matches and caused
all her farm lads to lose their wits and talk of taking up fighting as a trade.
A faint light of dawn showed against the sky as the manservant went out. When he was
gone, Callie became conscious that she was left alone with Trev in the kitchen. He had
not yet shaved, but he had straightened his neck cloth and brushed the wilder curls from
his hair. It didn't seem awkward or improper; indeed it seemed comfortable when he sat
down again at the table and began to slice the bread. Callie set out plates and cups, the
chipped and elegant remains of a set that had once borne garlands of f lowers and gilt
rims.
She strained off the coffee when it boiled. Trev had speared pieces of bread on a long-
handled fork, toasting them at the fire with surprising expertise for a French duke of royal
bloodlines. He dropped the golden brown pieces off the fork onto a plate.
Callie was indulging herself in gentle daydreams, now the mother of a promising young
family in a Normandy farmhouse, preparing breakfast for her dashing husband while he
was home on leave from his naval command. He looked so drowsy because they had
spent the entire night making passionate love that would no doubt result in another fine
son. After breakfast they would take a stroll through the seaside village and cause the
other wives to sigh over his gallantry and prizes. She served out the bacon on two plates
and sat down across from him. "I hope the coffee is what you like."
"Everything is exactly what I like," he said. "You most of all."
She shook her head, feeling herself grow pink. She put down her knife and fork. "I
must go and find the eggs."
"Don't go," he said quickly. "I won't be outrageous, I promise you."
Callie hesitated. Then she picked up her fork, trying to keep her eyes down on her plate
and not gaze at him like a moonling. They ate in silence for some moments, while she
lectured herself with unspoken vehemence on the folly of a plain woman of twenty seven
years, thrice rejected, having any thought at all about a silver-tongued rogue's careless
compliments. If she had been more skeptical of him nine years ago, she would not
perhaps have suffered quite so painfully.
"It must be quite interesting to grow the grapes for wine." She made a plunge at casual
conversation.
He shrugged slightly. "They're grapes," he said, as if that entirely covered the subject.
"Did you find the vineyards at Monceaux badly damaged?" she asked.
"Oh no." He drank a deep swallow of coffee. "Even raging revolutionaries like a good
claret."
"I hope your absence won't cause too much disruption in the work. It's harvest time
there, is it not?"
He lifted his hand carelessly. "There's a vigneron to take care of all that."
"Oh yes," she said, remembering. "The evil Buzot!"
He glanced up with a sharp look, as if her mention of the name startled him.
"Madame asked me to read her letters aloud," she said hastily. "I hope you don't mind."
"Ah, then you know of Buzot." He sat back in his chair. "The fellow howls at the moon
and drinks the blood of innocent babes, I assure you. I haven't caught him at it, but that's
only because I'm afraid to go out after dark."
"How vexing. But he makes such excellent wine from your grapes."
"Oh, magnificent wine!" he said affably. "It's my belief that he's sold his soul to the
devil."
"No wonder that you keep him on." She nodded, buttering bread. "It can't be easy to
find someone with such impressive credentials."
"I don't suppose any midnight covens are scheduled to convene in Shelford?" he
inquired. "We might discover an exceptional cook."
"I'm afraid that would be quite ineligible. There's no saying what she might put into the
pot and pass off as a chicken."
He put down his cup, his eyebrows lifted in alarm. "I hadn't thought of that. Scratch the
coven."
"I think we should start with Mr. Rankin."
"Ah. And what has Mr. Rankin to say to it?"
"He still keeps the inn—the Antlers, you
all her farm lads to lose their wits and talk of taking up fighting as a trade.
A faint light of dawn showed against the sky as the manservant went out. When he was
gone, Callie became conscious that she was left alone with Trev in the kitchen. He had
not yet shaved, but he had straightened his neck cloth and brushed the wilder curls from
his hair. It didn't seem awkward or improper; indeed it seemed comfortable when he sat
down again at the table and began to slice the bread. Callie set out plates and cups, the
chipped and elegant remains of a set that had once borne garlands of f lowers and gilt
rims.
She strained off the coffee when it boiled. Trev had speared pieces of bread on a long-
handled fork, toasting them at the fire with surprising expertise for a French duke of royal
bloodlines. He dropped the golden brown pieces off the fork onto a plate.
Callie was indulging herself in gentle daydreams, now the mother of a promising young
family in a Normandy farmhouse, preparing breakfast for her dashing husband while he
was home on leave from his naval command. He looked so drowsy because they had
spent the entire night making passionate love that would no doubt result in another fine
son. After breakfast they would take a stroll through the seaside village and cause the
other wives to sigh over his gallantry and prizes. She served out the bacon on two plates
and sat down across from him. "I hope the coffee is what you like."
"Everything is exactly what I like," he said. "You most of all."
She shook her head, feeling herself grow pink. She put down her knife and fork. "I
must go and find the eggs."
"Don't go," he said quickly. "I won't be outrageous, I promise you."
Callie hesitated. Then she picked up her fork, trying to keep her eyes down on her plate
and not gaze at him like a moonling. They ate in silence for some moments, while she
lectured herself with unspoken vehemence on the folly of a plain woman of twenty seven
years, thrice rejected, having any thought at all about a silver-tongued rogue's careless
compliments. If she had been more skeptical of him nine years ago, she would not
perhaps have suffered quite so painfully.
"It must be quite interesting to grow the grapes for wine." She made a plunge at casual
conversation.
He shrugged slightly. "They're grapes," he said, as if that entirely covered the subject.
"Did you find the vineyards at Monceaux badly damaged?" she asked.
"Oh no." He drank a deep swallow of coffee. "Even raging revolutionaries like a good
claret."
"I hope your absence won't cause too much disruption in the work. It's harvest time
there, is it not?"
He lifted his hand carelessly. "There's a vigneron to take care of all that."
"Oh yes," she said, remembering. "The evil Buzot!"
He glanced up with a sharp look, as if her mention of the name startled him.
"Madame asked me to read her letters aloud," she said hastily. "I hope you don't mind."
"Ah, then you know of Buzot." He sat back in his chair. "The fellow howls at the moon
and drinks the blood of innocent babes, I assure you. I haven't caught him at it, but that's
only because I'm afraid to go out after dark."
"How vexing. But he makes such excellent wine from your grapes."
"Oh, magnificent wine!" he said affably. "It's my belief that he's sold his soul to the
devil."
"No wonder that you keep him on." She nodded, buttering bread. "It can't be easy to
find someone with such impressive credentials."
"I don't suppose any midnight covens are scheduled to convene in Shelford?" he
inquired. "We might discover an exceptional cook."
"I'm afraid that would be quite ineligible. There's no saying what she might put into the
pot and pass off as a chicken."
He put down his cup, his eyebrows lifted in alarm. "I hadn't thought of that. Scratch the
coven."
"I think we should start with Mr. Rankin."
"Ah. And what has Mr. Rankin to say to it?"
"He still keeps the inn—the Antlers, you
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