Page 73 of Not a Fine Gentleman

“I haven’t either. I was too nervous about Mr. Birnie’s visit to eat breakfast. Come.” She tugged on his arm and led him into the front sitting room her mother always called the morning parlor and rang for a tray.

Connor glanced around. Margaret watched him. What did he see? The parlor looked exactly the way it had for as long as Margaret remembered—the same pale green and gold wallpaper, the same lamps, the same Queen Anne furniture. Mother’s favorite clock ticked on the mantle. Did this all seem ridiculously extravagant—gaudy, even—to Connor? For all she knew, he might merely be searching for places where a killer might lie in wait.

She took a seat and gestured. “Please be comfortable.”

He stood as if at attention. “I don’t belong here.”

“Well, I suppose we could eat in the kitchen if that makes you feel better.”

For the first time that day, his face softened into a smile—almost. “It might.”

“We’d frighten the Cole’s chef, no doubt, but I’m willing if you are.”

He lifted a brow in a gesture as lordly as one she’d seen on Cole. “Do you even know the way to the kitchen?”

Rather than getting prickly at the implied accusation that she was a snob, which might have been his intent, she laughed. “As a child, I spent a great deal of time stealing sweets from the kitchen. I thought I was so sneaky until I learned that our family cook always set out a plate of my favorite biscuits, especially for me. She made Rachel’s favorite, too.” She smiled. “She was such a dear.”

Connor grew thoughtful as if following his own childhood memories.

Margaret stood. “Let’s go learn whether Cole’s chef is as indulgent.” Glancing back to be sure he followed, she led the way. Steeper and narrower than she remembered, the servant’s stairs wound down to the kitchen.

Sweet, yeasty smells led the way. In the cheery kitchen, a scullery maid scrubbed a pot, and a man wearing the apron and hat of a chef carefully poured cream into a crock.

The man turned at their arrival, his eyes bulging. “My lady!” he cried in an authentic French accent. He glanced about as if to be sure all was in order. The scullery maid dropped her pan in surprise and scrambled to pick it up.

Margaret held up a hand. “Forgive us for intruding upon your domain. Am I correct that you are the chef, Monsieur…?

“Beaufort,” the chef supplied. “Oui, it is my pleasure to serve Lord and Lady Tarrington, and his family, of course.”

Margaret nodded. “Monsieur Beaufort, I’m Lady Margaret.”

“Ah, but of course, Madame, you are my lord’s sister.”

“Yes, that’s right. And this is my—” Friend? Protector? She finally settled on, “guest—” she stumbled a bit over the word, “—Mr. Jackson.”

Connor’s eyes glittered, and his mouth curved up as if he found her discomfort amusing.

She returned her focus to the chef. “Might we impose upon you to prepare for us a simple repast?”

“Mais oui, my lady.” The chef spread his hands. “But surely a maid would have given me your message? I would have sent up a tray.”

She hid a smile at his polite reprimand. “Yes, I know, but Mr. Jackson would have been uncomfortable with that arrangement. So, here we are.” She gave him her most charming smile.

“Of course, of course. Please, do be seated.” The chef stepped to a nearby table where the staff dined and pulled out a chair for her at its head.

Connor took a chair at Margaret’s left, close enough that she could have touched him if she reached out.

Within moments, the chef laid out a cold meal of bread, cheese, fruit, cake, and sherry. “I apologize for the simple fare,” Monsieur Beaufort said, “With a bit more time, I could prepare something better.”

“This is perfect, Monsieur, no need to fret,” Margaret said.

“Thank you,” Connor said to the chef. “This looks delicious.”

MonsieurBeaufort nodded, looking pleased. “Is there anything else I can get for you? I would be happy to whip up something else.”

Margaret smiled. If she had known Cole employed such a delightful chef, she would have made a foray into the kitchen years ago. “Not necessary.”

“Do you have a favorite sweet?” Monsieur Beaufort asked.