The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(67)

But when she looked around, saw him, and smiled, the last of his control over the situation vanished. He crossed the room in an instant, sinking into the chair opposite her at the table.

She reached for his hand across the table and squeezed his fingers. “You were gone all night. It’s nearly evening again.”

“Meetings,” he murmured in an attempt to explain as much as he could about the secret society he ran out of his drawing room. Perhaps it hadn’t been wise to come here when he was so weary. His defenses were down. He twined his fingers with hers, unwilling to let her go.

“What’s all this?” he asked, staring down at the table top between them. Pages of scribbled notes blocked the wood grain from view with small dishes containing ten different foods sitting on top of the papers.

“Try a bite of this one. It’s divine.” She pushed a plate toward him with her free hand.

He eyed the food and then glanced up at her, waiting for some sort of explanation.

“I’m certain you haven’t eaten,” she pressed.

“I had…a cup of tea a few hours past.”

She glared at him, pulled her hand free of his, and grabbed a fork from the table. Lifting a cut of meat to his lips, she held it there, forcing him to take a bite.

It was covered in some sort of sauce, and his eyes must have rolled back in his head at the rich, buttery taste that practically melted on his tongue because she smiled and said, “See? Isn’t it delicious?”

He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until that moment. Taking the fork from Isabelle’s fingers, he began to eat the variety of foods on the table. Although he only ever ate what was required to keep from growing faint, this was… “Incredible,” he murmured between bites.

“Your cook is French,” Isabelle said with a nod of her head as if sage wisdom had just been imparted.

He knew Madame Chabois had been born in France. She’d been the cook in this household for years before he’d even arrived. But he’d never tasted anything like this from his kitchen. Her food had always been bland. It was sustenance, which was all food needed to be; therefore, he’d never complained. But this… He took the last bite of the dish closest to him and looked up from the now-empty plate to meet Isabelle’s gaze. How was it that Isabelle was so well advised about his cook when she’d been here since he left her last night? “You met my cook? Not in the kitchen, I hope, or I’ll have words with Mrs. Featherfitch. It isn’t safe for you to leave this room. Someone could see you.”

“Madame Chabois came here. She’s an interesting woman. Her stories about her childhood in the French countryside make it sound so beautiful. She described it as if it could be a painting.”

“She came here and saw you? That isn’t safe, Isabelle. The more who know of your presence…”

“Your cook can be trusted. I’m an excellent judge of character, I’ll have you know. I knew you were a kind pirate, didn’t I?”

“And the food? She brought you all of this when you met with her for the first time?” He raised a brow, knowing the selection in front of him had to have taken all day to prepare.

“These are samples of her work,” Isabelle said, clearly excited by the artistry of the food displayed on the table. “She mentioned pastries and tarts as well. Such talent. Did you know this represents her true ability?”

He liked seeing the sparkle in Isabelle’s eyes. It was the same look she’d had when she’d shown him around the museum. Her question, however, was a punch to the gut. When was the last time he’d been to the kitchen in his own home? He let his housekeeper handle such matters.

“She’s quite talented. It’s sad to see her abilities overlooked. Any cook can heat toast, but this…”

“Madame Chabois is unhappy in her employment here?” If he’d allowed the needs, artistic or otherwise, of someone who lived under his own roof to be neglected, it was a concern. The woman had always prepared food in a certain manner. He’d assumed that was simply her preferred way of doing things, but he’d never once asked.

He looked down at the table covered in servings of various dishes, fine foods, things he’d never seen served here before. The truth of the situation in his kitchen landed hard enough in his mind to rattle the china that sat before him. “Pearl couldn’t eat certain spices, rich sauces… She’s still cooking as if she’s feeding a lady who is ill,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. It had been years. How had this slipped beneath his notice? First Grapling, now his cook? He had to fix this. He had to fix all of it.

“I first met her this morning when I…” She glanced down for a second in clear discomfort before meeting his gaze once more. “I refused the food that was brought up for me. I appreciate your hospitality, Fallon, truly I do. I know that this is your home, and I have no place here.”

“You most certainly do have a place here,” he countered. Isabelle’s care was on his shoulders, and if she wanted to live on nothing but tropical fruits, he would see that it happened. “I have no desire to starve you during your stay. Anyway. You have no information I require, so torturing you does me no good, remember?”

“You don’t mind, then?” she asked, indicating the plates on the table with a nod of her head.