of my fellow officers will have nothing to do with me. Hannah, Benny to her familiars, is among the infantry I employ in furtherance of my business interests.”
“She is one of your urchins.” London was awash in urchins. The newspapers perennially lamented that state of affairs, and periodic collections were taken up, but nothing stemmed the tide of feral children littering the streets in the jewel of civilization’s crown. That many of those children were female was a doubly uncomfortable thought.
“Hannah numbered among my general factotums. I would not send her to you did she not have letters, manners, and regular exposure to what passes for religion among the English.”
“You are English.”
“I am half French, which limits my influence far more than you might think. That Hannah was foisted off on you by a family connection who bears the cross of French blood will spare her the worst of your chef’s posturing.”
Goddard spoke as if Delacourt’s little tantrums were more than passing displays. “Delacourt will have no excuse for pique, provided the child is as quick-witted and well mannered as you say she is.”
Goddard’s silence spoke volumes. How did he do that? How did he imply that Sycamore lacked an accurate grasp of the politics of his own kitchen?
“Has Miss Pearson been telling tales out of school, Goddard?”
“When you have the privacy to do so, ask her how the kitchen is managing, and thenlistento what she says and what she doesn’t say. My concern is Benny.”
Sycamore took a spoonful of compote, which was rich and sweet, if somewhat uninspired. “I will take on your erstwhile urchin, but I have conditions.”
Goddard waved a hand. He did not touch his compote.
“First, we will begin with a trial period of three months, during which Miss Hannah can withdraw from her post without repercussions, provided she gives notice, or Miss Pearson can decide the child is not suited to the job, again with notice.”
“Reasonable. What else?”
Sycamore ran a gaming hell, but he was not a born gambler. He put his next condition before his guest, hoping it wasn’t a significant blunder.
“You will guarantee me a supply of champagne during those three months, at the same prices you offer to your best customers. My current supplier, a Frenchman, has grown greedy, despite the volumes of custom I offer him. I want to remind him that business is undertaken for our mutual benefit, not his unilateral enrichment.”
Goddard toyed with his spoon, the gesture having something of annoyance about it. “How many cases will you need?”
Sycamore named a quantity that should make any humble, half-French vintner pause. The Coventry offered free champagne after midnight, and the guests invariably indulged a tearing thirst at the tables. The free champagne had gone from a courtesy to an amenity to a signature of the club’s fine hospitality, while Sycamore’s supplier had become an arrogant pain in the arse.
“You will take delivery at the dock,” Goddard said. “I see no point inventorying that much wine in my cellars when the bottles are bound for consumption at your tables.”
“Reasonable,” Sycamore said, saluting with his spoon.
Something flitted over Goddard’s countenance. Not humor, exactly, but a leavening of his features. Once upon a time, Orion Goddard had probably been handsome, back before he’d donned an eye patch and forgotten how to smile.
Did Miss Pearson make him smile? Jeanette might know.
