A Lily Among Thorns(20)

He relaxed, grinning sheepishly at her. “It looks as if I do. Sorry.”

She made a dismissive gesture as he reached for the hem of her sleeve. Their fingers brushed; electricity tore through her. Solomon’s hazel eyes sharpened over the ridiculous spectacles, and the air between them shimmered and changed—

The door to her office swung open so hard it thunked against the wall.





Chapter 4


“I cannot be doing zis!” said a ringing Cockney voice with a French accent so fake even the Prince Regent could probably have seen through it. “Ze pastry cook’s boys, zey are not being here! My reputation, it will be in shreds. It is ze end, ze end. I am putting a period to my existence!”

Serena turned around and looked at her head chef, trying not to be annoyed at the interruption. “Please don’t do it in my kitchen.”

Antoine really did look distraught, his chef’s hat askew on his carroty locks and a towel half-falling from his shoulders. “You laugh but it is serious I am. By ze way, you look like a goddess. And if I do not have ze finest dessert to set before ze Prince Regent tonight, I will throw myself off of a bridge! I do not jest. It is a tradition among us chefs. Vatel stabbed himself eight times when ze fish he was to prepare for ze king did not arrive!”

“But the fish came in the end,” Solomon said. “He should have waited. Are you sure the pastry cook’s boys aren’t coming?”

Serena stared at him. “How do you know the fish came?”

“The same way your cook does, I’d imagine. I read the new translation of Mme de Sevigné’s letters that was published last month.”

The cook nodded. “A brilliant woman—so typical of my beloved France!” The closest Antoine had ever come to France was when Serena sent him to the spice market in Horsham, two hours south of London. “But ze boys—zey are not coming. One of zem has ze influenza; we cannot risk spreading the contagion to our beloved future monarch.”

Serena cursed. “Can’t Ying whip up something?”

“It will take her all day to make the bread.”

“Is it too late to send to Gunter’s?”

“Yes, and besides, we will not impress His Royal Highness with the culinary excellence of ze house in zis manner! I am sure he knows every dessert in Gunter’s ménu like the back of his royal hand.”

“How many people do you expect?” Solomon asked.

“Fifty at least!”

He smiled. “Your worries are over. I can make the dessert if I start now.”

Serena’s jaw dropped. Had everyone gone mad? “You? You can make dessert for the Carlton House set?”

“Would you prefer burnt cream or almond-pear tartlets? Those are the most elegant selections in my repertoire.” His smile turned self-deprecating and conspiratorial. “Actually, those are the only selections in my repertoire. But they’re both good.”

“Is there no end to your womanly talents?”

“Baking is just like chemistry!” he protested.

Her lips twitched. “Let’s have the almond-pear tartlets.”

An hour later, Solomon stared in awe at the gigantic kitchen. Spits turned on their own power in the huge fireplace, shining copperware filled the shelves, and bundles of dried herbs hung from the wall. In one corner dangled a great hook whose purpose he could only guess at. The center of the room was occupied by an enormous steam table, on which a number of covered dishes already rested. On a low stove in the corner, Antoine stirred a huge pot of something that smelled delicious.

When he saw his employer, the chef made his way across the room toward them, unslinging a towel from around his neck and wiping the sweat from his face. He had to stop several times along the way to critique the actions of undercooks and kitchen maids, in one case taking a knife away from a boy and showing him the proper way to cut carrots into fine, long strips.

“He’s not French,” Solomon said.

“Of course not,” Serena agreed. “But he thought it was funny to copy René’s accent and pretend he was a snooty French chef. René used to—used to give him pointers on Gallicisms.” She was quiet for a moment. “Antoine was cook in a gin shop before this.”

“And how, precisely, did he learn to cook like a French chef?”

She gave him an amused, sidelong glance. “Don’t be snide. The Blue Ruin was famous for its food.”