Then Came You (The Gamblers #1)(53)

“Burton—that’s your name, isn’t it? How long have you been working for Miss Lawson?”

“Since she returned to London, my lord.”

“Well, whatever your salary, I’ll double it if you’ll come work for me.”

“Thank you, Lord Raiford. However, I must respectfully decline.”

Alex stared at him curiously. “Why? God knows Lily must put you through hell. Knowing her, I suspect this isn’t the worst escapade she’s ever involved you in.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t, my lord.”

“Then why stay?”

“Miss Lawson is an…unusual woman.”

“Some call it eccentric,” Alex said dryly. “Tell me what she’s done to merit such loyalty.”

Burton’s impassive facade seemed to fade, just for a moment, and there was something almost like fondness in his eyes. “Miss Lawson has a compassionate heart, my lord, and a remarkable lack of prejudice. When she arrived in London two years ago, I was in a rather difficult situation, working for an employer who was often inebriated and abusive. Once, while intoxicated, he inflicted a wound on my side with a shaving razor. Another time he summoned me to his room and waved a loaded pistol in front of my face, threatening to shoot me.”

“Hell.” Alex regarded him with surprise. “Why didn’t you find employment elsewhere? A butler of your caliber—”

“I am half Irish, my lord,” Burton said quietly. “Most employers require that their highly placed servants belong to the Church of England, which I do not. That and my Irish heritage—though not readily apparent—deem me unacceptable to butler most decent English families. Therefore I was trapped in a most intolerable situation. Upon hearing of my dilemna, Miss Lawson offered to employ me at a higher salary than the one I was earning, although she knew I would have worked for much less.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps you begin to, my lord.” Burton hesitated and continued in a low tone, as if against his better judgment. “Miss Lawson decided I needed to be rescued. Once she takes such an idea into her head there is no way to stop her. She has ‘rescued’ many people, though no one seems to realize that she is the one most in need of—” Suddenly he stopped and cleared his throat. “I have discoursed quite enough, my lord. Forgive me. Perhaps you’ll reconsider the idea of coff—”

“What were you going to say? That Lily’s in need of rescuing? From what? From whom?”

Burton looked at him blankly, as if he were speaking a foreign language. “Shall I bring this morning’s edition of the Times along with your headache powder, my lord?”

Henry perched at the long table in the cavernous kitchen, watching in fascination as Monsieur Labarge and the army of apron-clad servants worked on a bewildering array of projects. Fragrant sauces and mysterious concoctions bubbled in pots on the cast-iron stove. An entire wall was covered with a staggering collection of shining pots, pans, and molds, an assortment Labarge referred to as his batterie de cuisine.

The chef strode about the room in the manner of a military commander, gesturing with knives, spoons, whatever utensil happened to be in his hand. His towering white hat tilted at alarming angles in response to his vigorous movements. He barked at the second chef, who was making a sauce far too heavy for a dish of fish wrapped in pastry, and at assistant bakers who had allowed the rolls to brown a shade too dark. The fine, upturned ends of his mustache quivered in wrath as he saw that one of the vegetable maids was cutting the carrots too fine. In sudden, bewildering changes of mood, Labarge would shove tempting dishes in front of Henry and beam approvingly as Henry gobbled up the savory feast. “Ah, le jeune gentilhomme, mange, mange…our young gentleman must try some of this…and this…c’est bien, oui?”

“Very good,” Henry said enthusiastically, around a mouthful of pastry dotted with fruit and lemon cream. “May I have some more of those brown things with the sauce?”

With fatherly pride, the chef brought him a second plate of tiny veal strips sautéed with brandy butter, onions, and mushroom sauce. “The first recipe I learned as a boy, helping mon pére prepare supper for le comte,” he reminisced.

“This is even better than the meals we have at Raiford Park,” Henry said.

Monsieur Labarge responded with many uncomplimentary remarks about English food, calling it flavorless garbage that he would not even feed to a dog. This, on the other hand, was French cuisine, as superior to English food as cake was to stale bread. Wisely, Henry nodded in agreement and kept eating.

Just as Henry was forced to set his fork down because his stomach was uncomfortably full, Worthy came to the kitchen entrance. “Master Henry,” he said gravely, “your brother has arrived. He has made some, er, vigorous statements of concern for you. I think it best if you show yourself at once. Come with me, if you please.”

“Oh.” Henry’s cornflower blue eyes turned round with dismay. He covered his mouth with his palm, suppressing a burp, and sighed as he looked around the kitchen. The staff regarded him sympathetically. “It will be a long time before I’ll be able to come back,” Henry said sadly. “Years.”

Monsieur Labarge looked distressed, his thin mustache twitching as he thought rapidly. “Lord Raiford, he has the grand temper, non? Perhaps we shall first offer him poularde à la Periguex…or saumon Monpellier…” The chef paused and considered other delicacies he could prepare, confident that his culinary masterpieces would placate the most savage humor.