Chapter 2

After the earl departed, the dowager suddenly looked up at Emily in alarm. "Dinner!" she cried. Emily gave her a puzzled look. "Anatole!" the dowager groaned.

Emily laughed. "I will take care of it," she said as she left the morning room and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Anatole, the dowager's French chef, would have to be told of the addition of the earl to their dinner table. Emily was one of the few who was able to approach the volatile Frenchman with last-minute changes without him flying up into the boughs and threatening resignation. This evening's meal had been planned for only six. The addition of a seventh would likely represent little difficulty for Anatole. Nevertheless, Emily steeled herself for the inevitable outburst.

She made her way down to the basement and entered the large, busy kitchen. One long wall displayed an impressive batterie de cuisine, including racks of copper pots of all sizes, iron kettles, pewter trays and jugs, and an enormous collection of fancifully shaped jelly molds. An adjacent wall housed a row of several open-fire ranges, a separately fired oven, and a large hot plate decorated with classical medallions on the front. Though the high windows on the outside wall were propped open, the air was close and warm. The somber blue walls added to the oppressive atmosphere. Several kitchen maids scurried about, and Lucien, Anatole's young assistant, was busily rolling out a pastry on one of the large trestle tables in the center of the room.

Emily found Anatole at one of his many stockpots, testing a fish broth. He was a large, almost burly man with thinning dark hair and piercing black eyes. He had a fiery Gallic temper that often had kitchen maids cowering in corners, but his manner always softened in the presence of pretty young women or in the face of true appreciation of his art. As Emily provided both, he was generally solicitous toward her. Emily waited quietly until he was apparently satisfied with the flavor of the fish broth, and was about to approach a large pot of beef stock being slowly reduced to a glace de viande.

"Pardon me, Monsieur Anatole," she said softly, "but may I have a word with you?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle Townsend," Anatole said. He delicately wiped his fingers with a damp towel, which he then held out to be taken by an attendant kitchen maid. "What may I do for you? A preview of tonight's masterpiece, perhaps?" he asked as he cocked his head toward the row of stock pots.

"You spoil me, monsieur," Emily replied, smiling. "The aromas alone are enough to send me into raptures. I will wait and sample your art in the dining room along with our guests. And by the way, I am afraid we will have an additional guest this evening."

"What?" roared Anatole. "C'est impossible! It is too late to change our menu. We cannot do it!" He muttered a string of French invectives, most of which Emily was fortunately unable to translate. He pounded a nearby butcher block with his fists and kicked over a straw basket of coal. His face turned red with fury, and his black eyes seemed almost to pop out of his head. When he appeared ready literally to explode, Emily quietly interrupted.

"Please, monsieur, you must calm down. Have a care for your health. It would be a tragedy if the great Anatole succumbed to apoplexy in his own kitchen. Lady Bradleigh would be desolate without you. Here, sit down for a moment," she said as she led him to a bench along a short corridor leading to the adjacent scullery. He stopped shouting but narrowed his black eyes and glowered menacingly at her.

"Our additional guest this evening is her ladyship's grandson, Lord Bradleigh," Emily said in the same tone she had once used in the schoolroom to placate her young charges. "He has arrived unexpectedly and will be staying here in Bath a short while. He is a great admirer of your arts, monsieur," she said, hoping it was true. "I know he expects greatness from her ladyship's kitchen and awaits tonight's dinner with keen anticipation. I have promised her ladyship that you will not fail, and I know that you will not. After all, monsieur, when have you ever failed to overwhelm us all with your extraordinary talents? Who can remain unmoved by your poulardes à la Perigueux? Or your cotellettes d'agneau à la Toulouse? Or"—she sighed and closed her eyes—"your escalopes de volatile aux truffes?"

She peeked through her lashes to find Anatole gazing abstractedly into space, smiling no doubt in contemplation of that particular triumph. She gave an ecstatic shiver, then slowly opened her eyes.

It occurred to her that if she ever lost her position, she could surely find a career on the stage.

"Ah, monsieur," she continued breathlessly, "you are a genius. I know you will be able to think of some way to accommodate Lord Bradleigh. True, we will have an uneven number at the table, but that should pose a greater problem to Barnes and his staff than to you, monsieur, n'est-ce pas?" She grinned at him, knowing that her arrow had struck home. Anatole and Barnes maintained a polite truce at the best of times. Barnes and his footmen had never quite gotten used to the dowager's introduction of a large round table in the smaller dining room, which she preferred to use for more intimate dinners in the French style. The round table wreaked havoc with Barnes' notion of corner dishes, and he frequently fussed over where to position which dishes. The resolution was a greater number of removes, which allowed Anatole to better extend his talents.

Anatole grinned back at Emily. "Soit!" he said, waving an imperious hand. "We shall not fail, mademoiselle. We welcome Lord Bradleigh. He is a true connoisseur, and we shall not disappoint him."

Emily thanked Anatole and assured him of her confidence in his abilities, then made her way back upstairs.

* * *

Anatole smiled as he watched her leave, amused at the persuasive tactics she always used with him. He would never let her know that he would happily do anything she asked, as he was very fond of her. But he was even more fond of their little game of tyrant and diplomat, which she played so well. He sighed as he rose and sought out Lucien to have him round up another pair of ortolans.

