Enveloped neck totoe in Lady Elsa’s enormous apron, Minerva gingerly pushed her floured hands into the sticky bowl of bread dough.She’d delivered all her messages.Now, they waited.
While the rest of the staff ran about, tossing pots to the scullery maid, dashing in and out with drink trays, and attempting to create towers of pastries, Minerva claimed a dark corner by the pantry.Her mother-in-law instructed her on how to knead the doughy goo.
“Anyone can read a recipe,” Mrs.Upton said dismissively.“But one has to actually experience mixing and kneading and timing the rising and baking.”
Working with her hands had never been her life’s dream.Now that she knew what baking was about, Minerva wasn’t certain she wanted the experience.Still, knowledge was power.She’d learn.It was too late to save pennies for Paul’s shirt, but perhaps she could surprise him and bake his bread.At least, for now, she was helping Elsa prepare for the morning while the kitchen staff apparently readied for battle.
Bracing a pantry shelf that had come loose—her husband never resisted a carpentry task—Paul emerged just as Minerva and Mrs.Upton had the dough kneaded and returned to rise by the hearth.Elsa had a fancy new stove but it was currently under siege and laden with bubbling cauldrons of what could be witch’s brew for all Minerva knew.It smelled heavenly, though.She was starving.
“The ladies have retired to the drawing room,” a footman announced.“The gentlemen do not wish to be disturbed.Captain says we should rest and eat.”
Not once had Minerva ever heard those words uttered in the duke’s castle.She seriously doubted if the duke or his sons recognized that servants needed to eat.They were fixtures, like clocks and pumps.
But all the clattering, shouting, and bustling immediately calmed into an orderly procession of chattering, happy staff carrying dishes and flatware to the kitchen’s long trestle table.Washing her hands of flour, Minerva studied the people who poured into the room, jostling for position at the table.
She thought she knew roughly half the gathering servants.In the past year, the manor had grown from two ancient caretakers to a dozen maids and footmen.The men in the stable apparently ate outside, at least on busy occasions like this when the kitchen filled with the valets and ladies’ maids of guests.These were the people Minerva didn’t know.
“Take your meal with your mother,” she whispered to Paul.“Let them think I’m invisible kitchen staff.”
He eyed the puffy cap nearly falling over her eyes and the immense apron.“Even I wouldn’t look at you twice in that costume.You have flour on your nose.”
She poked him with a wooden spoon to prevent him from kissing her nose.“Pretend you are merely greeting me and go fill your plate.”
“Aye, aye, general.”He winked, sending her stupid pulse fluttering.They needed to find the killer and kidnapper soon so they could go home to their own cozy bed.
“Do not leave the kitchen without me,” he warned, before picking up a plate to fill it.
Minerva took a seat between one of the women who chopped vegetables and the lady’s maid who assisted the grand dames in the late viscountess’s suite.The maid knew Minerva but scarcely cast her a second glance.She was too busy watching the stylish servants from London.
Minerva did the same.Verity really ought to be here to see if she recognized a Roman nose, but she would never leave those orphans if they were in danger.
At first glance, she counted no Roman noses, whatever they might be.Italian?Long?The London valet at the far end of the table had a distinctively aquiline beak and a surly attitude.Or perhaps he was too arrogant to speak with his rural counterparts.
She was familiar with Spaldings’ and Villiers’ valets.They were fairly high in the instep and talked among themselves, not acknowledging Surly Beak.Surly didn’t acknowledge the footmen.Definite pecking order.
“Who is the man with the big nose?”she asked Clare’s maid.
“He is employed by Viscount Chatham only recently, I believe,” the maid replied in a low tone.“The others have ignored him all week.I don’t know what he’s done to annoy them.”
“He’s not insulted any of the maids?”Minerva knew Mrs.Upton ran a tight household, making certain the maids worked in pairs, but visitors didn’t always obey.
“He does not speak to us unless forced.And without the aid of his fellow valets, he’s forced to lower himself to speaking more than he likes.The others have been here before and know where to find the wash basin and soaps and brushes.He did not bring his own.”
“Enlightening, thank you.”Noticing Damien’s suave French valet—and hopefully, the village’s new shoemaker— enter, Minerva picked up her plate and intercepted Jacques between stove and table.“Have you met the viscount’s man yet?”
Slim, of average height, wearing clothes more elegant than some gentlemen, worldly Jacques knew exactly to whom she referred.He cast Surly a glance.“Calls himself John, more likely a Sean.He’s not trained.Mostly, he runs errands.He asked me which of the maids might be interested in earning a few shillings.”He added the last with a very Gallic shrug.
Jacques was probably the last man in the manor to ask about loose women.
“So, he does not stay in his rooms but wanders about, quite of his own accord?”
“I have only been here on this day,” he warned.“But I speak with the others.Villiers’ man fears Sean-John is...scouting, is that the word?...the manor, planning theft.Spalding’s man calls him a blot upon the landscape, sticking his long nose where it does not belong.Me, I derive my conclusion from them.”
Jacques had been spending too much time with Damien.In his attempt to bury his accent and become a proper English shopkeeper, he was learning to talk like a lawyer.Minerva hid her smile.
“Then we may have identified Verity’s intruder.Lost as he is, our Irish John could very well have been looking for a trunk.What of the valets for the viscount’s companions?I do not see any other new male faces.”
“They are nottreselegant,” Jacques said with a very French sniff.“They do for each other or borrow the manor’s staff.They are not awash in coin, but they admired my boots.”He glanced at his elegant footwear, exceeding anything any servant wore—or most gentlemen.
