Private Passions Page 34

  On any other day, Daisy would have calmed her mother with a few well-chosen witticisms and a helping hand with the most demanding task. Today, however, with clouds obscuring the sun and her chin resting miserably on her hand, she wished to do nothing more than reflect upon the stupidity she had demonstrated the previous day.

  What on earth had possessed her? If there was ever an idea guaranteed to make her look a perfect fool in front of both Matthew and Amelia, it was impromptu baking lessons. She had even offered the use of Laurence—who even knew if Iris would allow her the use of her prized pastry-cook at such short notice? It was stupid, and ill-planned, and impetuous… not at all the sort of thing she usually did.

  Everything she had done as soon as she had stepped into that study seemed astonishingly out of character. Everything she had done long after the meeting was out of character too, by her standards; she had moped home, the empty basket somehow heavier than it had been when filled with honey, and frittered away the day instead of spending it wisely. Even her sleep had been fitful; full of half-recalled snatches of speech, and the low rumble of Matthew’s laughter.

  She had seen Matthew too, in her dreams; seen that alert, watchful stance again, the black cloth tied tight over his eyes. There had been no dreamlike conversations, no extension or development of what had already been said… but still. He had been there, a new part of her reality. One that she hadn’t quite wanted to give up, even as she had opened her eyes and felt the dream fade.

  She alone had divined the secret of Matthew Benson. And he had laughed at something she had said—laughed as if she were terribly funny. Or terribly stupid, if her baking idea was anything to go by.

  After half an hour spent fruitlessly attempting to sew, the needle slipping out of her hands as if it wished to personally wrong her, Daisy decided that her foolish tongue had managed to flatten two days instead of merely one. Giving her usefulness up for lost, throwing the needlework down on her chair, she decided a walk through the gardens was the only way to soothe her troubled spirits.

  Making her way to the entrance hall, pausing to put on her cloak, she was interrupted by the tall, grave figure of Carstairs holding a silver tray.

  ‘A letter for you.’ Carstairs bowed as Daisy took the letter from the tray. ‘If you’ll permit me to say it, the handwriting does not appear to be that of your sister.’

  ‘Who on earth would not permit you to say something so innocuous?’ Daisy looked at the address, her eyes narrowing. ‘Any idea who it might be from?’

  ‘I could not possibly say.’ There was a discreet glint of humour in the butler’s eye. ‘Although the certain… severity of line would perhaps suggest someone from the Benson household. I recall seeing it on a somewhat spitefully written letter of recommendation for one of our housemaids.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Daisy’s face fell as she opened the letter. What on earth could Amelia Benson possibly have to say to her now? No doubt she had found a way to crow over her ridiculous suggestion; the perfect teaspoon of sarcasm, spread liberally over the usual banal pleasantries. Thank you so very much for the magnificent honey… alas, my brother will resist the urge to bake it into a cake…

  She read, her eyes growing wider by degrees, as Carstairs waited patiently beside her. Several tense, silent seconds passed, the tension growing, before Daisy clenched her fist around the paper.

  ‘Where is Mother?’

  ‘In the library. She wished to look at the fairy tales you and your sister used to read.’ Carstairs had a slightly knowing look. ‘I will invent a small domestic crisis within the next hour, to avoid an excess of sadness on her part.’

  ‘Considerate, but unneeded.’ Daisy was already on the move, letter still clutched tightly in her fist. ‘I’ve invented a rather large domestic crisis by myself.’

  Full of a feeling somewhere between excitement and panic, she ran up the stairs two at a time as Carstairs followed. Running down the corridor, pushing open the door with shaking hands, she halted as she saw her mother’s startled face.

  ‘My dear?’ Lady Chiltern looked at the letter in Daisy’s hands, and her face immediately fell. ‘Is it Iris? The baby?’

  ‘No. Goodness, no.’ Daisy waved the letter anxiously, quite forgetting herself. ‘I may have done something quite silly. Something that needs planning, at any rate.’

  ‘Well for goodness’ sake, child, say it! Or you will continue to worry me.’ Lady Chiltern rose, the book of fairy tales quite forgotten. ‘Nothing that difficult could have happened. You are my only inherently sensible child.’

