The Countess of Storrington’s Little Puffy Things
Take plenty of whipped cream…
The Countess of Storrington awoke at noon feeling hungry. She rather fancied a bit of French pastry. She could, of course, descend to the kitchen and make something, but one of the disadvantages of being a peeress was not being really welcome in the kitchen.
At least Mrs. Simpson was no longer there. Once Anthony had ascertained that the Simpsons’ interactions with Edgar had been motivated by simple spite toward Jacobin, rather than a more sinister malice, he’d pensioned them off to a cottage on his most distant estate. Jacobin’s old friend, the cook from Hurst Park, was now installed in the kitchen at Storrington Hall. But Jacobin had learned that as mistress of the house her relationship with the servants required a certain formality.
Still, there were many, many superb things about being a rich and fashionable countess.
After a shaky start, Jacobin had been a success with all but the stuffiest members of the ton. Edgar’s murder trial in the House of Lords became the public sensation of the day. By the time he was convicted and hanged with a silken rope, such being the dubious privilege of a felonious peer, most of the details of Jacobin’s past life were public knowledge. All Anthony’s family connections rallied round, and a number of older members of society came forward to support the daughter of Auguste de Chastelux, whom they remembered with affection from pre-revolutionary Parisian jaunts. The Prince Regent pronounced himself immensely amused that a countess had been employed in his kitchen and jovially offered to take her back into his service. The coup de grâce was an appearance at one of Lord Hugo Hartley’s rare dinner parties, where Mr. Chauncey and Lady Caroline Bellamy had been persuaded to join the company. Although a few sticklers might (and did) note that the couple’s daughter and niece were otherwise engaged that evening, there were very few people who cared to be regarded as higher in the instep than Lady Caroline. The new Lady Storrington’s acceptance was assured.
Among the younger and more dashing, Jacobin was seen as a heroine and amassed an entertaining circle of friends. She’d even conducted a pâtisserie lesson for a group of young married women. They’d spent an enjoyable afternoon making French pastries and a terrible mess in the kitchen. She and Anthony had to dine out for the following three nights to let the servants recover.
The single most superb thing about being a rich countess was the earl. It was time, she decided, to issue her daily forgiveness for getting her into the condition that had cut short the season in London and made her so wretchedly ill every morning that she had to remain in bed. He would, to do him justice, have gladly stayed at her side, mopping her brow with cool cloths and holding a basin at the ready. But she’d snappishly sent him on his way when he’d woken to find her retching and offered sympathy.
She would, as always, make it up to him.
Pondering the probable whereabouts of her husband, she climbed out of the ancestral bed, pulled on a lace-trimmed robe, and wandered over to the window for a good stretch and a look at the weather.
The weather was fine and the garden urn exceptionally well dressed. Around its slender neck it sported a starched linen neck cloth tied in a perfect waterfall.
Excellent.
He met her at the door. “Recovered from the journey, I see. Unless it was something else that made you so charming this morning.”
She cast him a nasty look, and he laughed.
“Come in,” he said. “I have a present for you.”
“Diamonds?” she said hopefully.
“I think you have enough jewels for the moment. Something better.”
Instead of leading her into the saloon, he opened the door on the other side of the vestibule into what had been an unused storage room.
“Oh, Anthony!” It was perfect. It had a long marble table with an ice trough built in beneath it to keep the surface cold; a huge ice closet; the most modern range and oven; copper pans and molds in every shape and size hanging from hooks. Everything, in fact, that a well-equipped pastry room demanded.
“How did you do it?” she asked, hugging him tightly enough to squeeze the breath from a weaker man. “How did you know what to buy?”
“I didn’t, of course. I left it all up to Jean-Luc. He arranged the whole thing before returning to France.”
Jean-Luc had been in England recently when his employer, the Duc de Clermont-Ferrand, and his household had made a month-long visit. Jacobin had tried to persuade him to come and work for them, but he refused, he said, ever to spend another winter in the brutal English weather. Jacobin’s protest that the climate of northern France was little better fell on deaf ears. Jean-Luc was happy with the dessert-loving duc and his friend Michel, the duc’s maître d’hôtel. He’d dined à trois with her and Anthony one night, and escorted her to a masquerade when Anthony had to attend an all-male political dinner. But Jacobin knew, despite her husband’s indulgence, that their old friendship would be forever circumscribed by the barriers of rank.
“I’m hungry,” she said. “I’m going to cook something right now.”
“Am I allowed to make a request?” Anthony asked.
“You don’t need to. I know what you like.”
“Splendid. I’ll leave you to it,” and he left the room.
She happily explored her new domain, discovering flour, sugars, spices, and other dry goods in a cupboard, while the ice chest had a compartment for eggs, butter, and cream. She set water to heat on the stove and assembled the ingredients for choux pastry. But after a while she felt lonely. He might have stayed to talk while she cooked. What was he doing, anyway?
She heard a noise upstairs, and her lips curved.
He was lying on the bed when she entered.
“That was quick,” he said.
“I have a new recipe for profiteroles. It omits the pastry.” She held up a bowl of whipped cream, then produced two strips of cloth from her pocket.
His eyes darkened with the intent look that never failed to make her hot all over.
“I do believe,” he drawled, “that I’m about to realize one of my deepest fantasies.”
“No,” she said, approaching the bed with purpose. “This one’s mine.”