Now rumor, the most insidious force of all, thwarted his plans.
“And if I could give you menus to plan?” he asked. “Would you take on Benny then?”
Miss Pearson swiveled her gaze to Rye. “I would if the decision were mine, but I would still lack the authority to hire her, sir. I am an employee at the Coventry, an underling. I have no more authority to hire staff there than a footman has authority to hire the boot-boy. You, however, are a family connection to one of the Coventry’s owners.”
Rye was brother to an owner’s wife. “I do not expect my sister to publicly acknowledge me.” In fact, Jeanette’s former in-laws had done their part to cast aspersion on Rye’s good name. The offending parties had left London several months ago, and yet, Rye was still the object of nasty rumors.
“You came when your sister was suffering with food poisoning,” Miss Pearson said. “Dropped everything and would not leave until you knew she was safe. Will you not allow the marchioness to exert a small degree of influence to aid Benny? The kitchen needs more hands, Colonel, and the club can well afford another apprentice on its books.”
Asking Jeanette for a favor was… Rye would sooner campaign across the whole of Spain in his bare feet.
“Crepes are simple to make,” Miss Pearson went on. “Start with five basic ingredients, always sift the flour twice, and allow the batter to rest before cooking. That’s important, the sifting and the resting.”
She sounded like Rye on the topic of Burgundian grapes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about a young girl embarking on a profession that will support her well for the rest of her life and also make her happy. A word in your sister’s ear, and Benny can have her dream.”
Phrased like that, Rye could humble himself to make this request of Jeanette. A commanding officer put the welfare of his troops first. If the officer’s pride suffered, that was of no moment.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Miss Pearson rose. “What’s the real reason you are reluctant to see Benny hired at the Coventry?”
Rye stood as well, as manners required. He’d secured Miss Pearson’s support for the plan, which had been the objective of the interview. That was progress.
“I have asked you to take her on,” he said, as they made their way from the parlor. “What makes you think I’m reluctant?”
“You are. I will keep her safe, Colonel. The Dornings do not tolerate bad behavior toward or among the staff. Monsieur will berate Benny regularly and perhaps reduce her to tears on occasion, but he will not strike her, and the footmen and waiters will not interfere with her.”
“Did Monsieur make you cry?”
Miss Pearson paused at the front door. “He did, and that was foolishness on my part. No man’s vanity is worth my tears. I would like to see Benny before I take my leave.”
Some man’s vanity had vexed Ann Pearson exceedingly. Whoever he was, Rye wished him to perdition.
“Benny is still in the stable,” he said, draping Miss Pearson’s cloak about her shoulders. “Why don’t I leave you ladies to have a private chat, and then I will walk you back to the Coventry?”
Miss Pearson took her hat from him, but didn’t put it on. “You need not provide me with an escort, Colonel. I am an undercook, not a grand lady.”
She had made the point before. Rye took her hat and set it gently on her head. “Nonetheless, I have it on the best authority that I am a gentleman, so I will meet you in the stable in a quarter hour. The back terrace is this way. Do come along.”
He strode down the corridor toward the library, and much to his surprise, Miss Pearson followed him without arguing.
“You had the lavender soap put in Benny’s room, didn’t you?” Ann asked as the colonel ambled at her side along the walkway. He apparently did not expect her to hang on his arm like some mincing ninnyhammer, but he did keep a pace Ann could easily match.
“What makes you think that?”
He tended to answer questions with questions, a sign of inherent caution. He would never get eggshells into his batter, but always crack his eggs over another bowl. Would he experiment with the recipes printed in the cookbooks, or keep strictly to the directions and ingredients listed?
What sort of lover would he be?
Ann tossed that thought into her mental midden, though she knew it would visit her again.
“Your housekeeper, Mrs. Murphy, favors chamomile soap, and that’s what Otter uses as well. You, however, prefer French lavender, and now Benny washes with it too.”
“You’ve met Otter.”
Apparently not a cause for rejoicing. “He is a perfectly delightful boy, Colonel. How is it the children speak French?”
“My mother was French. I grew up speaking both English and French, and that ability served me well in the military, for the most part. The properties I hold in Champagne are through Mama’s side of the family, though my paternal grandmother was also French. Through her, I claim rural land in Provence.”
Hence the luscious soap. “And yet, with all that familial loyalty to France, you joined the British military.”
His steps slowed as they approached a wider thoroughfare. “The English have no idea the trouble they cause when they go a-plundering. From Scotland to India and over to America, families have dealt with the British menace by assigning one son to each side of any conflict that involves Merry Olde England. Whichever son is on the winning side can salvage the family fortunes when the hostilities cease.”
And alas for the other son. A military man would notice this aspect of history. “Is that how you ended up with your French holdings?”
He came to a halt, waiting for traffic on the street to clear. “Some of my maternal family made it to England when Napoleon routed the British forces at the siege of Toulon. Some remained behind, professing loyalty to France. None of those who survived in either land had an easy time of it, but knowing two languages improved their chances.”
“Is everything with you a matter of survival, Colonel?” A coach and four thundered past, and Ann stepped off the walkway. Before her second foot could follow the first, she was snatched back onto the walkway and plastered against a hard male chest.
A curricle barreled along perilously close to the rear of the coach.
“Steady,” the colonel growled. “Damned fool toffs drive like a trip to the tailor’s is a race to Brighton.”
Ann could not have moved if she’d wanted to, he held her that snugly, but then, if not for the colonel’s support, her knees might have given out.
“He almost hit… I almost…” The curricle rattled around the corner, not a backward glance from the driver.
“You’re safe. A near miss only. Breathe.”
Ann breathed in lavender and warmth, a hint of saddle leather—the colonel apparently hacked out of a morning—and the soft wool of his coat. She breathed in composure and the steady calm of a man born to command.
But no, that wasn’t quite right. Not command. In any case, she could not stand in the middle of the walkway parsing the colonel’s scent while half of London gawked at the spectacle she made.
Ann stepped back. “Thank you. I should be more careful.”