* * *

Emily retired to her bedroom and began to study her wardrobe for a suitable dress for the evening. There was not much of a selection. She had few dresses, and only two or possibly three appropriate for evening wear. Each was simply cut, absent of elaborate adornment, and generally in dark blues or grays. Emily had always felt perfectly comfortable in her plain gowns and had dined with tonight's guests enough times so that there was no need to impress. But she suddenly felt decidedly dowdy when she thought of dining with Lord Bradleigh. He was certainly one of the most attractive men she had ever met, and she had not failed to appreciate his boyish charm in handling his grandmother. She was quite surprised at his friendly, endearing manner. He was a notorious rake with a somewhat dark reputation. She had expected a more brooding, menacing demeanor. Instead, she had found his open, amiable manner quite appealing. But then she also recalled that he was known to be a gamester. This thought put an end to any generous feelings she might have had for her employer's grandson. She blamed her own current penniless state on her father's penchant for gambling and therefore had no tolerance for men who won and lost fortunes at the turn of a card.

Emily sighed and pulled out a gray silk gown from her small wardrobe. She would not forget her place. She would not worry about looking dowdy in front of a renowned rogue and gambler, no matter how attractive he was.

She rang for a maid, and soon Lottie, one of the under housemaids, was at her door bringing a pitcher of hot water. Lottie was an incurable chatterbox but had a sweet and generous nature, and Emily was fond of her. She smiled as Lottie sailed into the room.

"Oh, miss," Lottie said breathlessly, "ain't it wonderful havin' such a one as his lordship in the house? Have you seen him yet? I hear he's devilish handsome. But then he would have to be, wouldn't he, for all those women to fall at his feet. Such stories I've heard!"

"Lottie!" Emily scolded. "Surely you are not already gossiping belowstairs about our guest? He's only just arrived."

"Oh, no, miss, I'm not spreadin' any new tales, to be sure. We hear stories about His Lordship all the time."

Emily bit back a smile as she contemplated the distinction between old gossip and new gossip.

"It fair makes your hair stand on end, it does," Lottie said. "I tell you, us housemaids is all in a quake havin' him here. A girl's not safe with him around. You'd better be on your guard, too, miss. He's a regular rogue, he is. Why, only last month we heard he ... well, he ..." She lowered her voice. "He had his way with a grand duchess in a chapel in Westminster Abbey. Right in the church!" Lottie's eyes had grown as big as saucers as she spoke.

Emily turned away to hide her amusement at Lottie's righteous outrage. She, too, had heard the story about the church. But it had been St. Paul's, not Westminster Abbey, and in the vaults, not a chapel. And it had been Lady Theale, a baroness, not a duchess. Of course, they could be two different stories altogether. Lord Bradleigh, after all, did indeed get around.

Emily gave herself a mental shake. Had she lost all sense of propriety? She must be spending too much time in the dowager's company. She actually found the stories more amusing than shocking. Nevertheless, she decided it was best to attempt to put a halt to any more storytelling while His Lordship was a guest in the house. There was no stopping servants' gossip, but at least she could try to discourage the more sordid tales.

"I think, Lottie," she said, trying to sound stern, "that most of the stories you have heard are untrue or at least exaggerated. His Lordship is soon to be married. I do not imagine he would be cavorting around Town under the nose of his betrothed. He is a gentleman, after all."

"Married!" Lottie squealed. "You're funnin', miss."

"No, Lottie. I assure you it is true. So do, please, have a care. It is not our place to judge others and certainly not a guest in our house. I will trust you to make sure that the rest of the housemaids behave with proper respect toward the earl."

"Yes, miss," Lottie said weakly and turned to leave. "But I pity the poor girl that's to marry him," she called over her shoulder as she closed the door.

Emily chuckled to herself and wondered if Miss Windhurst was indeed to be pitied.

* * *

When Robert was shown to his room, he found that Luckett, his valet, had already laid out his evening clothes and was preparing a bath. Robert eyed the large copper tub by the fire with pleasure as he watched a series of housemaids and footmen enter with steaming buckets of water. When the last of the buckets was added to the tub, and the last giggling housemaid had made her exit, Robert turned to allow his valet to help him out of his jacket.

"Ah, Luckett," he said, sighing contentedly, "I must be getting old. Nothing could be more appealing to me at this moment than that steaming tub."

"Indeed, milord," Luckett replied with a wry smile as he proceeded to help Robert undress. He then continued unpacking Robert's portmanteau, brushing and neatly folding or hanging each article of clothing. In his usual casual manner, which had long ago ceased to offend Luckett's rigid propriety, Robert carried on a conversation with his valet while he soaked.

"And so Grandmother expects me to remain here in Bath for longer than I had expected, Luckett. Shall I need to send you out shopping for additional shirts and cravats?"

"I doubt that will be necessary, milord. I anticipated that her ladyship would require your presence for longer than a few days and packed accordingly."

"I'm sure I don't pay you enough, Luckett. Remind me to increase your salary when we return to London."

