Page 8 of Miss Desirable
“And we need rain if the flowers are to come along.” Catherine’s reply was automatic, the result of any number of evenings spent sipping tepid punch with the wallflowers and chaperones. She’d no sooner spoken, though, than the underfootman arrived, bearing the tea tray.
“Thank you, Vincent. That will be all.”
Fournier rose and closed the door. “Shall I pour out, or will you enjoy that office?”
“Why did you close the door?”
“To keep the heat in, of course. In mourning, we are more prone to illness, and as a gentleman, I must place concern for your health over the dictates of strictest propriety.”
“You are not merely presuming, you are audacious.”
“Thank you. When I asked how you were going on, you looked first at the open door, and then you served me a polite fiction. That tells me you do not trust your staff. I grow increasingly alarmed on your behalf, Miss Fairchild.”
Catherine gestured to the tray. “Please do pour, because I gather you do not trust me to prepare your tea to your liking. I like mine with milk and honey.”
Fournier resumed his seat and navigated the tea tray as deftly as any duchess would have. “Your tea.” He held out the cup and saucer. “I come as an emissary from your Dorning relations, who believe that you would want them to exercise discretion rather than parade themselves to your door for all of Mayfair to see.”
He fixed himself plain tea, took a sip, and set down his cup and saucer. “The kitchen has not reused the tea leaves, but they are skimping. What is afoot here, Miss Fairchild? Sycamore Dorning claims that you are an heiress, and impecunious bachelors will soon serenade you beneath the waxing moon.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“Yesterday at lunch. Your family is concerned for you, but they also fear adding to your burdens. I come to assure you of their support.”
“They are…” Catherine set down her tea carefully. “Good people. Mama always said the Dornings were good people.” She’d said it quietly, but with unwavering conviction.
“I am not good people,” Fournier countered, “but I can see that your situation is difficult. Do even your domestics hold your patrimony against you?”
Catherine was reminded that Fournier was dangerous. If he could leap from weak tea to Deems’s snobbery, he was the social equivalent of Wellington’s legendary sharpshooters. No wonder his business prospered.
“The tea merely needed more time to steep,” Catherine said, though if Cook was off to market, then Deems had overseen the preparation of the tray.
“Miss Fairchild, I am French.” Said patiently.
“One grasped as much.”
“I was a small boy during the Terror, and fortunately not in Paris, but I am nearly impossible to shock. If you need to sack your butler, or pensionle vieil âne, then you send for your solicitors, arrange the legalities, hold a summary court-martial, and be done with it.”
Pensionthe old donkey. Such plain speaking ought to be offensive rather than comforting. To Catherine’s horror, an ache started in her throat.
“The effort involved to sack Deems is beyond me at present. I’m accustomed to his little games.”
“But your parents are no longer on hand to keep him in check, and he is nasty to the woman now paying his salary. That suggests an untenable degree of arrogance, even for an English butler. Shall I sack him for you?”
Catherine was tempted. She was so tempted. “I could have the solicitors do it.”
The idea of a household without Deems lurking in the hallways… going through Papa’s things, standing by when the lawyers came around…
“You are not by nature weak or retiring,” Fournier said, holding out the plate of shortbread to her. “You are, in fact, quite formidable. Why do you hesitate?”
Because I am afraid. Because the gossips don’t know the half of it. Because I am weary and sad and uncertain.
Fournier clearly expected an answer. “Laziness?” Catherine suggested. The shortbread was good—fresh and sweet.
“Battle fatigue,” Fournier replied, “is not laziness. While I am sitting here, jot a note to the solicitors, and I will see it delivered.”
He was giving her an order, or possibly encouragement. Catherine took her tea to the escritoire, thought for a moment, then penned a quick epistle. That she’d pension the butler upon Lady Fairchild’s death was almost to be expected, viewed from a certain perspective. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
“Was it this butler whom you sought to poison?” Fournier asked.
