Page 80 of Miss Delectable
“I will bring my own escort,” Ann said, “a former military man who has at least a passing acquaintance with Uncle Horace.”
“This is an officers’ dinner, Ann. Don’t show up with some infantryman-turned-groom from the Coventry’s stable.”
“It might surprise you to know, Aunt, that at the Coventry, we enjoy the custom of the occasional duke and even George himself from time to time. I will bring an officer, you need not worry about that.”
Melisande passed Ann her cloak and then her bonnet. “You aren’t thinking of bringing Jeanette Dorning’s brother, are you?”
Such enthusiasm. “The last time I checked, colonels were included among the officers’ ranks, and yes, I might well bring Colonel Sir Orion Goddard as my escort. He is a gentleman and acquainted with Uncle Horace. Perhaps you also knew him in Spain?”
Melisande passed Ann her parasol. “I did. Why he was knighted, I do not know. There was talk and a board of inquiry if I recall correctly.”
“That board absolved the colonel of any and all accusations of wrongdoing, and thereafter, he was knighted. Can your other guests claim that honor? I thought not. I must be going.”
“I’ll find you somebody other than Goddard,” Melisande said. “He’s not goodton, Ann.”
He is my friend and my lover and bettertonthan you can aspire to be.“Don’t bother. I’m sure the colonel is free to accompany me. If you want me to consider biding with you this winter, Melisande, you will accustom yourself here and now to the notion that I see whom I please and do as I please. I am not a schoolgirl who can be scolded into submission with threats of your disapproval.”
Melisande smoothed the drape of Ann’s cloak. “Were you ever?”
“Yes.” For too long—but thank heavens the lure of the kitchen had been sufficient motivation to put aside that foolishness. “Please give my love to Horace and Daniella.”
Melisande kissed Ann’s cheek and let her go, then stood at the window and watched her progress down the steps and onto the walkway. She was still watching when Ann offered her a parting wave.
The whole conversation had been uncomfortable, probably for both parties, and a lingering disquiet stayed with Ann as she made her way home. In girlhood, Ann had told herself that school wasn’t so bad, that the other students weren’t so unbearable, that an occasional afternoon pestering the school’s cook was enough indulgence of a little hobby.
Leaving Mayfair for the busier and more commercial neighborhoods abutting it, Ann made up a similar litany about a winter spent in the Upchurch household.
It would be for only a few months.
Melisande meant well.
Not even Carême had the opportunity to partake of the banquets he planned.
And just as when she’d been a girl, Ann’s list of considerations felt like so many lies told to pour the sauce of patience on a dish of flaming misery.
* * *
Orion wishedAnn lived several miles more distant from his house, because he needed the walking time to rehearse his confession.
Confessions, plural. Informing Ann that Horace Upchurch had been Rye’s commanding officer shouldn’t be too awful. She’d wonder why Rye had dissembled, and he could explain: He’d simply been surprised and then uncertain about how to broach a difficult topic.
Explaining to Ann that France was becoming an inevitability was a more delicate discussion. Rye was essentially blowing retreat without sighting the enemy. One name for that behavior was cowardice. That half of London thought him a spy was annoying and unjust. That Ann might think him a coward was unbearable.
To stand and fight was brave, to walk into an ambush—into more ambushes—would be stupid. Rye had considered a retreat to avoid stupidity, and yet, leaving London now felt all wrong. He was knocking on the blue door before he’d reasoned himself into a worse muddle yet, and then there was Ann, looking dear and delicious, as she welcomed him into her home.
“That is an apple tart,” she said, taking the parcel from Rye and kissing his cheek. “A French apple tart.” She gently peeled away his eye patch and tucked it into a pocket of his cloak.
“I patronize a bakery that my French friends prefer. I had Monsieur Roberts make up a special order for an older lady with whom I’ve long been acquainted, and I hoped you might enjoy a sample of the same treat.”
Ann set the parcel on the sideboard and unwound the scarf from Rye’s neck. She sniffed the wool and took his hat next.
“Monsieur Roberts’s bakery is gaining quite a reputation,” Ann said. “Miss Julia and Miss Diana like to stop there on fine days and treat themselves to his profiteroles. I confess I have a weakness for his eclairs.”
I have a weakness for you. Rye was happy just to hear Ann’s voice, to see her bustling about her domicile. He wondered if that lifting of the spirits was what a married man experienced when returning home at the end of a workday.
Somebody glad to see him, somebody happy to share the day’s events. Somebody to kiss his cheek and assess whether he was full of good news or merely relieved to be home. The cat stropped himself against Rye’s boots, adding to the sense of domestic welcome.
“Shall we enjoy the tart with a pot of tea?” Rye asked, unbuttoning his cloak.
