Rakehell's Widow by Sandra Heath

soup and fruit tart?”
    “No.”
    “But—”
    “I realize that my father likes certain dishes which he always expects to see set before him, but that is not my way.”
    “My roast beef is the finest in England.”
    “Oh, I’m sure it is, Mrs. Bourne. I just wish to try something else.”
    “Well, I don’t know—” The cook’s lips were pressed a little crossly together and her bosom expanded as she took a deep breath.
    “The dishes are not too difficult for you, are they?” Alabeth asked lightly, knowing that such a slur on the cook’s skills would provoke the required response.
    “Too difficult? Too difficult? I should say they are not! I am quite able to produce the menu you require, madam.”
    “Oh, good, I’m so glad.” Alabeth smiled. “And I know that my guests will be most appreciative and will wish they too had such an excellent cook.”
    Mrs. Bourne was a little mollified. “Well, if these newfangled things are what you really want—”
    “They are, Mrs. Bourne.”
    There was a slight sniff. “Very well, madam, I will attend to your wishes.”
    “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Bourne.”
    When the cook had gone, Alabeth heaved a sigh of relief, for although Mrs. Bourne was extremely set in her ways and could easily have been offended, she was really too much of a treasure to risk losing. As it was, Alabeth had had her way and the cook was now determined to prove that she could produce dishes as fine as anything at Carlton House, although she had gone away muttering darkly about folk having Frenchified notions which had no place in English kitchens, even if there was peace now!
    Alabeth smiled, going to the window to look out over the garden, where the wooden seat beneath the mulberry tree looked so inviting in the morning sun. She had been intending to write to the Wallborough’s steward, as Jillian had already gone out to shop in Oxford Street, but sud denly the thought of remaining inside was not at all inviting. Picking up the novel she had begun reading the night before, she left the house to enjoy an hour or so peacefully reading in the garden.
    She wore a cream muslin gown, its bodice drawn in by dainty tasseled strings, and its hem dragged across the newly cut lawn. Her sapphire-blue spencer was left un buttoned to reveal the gown’s delicate pin tucks and the pearl droplet brooch she liked so much. Her hair was pinned loosely so that the single large ringlet was once again falling down over her shoulder.
    The sun sparkled on the lily pond and she could see the fish darting between the flat leaves floating on the surface. The daffodils and tulips smelled good and it was almost possible to forget that she was in London. She settled her self comfortably, removed the book marker, and began to read.
    How many minutes had passed she didn’t know, but she was suddenly roused from the book by the recognized sound of Sanderson’s tread on the path. She glanced up and saw immediately that the butler looked very discon certed. “What is it?” she asked.
    “Sir Piers Castleton has called, my lady.”
    She closed the book with a snap. “I am not at home.”
    “Oh, yes you are, Alabeth,” Piers himself said, strolling casually along the path, his silver-handled cane swinging between his gloved fingers. He was dressed quite perfectly, like this Corinthian he was, in a close-fitting corbeau- colored coat and nankeen breeches. The tassels of his Hessian boots swung from side to side as he walked, and the diamond pin in his white cambric cravat flashed in the sunlight as he paused before her, removing his hat and bowing. “Good morning, Alabeth.”
    “I have no wish to speak to you, sir.”
    “How unfortunate, for I have every intention of speaking with you.”
    “Leave immediately or I will have you thrown out.”
    His gray eyes swept lazily over her and then swung to Sanderson, who looked faint with horror at the thought of being asked to lay hands upon such a gentleman. Piers smiled and then