Lily Lang by The Last Time We Met Page B

fricassee having long since congealed into an unappetizing mass. The fire had died in the hearth; no lamps had been lit.
    Had she fallen asleep? He checked inside the bedchamber, but it was empty as well. Where the devil had she gone? He stalked out into the hall and cornered the first footman he found.
    “Have you seen Miss Thornwood?” he demanded.
    The footman took one look at Jason’s face and shook his head vigorously. “No, Mr. Blakewell. I haven’t seen her all day.”
    Jason nodded curtly and took the stairs two at a time to the first floor. He flung the door of Oliver Harvey’s office open with a bang. His steward sat at his desk, bent over a large pile of IOUs.
    He looked up as Jason stalked inside.
    “Good evening, Jason,” he said, blinking with concern when he saw Jason’s face. “Is everything well? We aren’t out of brandy, or anything equally dire?”
    “Have you seen Miss Thornwood today?”
    Oliver blinked again. “Not since this morning in your office,” he said. “I assumed she was in your suite.”
    “She is not, and from the looks of it, she hasn’t been there since luncheon. You have not encountered her anywhere? None of the other staff have mentioned seeing her?”
    Oliver set down his pen. “No, but I did not think to ask them.”
    Jason ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Where the devil could she have gone?”
    “I have no notion.”
    Jason cursed savagely. “Send for me at once if you discover her whereabouts.”
    As he made his way down the hall, his irritation rapidly became genuine alarm. Where could she possibly be? Could she have left the club entirely? If Oliver hadn’t seen her, she hadn’t summoned a carriage. Nor could she have left by the front door without attracting attention, an event which would have caused an uproar. Nor could she know about the secret exit in the capacious cellars beneath the building. If she had left Blakewell’s, it had been through the kitchens.
    He made his way down to the back of the club. When he reached the kitchen door, he swung it open and stalked inside, prepared to blast everyone to perdition if they had allowed Miranda to slip out this way.
    Only to come to a dead halt, nearly paralyzed by a strange burst of mingled shock, relief and anger.
    The object of his search stood at the head of the long kitchen table, enveloped in a massive white apron and covered from head to foot in a fine, powdery white substance. Flour. She crumbled pastry like snow beneath her deft fingertips, and as she worked she addressed Monsieur Leblanc.
    “You must miss your mother very much,” she said. “It must be difficult, living so far away from her.”
    “ Oui, oui ,” said Monsieur Leblanc on a sigh, stirring a pot of soup with great vigor. “I miss her all the time. She was the one who taught me to cook, yes? Her gateau —light as a feather. I ask her to come to England with me, yes? But she says non , she does not wish to leave her village to live among strangers.”
    Then Monsieur Leblanc put down his spoon and sighed again, evidently overcome by emotion and the bottle of sherry he habitually kept on hand.
    Jason stared at them. He ought not be surprised Miranda was in the kitchen. After all, how often had the two of them as children “helped” Cook at Thornwood? Jason himself knew his way around the kitchen nearly as well as his chef, and Miranda had always had a knack for delicate pastry.
    Jason had, however, been completely unaware Monsieur Leblanc was in possession of a mother, having assumed in a vague sort of way that the little Frenchman must have sprang fully grown into existence, like Athena bursting from the head of Zeus. How had Miranda, in a short a period of time, managed to win him over so completely? Jason had never heard his chef speak so candidly to anyone before.
    A strange, hot feeling coursed through him, a feeling he did not at first recognize. Then, with disbelief, he realized he was jealous. Jealous of his