  ‘I… I offered the Duke of Cleveland two weeks of baking lessons with Laurence. Iris’s pastry cook. To improve his hands.’ Daisy watched her mother’s mouth fall open. ‘And he has accepted. Has requested that we begin as soon as possible, in fact.’

  ‘Ah.’ Lady Chiltern looked weakly at Carstairs as he appeared in the doorway. ‘Well. In that case, we may have to write a letter or two.’

  It took more than a letter or two. It took a flood of letters, full of blottings and misspellings as the situation was fully explained, and at least one messenger boy who ran early into Chiltern village to beat the morning post. Three days of explanations, negotiations and outright disbelief, along with many questions from Lady Chiltern and a surprise letter from Lady Benson, who gave her blessing to the whole affair in wavering handwriting, were needed to iron out the particulars. Laurence would come to the Benson house, equipment in tow, and give the Duke of Cleveland a thousand new ways to exercise his hands.

  Laurence’s arrival at the Benson house was something of an event. Daisy, who had arrived on foot at the Benson grounds fifteen minutes before, tried to keep her expression blank as the Harkers’ carriage crunched over the gravel drive. Two footmen stood at its rear, holding boxes and bundles of what looked to be arcane kitchen items.

  The man himself, impeccably neat and bowing to Daisy with a quiet, near-invisible smirk on his face, made his way to the servants’ entrance without a word. Daisy followed behind, noting the spring to Laurence’s step, wondering how on earth the man intended on gaining the trust of Amelia Benson. Laurence had managed to make himself the erstwhile companion of her sister Iris, but Iris liked everyone—especially charming people, and Laurence had charm in spades. What he did not have, in Daisy’s opinion, was the ability to flatter a woman as icily immune to flattery as Amelia.

  But then, Laurence had hidden depths. He had managed to become the most well-regarded pastry cook in Bath; a city drowning in talented artisans who plied their trade among the wealthy and deserving. And as for his… proclivities… well, Daisy had been somewhat surprised to learn that such wants existed. Roughly twelve seconds afterwards, she had relegated the information to a mental drawer named ‘Unimportant.’

  She loved Laurence. Everyone did. But Amelia Benson wasn’t everyone. As Daisy waited alongside Laurence in the gleaming, well-decorated entrance hall, her heart in her mouth, she found herself wishing that she had never spoken a single word to Matthew Benson.

  Until, that is, she saw Matthew Benson descending the stairs, with Amelia at his side.

  ‘My goodness. This is the Duke of Cleveland?’ Laurence’s voice was a low, amused murmur. ‘If this is ugliness, we’ve all been desperately misinformed.’

  Daisy looked narrowly at Laurence. ‘Please keep comments like that to yourself in front of Amelia.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry.’ Laurence smiled. ‘I have already made arrangements regarding Miss Benson. She won’t be bothering us.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Daisy lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Why on earth have you decided to dispose of Miss Benson?’

  ‘Because your sister told me that Miss Benson can be somewhat abrasive, and I don’t like abrasive people in my kitchens.’ Laurence winked. ‘But now that I’ve seen the Duke of Cleveland… well. I can think of ever so many reasons why Miss Benson will be far better occupied out of the room.’

  Daisy could do nothing but stare, dumbfounded, a
t Amelia and Matthew as they approached. She knew she should winkle out the particulars of Laurence’s scheme, but found herself irrepressibly distracted by Matthew’s dark, striking presence.

  Yes. Striking was the word. Like a sudden storm, or like lightning. That would explain the tempest she felt raging in her as she took in the spare, clean lines that made up the Duke of Cleveland’s entirely unique form. That would explain way she wanted to shut her eyes, as if he were far too bright to view with a naked eye.

  ‘Miss Benson! Look at us here, so jolly and prepared for this nice little game you devised.’ Amelia’s voice rang with good humour, even as her eyes shone like sharpened knives. ‘And I suppose this is your—’

  She stopped, clearly astonished, as Laurence performed a bow more elegant than anything he had ever produced in front of Daisy. Straightening back up, his eyes full of a simple, humble integrity that Daisy knew for a fact was completely counterfeit, he began to speak in such low tones that everyone leaned a little closer.

