looked as though the top of his head might explode entirely.
“What do you mean, Harriet is going home to her family?” he managed to shriek at last, before letting loose a string of furious Gallic invectives. “The stupid little blancmange does not have my permission to leave!”
“I gave her permission to leave,” said Miranda.
Monsieur Leblanc’s eyes rolled back a little, and for the first time Miranda felt genuine alarm. If the man should go into paroxysms and disrupt the supper service, Jason would never forgive her. She had committed enough sins against him not to want to add another to the list.
“You gave her permission to leave?” repeated Monsieur Leblanc. He picked up a wooden spoon and waved it menacingly at her. “ You gave her permission to leave? I do not believe it. This is my kitchen, mademoiselle, and I do not care who you are, I do not care if you are the Queen of England, you do not disrupt the workings of my kitchen!”
“Harriet is in quite a state,” said Miranda. “Even if you forced her to remain, she would be of little use to you. It would be better for you if she is not here.”
“But who will make the sauces?” shrieked Monsieur Leblanc. “Who will prepare the vegetables? Who will dress the joints and dishes?”
Miranda plucked up an apron hanging over one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her new gown very carefully and turned back to the little Frenchman, arching a single eyebrow at him.
“I will, of course,” she said.
Jason sat at his desk at the back of his beautifully furnished and well-lighted gaming room, observing the play. Seated in a high chair across the room from him and supervising the game was George Page, who every now and again rose from his seat to make rounds and receive and pay out money according to the luck of the players.
The hazard table itself was large and oval, well-stuffed and covered with green cloth marked with yellow lines. On each side stood the croupiers, the staff members who called the main and chance, regulated the stakes, and paid and received the money from the players. Above the table hung a three-light lamp, shaded to throw its full light on the green cloth.
Jason personally supervised the play for at least part of the day, because he always wanted to know everything going on: who was winning, who was losing and how his staff administered the bank. Tonight, however, he couldn’t concentrate on the scene before him. Instead, his thoughts returned repeatedly to Miranda as she had looked that morning, sitting across from him at his office desk.
Gone was the bedraggled creature that had shown up on his doorstep like a half-drowned kitten. Gone, too, was the vulnerable, barefoot waif in the too-large dress, begging him to save her brother. Prim and proper in her new gown and pelisse, this was Miranda as she was meant to be: cool, calm, composed, every inch the noblewoman. She had looked at him and spoken to him as though he had never flung that insulting bargain into her face, forcibly reminding him once again of the vast gulf between them, which, for all the wealth and power he now commanded, he could never bridge.
At the memory, all his anger of the night before returned in a near-blinding rush. He suppressed the emotion with a formidable effort of will and returned his attention once again to the hazard table. George finished making the rounds and approached Jason’s desk.
“Stanhope is out of the ready,” he murmured to Jason. “Do you wish to lend?”
Jason considered the matter for a moment, glad to have something besides Miranda’s kiss on which to concentrate. The young Viscount Stanhope was heir to an earldom, and though the boy’s expensive tastes and appalling lack of skill at the gaming table meant he was constantly in dun territory, Jason knew the father, the Earl of Chesterfield, was not only wealthy, but could be relied upon to pay up rather than face a
“What do you mean, Harriet is going home to her family?” he managed to shriek at last, before letting loose a string of furious Gallic invectives. “The stupid little blancmange does not have my permission to leave!”
“I gave her permission to leave,” said Miranda.
Monsieur Leblanc’s eyes rolled back a little, and for the first time Miranda felt genuine alarm. If the man should go into paroxysms and disrupt the supper service, Jason would never forgive her. She had committed enough sins against him not to want to add another to the list.
“You gave her permission to leave?” repeated Monsieur Leblanc. He picked up a wooden spoon and waved it menacingly at her. “ You gave her permission to leave? I do not believe it. This is my kitchen, mademoiselle, and I do not care who you are, I do not care if you are the Queen of England, you do not disrupt the workings of my kitchen!”
“Harriet is in quite a state,” said Miranda. “Even if you forced her to remain, she would be of little use to you. It would be better for you if she is not here.”
“But who will make the sauces?” shrieked Monsieur Leblanc. “Who will prepare the vegetables? Who will dress the joints and dishes?”
Miranda plucked up an apron hanging over one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her new gown very carefully and turned back to the little Frenchman, arching a single eyebrow at him.
“I will, of course,” she said.
Jason sat at his desk at the back of his beautifully furnished and well-lighted gaming room, observing the play. Seated in a high chair across the room from him and supervising the game was George Page, who every now and again rose from his seat to make rounds and receive and pay out money according to the luck of the players.
The hazard table itself was large and oval, well-stuffed and covered with green cloth marked with yellow lines. On each side stood the croupiers, the staff members who called the main and chance, regulated the stakes, and paid and received the money from the players. Above the table hung a three-light lamp, shaded to throw its full light on the green cloth.
Jason personally supervised the play for at least part of the day, because he always wanted to know everything going on: who was winning, who was losing and how his staff administered the bank. Tonight, however, he couldn’t concentrate on the scene before him. Instead, his thoughts returned repeatedly to Miranda as she had looked that morning, sitting across from him at his office desk.
Gone was the bedraggled creature that had shown up on his doorstep like a half-drowned kitten. Gone, too, was the vulnerable, barefoot waif in the too-large dress, begging him to save her brother. Prim and proper in her new gown and pelisse, this was Miranda as she was meant to be: cool, calm, composed, every inch the noblewoman. She had looked at him and spoken to him as though he had never flung that insulting bargain into her face, forcibly reminding him once again of the vast gulf between them, which, for all the wealth and power he now commanded, he could never bridge.
At the memory, all his anger of the night before returned in a near-blinding rush. He suppressed the emotion with a formidable effort of will and returned his attention once again to the hazard table. George finished making the rounds and approached Jason’s desk.
“Stanhope is out of the ready,” he murmured to Jason. “Do you wish to lend?”
Jason considered the matter for a moment, glad to have something besides Miranda’s kiss on which to concentrate. The young Viscount Stanhope was heir to an earldom, and though the boy’s expensive tastes and appalling lack of skill at the gaming table meant he was constantly in dun territory, Jason knew the father, the Earl of Chesterfield, was not only wealthy, but could be relied upon to pay up rather than face a
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