"I will do that, milord."

"And so we are stuck here, Luckett, in dull old Bath. At least I will have the lively and delightful company of Grandmother to shorten the days. I trust you will not lack for diversion, Luckett?" Robert said, grinning. His valet was as notorious belowstairs as Robert himself was abovestairs. To his knowledge, Luckett had never gotten a housemaid in trouble, but he never seemed to lack for female companionship.

"As it happens, milord, there are two new housemaids since our last visit as well as a fetching little kitchen maid, though she's little more than a child."

"Then I shall trust, as always, to your discretion, Luckett. This is my grandmother's house, after all."

"Of course, milord," Luckett replied indignantly.

"Speaking of new additions to the household, Grandmother has taken on a companion."

"Ah, yes. That would be Miss Townsend, I presume."

"You've met her already?"

"Oh, no, milord. But I heard talk of her in the servants' hall. The whole staff seems very taken with her. It was 'Miss Townsend this' and 'Miss Townsend that' from the moment I arrived."

"Hmm, yes. But it's the oddest thing, Luckett. Grandmother's never employed a companion before, as far as I can recall. I wonder if she's ailing? She's pushing up against eighty, you know. Good lord, I hate to think of her declining. She's always been such a tower of strength." Robert's brows furrowed with concern as he absently dragged a soapy sponge across his chest.

"Does she look ill, milord?"

"No, by Jove, she doesn't. In fact, she is as spry as a spring lamb. The old girl actually boxed my ears, Luckett!"

"She struck you, milord?" the valet replied, choking back a chuckle.

"She did. She's fuming about my betrothal," Robert said as he squeezed the wet sponge over his head. "But this new companion is a puzzle. I'm sure Grandmother doesn't need a nursemaid. If she did, she'd never admit it."

"Could Miss Townsend perhaps be a poor relation, milord?"

"Hmm. I doubt it. Grandmother would have mentioned it when she introduced us, I think. You know how family-proud she is. If Miss Townsend had been the stepdaughter of a third cousin once removed by marriage, Grandmother would have taken great pains to point it out. Then I would have had to endure a half hour dissertation on the peculiar coiling and twisting of that particular branch of the family tree. No, Luckett. I doubt that Miss Townsend is a poor relation. Besides, she's beautifully fair with intelligent green eyes. Not the Cameron coloring at all."

"Beautifully fair?" Luckett asked, suddenly frozen in the act of smoothing the wrinkles out of a blue silk dressing gown, his brows inching up to his hairline.

"Indeed." Robert laughed as he massaged soap through his hair. "She is really quite lovely, though she doesn't seem to want anyone to notice. Dresses like a prim governess, hair pulled back in a tight Methodist knot. Doesn't wear a cap, though, thank goodness."

"But you noticed?"

"What? Oh, of course I noticed, you idiot. What do you take me for?" It had in fact taken Robert only minutes to observe the finer attributes of Miss Townsend. He had not missed those large, wonderfully expressive green eyes and that soft, full mouth. He also suspected that beneath her prim exterior lurked a witty and spirited nature. Under normal circumstances he would make it his business to investigate those suspicions. But those days were over for him. He was now engaged to be married to a beautiful young woman, ready to settle down to a sober life of responsibility and duty. He sighed aloud.

"You amaze me, milord. With all due respect."

"Amaze you?" Robert mumbled as Luckett poured a jug of warm water over his head, rinsing out the soap. "What on earth do you mean?"

"It doesn't matter where we go, milord. Even within the dull confines of Bath, they follow you like lemmings to the sea."

"Who?"

"Beautiful women. You could probably retire to some monastery in Tibet, and a beautiful woman would find her way to your cell. It is quite amazing, milord."

"Ha!" Robert laughed as he stepped out of the tub. Luckett was waiting with a large warm towel, which Robert wrapped around himself like a toga. "And I suppose we are to ignore your string of conquests in the servants' halls?"

"I merely observe, milord, and learn."

"Touché. Well, back to the subject at hand. I'm still puzzled about this companion business. Grandmother doesn't act without a motive. What's her game with Miss Townsend, I wonder? You say the servants' hall is abuzz with talk of her? Anything interesting?"

"Well, milord, I did hear whispers regarding her background."

"Yes. And..."

"She is apparently a woman of gentle birth, a lady of quality."

"Yes, that was obvious."

"Well," he hesitated, "there is speculation as to her... er... parentage, milord."

"Give it up, Luckett," Robert said while toweling his hair before the fire. "What's the story?"

"It is believed that Miss Townsend is possibly the offspring of some grand personage, milord. A royal duke perhaps."

"Oh, good heavens!" Robert groaned. "Sprung from the wrong side of the royal blanket, I suppose?"

"Indeed. I discounted the tale, of course. Just because Miss Townsend treats the housemaids with kindness, they suspect she is a queen."

"Well, then, they would truly be shocked to leam how a real queen behaves, would they not?"

"I would not know, milord," Luckett said with a sniff.

"Hmm. Well, it seems we have a mystery, Luckett," Robert said, stroking his chin. "Perhaps Bath will not be so dull after all."