  ‘My lady. Forgive my passion—I am impossibly Continental. But allow me to express the unparalleled joy I feel at being given the opportunity to work in such a venerated English house, for such a venerated English name.’ His tone took on a slightly conspiratorial turn. ‘As you know, my lady, I currently for for a house that… lacks such antique origins.’

  Daisy couldn’t hold back a raised eyebrow at that. Laurence was clearly far more cunning than she thought; there was nothing like a sly criticism of Iris and her marriage into trade to make Amelia’s ears prick up. True to form, Amelia’s face softened into an expression of charitable indulgence.

  ‘Oh, you dear man. How nice to meet staff who understand the privilege they have been given, working here. Come—let us go to the kitchens.’

  Laurence obediently trotting behind her, she began walking away. Daisy looked at Matthew’s still figure, not understanding. Had he managed to work out the route to the kitchens by feel, or was he waiting for someone to—

  ‘Do not worry.’ His half-smile made her briefly stop breathing. ‘If I run my hand along the wall, I can make my way there unaccompanied.’

  ‘... I am not worried.’ Daisy decided not to lie. ‘I am curious.’ A small, sarcastic impulse needled her. ‘And I need to look for convenient windows. I still haven’t forgiven you for calling me a chit.’

  Matthew’s mouth twisted. ‘I see. Can you ever forgive me?’

  ‘I do not think you wish me to.’ Daisy let courage carry her beyond the realm of good sense. ‘You clearly enjoy living dangerously.’

  Matthew’s laughter, that rich, unexpected sound, only agitated the storm inside her. A storm that only grew in potency as he approached, one hand lightly tracing along the wall in a way that was clearly practiced.

  ‘I don’t know if I do.’ He moved passed her; Daisy stepped out of the way, suppressing a sigh as the warm, clean smell of him briefly overcame her. ‘That sounds like work. I try to avoid doing any of that.’

  The kitchens were as well-ordered, splendid and sure of themselves as every other aspect of the house. Daisy took in the large wooden tables and gleaming bay windows with the appropriate mixture of awe and jealousy, noting that her sister’s footmen were placing bowls of butter, the cubes resting on a bed of ice, and sugar onto the counter-tops. Laurence, with a wry look at Amelia as the woman fussed over her brother, took the opportunity to whisper his opinion to Daisy.

  ‘A fright. Thank goodness I brought my own equipment. The wrought-iron monstrosities in this kitchen are barely fit for torture—every poor thing that comes out of this oven must be stodgy beyond repair.And I shudder to think of the pantry. There’ll be nothing in it but mice and tattered hopes. The kitchens of those who do good works instead of enjoy themselves are always thoroughly depressing.’

  ‘Laurence, this kitchen is beautiful. Slightly staid, but beautiful. You cannot possibly convince me otherwise.’

  ‘Miss Benson is very beautiful too, but that doesn’t stop her having tattered hopes trailing around behind her.’ Laurence raised an eyebrow. ‘And a mouse or two.’

  ‘You are incorrigible.’ Daisy fought back laughter. ‘And Miss Benson will need more than a rinse with lemon and vinegar.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt.’ Laurence winked. ‘But I have my own plans for Miss Benson.’

  Daisy could only narrow her eyes at him as Amelia swept into the kitchen, Matthew following. As the footmen silently left, Amelia clapped her hands with an enthusiasm that made everyone in the room wince.

  ‘Well! I am certainly eager to begin. As are you, Matthew, no doubt.’ Matthew opened his mouth, clearly ready to speak, but Amelia carried on speaking regardless. ‘We eagerly await your first instruction!’

  Daisy looked at Laurence, wondering if all his talk of strategy had been mere jest. Laurence looked back at her for a brief, intense instant, as if reading her thoughts, his smile that of a chess-player making his best move.

  ‘Oh, but my lady. There is no need for you to stay—I am more than capable of teaching with the help of Miss Chiltern. In fact, your presence will be required elsewhere.’

  ‘... Elsewhere?’ Amelia frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘As a small, meagre token of my gratitude, my lady, I have arranged for a visitor.’ Laurence’s smile was full of such eager humility that Daisy could almost believe he was grateful. ‘One of the most well-regarded modistes in France—nay, Europe—agreed to visit with me today, as a personal favour to me. He is responsible for clothing every title of note in my homeland, but has yet to make his mark here… he requires a model of unimpeachable character and breeding, to create his masterpieces for. An entire Season’s wardrobe, in fact—at no cost. He considers you an investment.’ His pause was masterful. ‘His carriage will have arrived shortly after ours.’

