Page 76 of Not a Fine Gentleman

They struck back. Flour and sugar flew from every direction. All three of them alternately laughed with abandon and coughed along with occasional cries of mock outrage. Margaret may or may not have squealed like a child as they chased each other around the kitchen, barely managing not to overturn the table or fall against the water pump. Connor upset some hanging copper pots. Still, the flour and laughter flew.

“Oi! What’s going on in here?”

They ceased. As the cloud of flour settled, it revealed the head housekeeper at the foot of the kitchen stairs. The woman’s mouth hung open, and her hands fluttered about like a pair of crazed butterflies.

MonsieurBeaufort glanced guiltily at Margaret and then drew himself up. In a dignified tone, he answered, “We are making the macarons, of course.”

The head housekeeper crossed herself, muttered under her breath, and headed back up the stairs. Margaret looked around the kitchen. Flour drifted through the air like indoor fog. A blanket of white lay on every surface and covered Connor and the chef as if they had powdered their faces and donned old-fashioned white wigs.

Margaret choked. Then laughed. The men joined in, and they laughed and guffawed until tears made skin-colored tracks on their cheeks.

Finally, Margaret wiped her eyes. “Oh, dear. I suppose we ought to clean up this mess.”

“Think nothing of it, madame.” Monsieur Beaufort waved his hands, sending out a cloud of flour. “I will see to it.”

Margaret protested, “Oh, no—”

“I insist.” The chef wiped his eyes. “I have not had such amusement in years. Fear not, when the rest of my kitchen staff come in, I will set them to it.” He winked. “But, you may wish to brush yourselves off before you go into the house, or the housekeeper may take a broom to all of us.” He gestured loosely at the kitchen door.

Laughing, they used old kitchen towels to brush off as much of themselves as they could, which only added to the flour fog, even with the kitchen door open to help draw it out.

With a towel, the chef swatted flour and sugar off Connor’s back, then gestured to Margaret. “Help milady.”

Margaret held still while Connor gently slapped her back with the end of the towel. Clouds of flour puffed with each motion.

He stopped when he reached the small of her back. “Erm, you should get the lower part.” He handed the towel to her.

For a man who proclaimed to be no gentleman at all, he certainly behaved like one—much more than many high-born fine gentlemen of her acquaintance.

Connor took his coat outside the kitchen door, where he vigorously shook it out. He returned wearing his coat, and bowed. In formal tones, he said, “Thank you for a most unique diversion.”

Margaret grinned at him. She would have to don her loftiest marchioness persona for the rest of the day to avoid smiling like a giddy child.