Page 75 of Not a Fine Gentleman

“And you, Monsieur,” the chef said to Connor. “Where did you grow up?”

Connor washed his hands in the sink and reached for a towel, carefully polishing a signet ring on his right ring finger. Margaret had caught glimpses of that ring but had never taken a good look. “I spent my boyhood in Beckenham. When I was nine, I went to Eton, then Oxford.”

Margaret prompted, “And after that, you served in the army?”

He nodded. “I commissioned as an Ensign when I was sixteen.” He offered nothing further.

Margaret explained to the chef, “He served with my brother Grant.”

MonsieurBeaufort whipped egg whites into stiff peaks. “Your parents, they still live, Monsieur?”

Connor said. “My mother passed on four months ago.”

“My condolences, Monsieur,” murmured Monsieur Beaufort.

After giving the chef an appreciative glance, Connor continued, “My father lives in… his various properties.” He paused. “My parents were not married.”

Margaret brushed her hands off on her apron and reached out to take his hand. She raised it up to get a better look at the ring he wore. She expected Connor to pull his hand away, but he let her look.

His signet ring bore a family crest. If memory served, the Earl of Arlington had that same crest emblazoned on his carriage and on the ceiling of his ballroom. If Connor Jackson were the illegitimate son of Lord Arlington, why had the earl given a family ring to Connor? She met his gaze, raising her eyebrows. He offered no explanation.

The chef piped small circular blobs of soft dough onto a baking pan. “My mother and father, they were married twenty-three years. Sometimes they fought like the cat and dog, but,” he shrugged, “they loved each other. Maman died… too soon. Just as well. Papa met his end with Madame Guillotine.”

Margaret sucked in her breath. Cole’s chef had been born a French aristocrat, or at least a sympathizer. The more she took the time to learn about people, to listen to their stories, the more she discovered how complex each person was. Many were heroic in their own small way. How many fine people had she overlooked because she viewed them beneath her aristocratic notice?

Quietly, she said, “I’m sorry to hear about your parents, monsieur.”

MonsieurBeaufort nodded his thanks, finished piping little circular blobs, and put the pans on another table to form a thin crust before baking. “I am here now, doing what I love, for people who appreciate it. It is a good life.” He smiled. “Monsieur Tarrington, he pays me too much, but who am I to complain?”

Connor, who had been largely silent, developed a humorous glint in his eye. “I guess I should learn to be a chef. Maybe someone would pay me too much.”

Margaret gave him a teasing look. “If you had any useful skills, you could work for my family. We have a reputation for paying our servants too much. I might even hire you.”

He nodded a bit too mournfully. “Apparently, solving crimes is not terribly useful.” With a light in his eyes, he cocked his head as if thinking. “I posed as a footman a few times for cases. I did a bang-up job wearing livery, standing around waiting to be sent on some errand of fetching or carrying.”

He must have looked delicious in livery.

He caught her eye and lifted his eyebrows. Amusement tugged at his lips, lips that teased her imagination about Connor’s skill in kissing.

“Why, Lady Margaret,” Connor drawled. “I do declare you look suddenly very hungry. Are you sure you had enough to eat?”

She flushed, something she hadn’t done in years. Curse Connor Jackson and his influence on her good sense. And curse him twice over for catching her eyeing him while thinking about his manly appeal.

Primly, she said, “I’ve had plenty, thank you. I simply need a few macarons.”

“Good thing our good friend, the chef, is here, then, because I doubt you could cook your way out of a flour sack.” Lights danced in his eyes.

Margaret bit back a laugh and tossed a small handful of ordinary flour at him. A few tiny specks landed on his waistcoat.

He recoiled as if he’d been sprayed with something deadly. With a gleam in his eye, he retaliated with a larger handful of flour. The white powder sprinkled her black gown.

She gaped at her clothing, more surprised at his actions than the mess. In her loftiest tone, she said, “You, sir, are not a fine gentleman.”

“You’re right. I’m not.” Grinning, he threw a second handful at her. This time it showered her hair with flour.

Working harder to keep back the laugh contracting her stomach, she scooped out another handful and threw it at him. “Take that, you fiend.”

“I am ashamed at the both of you!” With a twinkle in his eye that contradicted his firm tone, Monsieur Beaufort threw sugar at the two of them. “Voila!”