  Daisy forced her mouth to remain closed. Amelia, her hand to her mouth, lacked such restraint.

  ‘I—well, I… goodness, really?’ She looked at Daisy, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. ‘Is this true?’

  Daisy didn’t think she could trust her voice if she spoke. She settled for a meek nod, which seemed to placate Amelia if not satisfy her.

  ‘But… but he is here, now?’ Amelia turned back to Laurence. ‘I cannot think it entirely appropriate to—’

  ‘My lady.’ Laurence put a hand to his heart. ‘Do you doubt my abilities as a chaperone? I would consider it the gravest of insults.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Amelia looked daggers at Daisy, her face tightening with concern as she looked back at Matthew. ‘I—I merely wish to be able to assist my brother in any way I—’

  ‘Amelia, I will be quite alright. I’m sure I’ll manage not to fall into the fire, with two people to aid me.’ Matthew spoke quietly; Daisy felt her spine thrill with the low, pleasant tone of his voice. ‘And this modiste sounds unmissable.’

  ‘Well, I—well then.’ Amelia looked down at her hands, then at the assembled company with an expression half-way between anger and confusion. ‘I… well.’

  Her face darkening to a scowl, she turned on her heel and left. Daisy watched her go, still not quite believing that Laurence had managed to concoct a scheme of such absurdity.

  Turning to the pastry cook, mindful of Matthew’s presence, she mouthed, modiste?

  Laurence’s grin was remarkably catlike. Oh, yes.

  As Amelia Benson walked to the newly-arrived carriage, full of quiet venom at the thwarting of her plans, she suddenly stopped. She blinked once, twice, before slowly bringing a hand to her chest.

  The dressmaker… she had assumed it would be a woman. Had the pastry cook said the name? Surely… surely it had been implied, or perhaps there had been some mistake.

  She had been expecting a blowsy, elderly woman with a sharp tongue, or a young girl with a mouthful of pins and a terrified expression. Not… not this tall, broad-shouldered, extremely male man approaching with the swiftness and grace of a tiger.

  ‘My lady.’ The man bowed. ‘
I am the maker—the modiste. Jean LeClerc. I believe I am expected.’ He slowly straightened, his green eyes lingering on Amelia’s mouth. ‘Or perhaps there has been some mistake?’

  A male modiste? A French, male modiste in her house? Of course there was a mistake. An enormous mistake, and a grave imposition on the part of the pastry cook, and her lady’s maid had her day off, and all of this was a terrible muddle that had to, absolutely had to be solved…

  … Later. It would be solved later. Amelia took a deep breath, light-headed, adrift in sensations she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in almost two years.

  ‘I… yes. Yes, you are expected.’ She fought back a brief, frightening burst of hysterical laughter, bubbling in her throat. ‘I suppose that means you need to look at my clothes.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no mistaking the glint of humour in LeClerc’s eyes. ‘I suppose it does.’

  ‘I do hope your sister will be pleasantly occupied, your Grace.’ Back in the kitchens, Laurence smiled as Matthew inclined his head in response. ‘And here we are, all ingredients weighed and measured for us to use. Our first step is to—’

  He stopped, scowling, as the door banged open. An Irish setter, glossy and full of wild enthusiasm, managed to dig his nose into a bowl of flour before Daisy managed to wrestle him back out of the door.

  ‘I take it Caesar visited.’ Matthew’s small smile made Daisy smile in return. ‘He is a very determined hound. Always trying to aid me.’

  ‘Hounds are not welcome in my kitchen.’ Laurence’s tone could have frozen fire. ‘As I was saying, we must begin our first task. This would be combining butter and sugar—ensuring the sugar is fine and free of all impurities, of course, which will require sieving… oh, goodness me. How foolish I am. I appear to have left the sieve in the carriage.’ Laurence looked at Daisy with a smug smile. ‘I have a mind like a sieve, but no sieve. The irony.’

  Daisy looked at the sieve, sitting plain as day on the table, before looking back at Laurence. He… he couldn’t possibly be…