True to his word, Mr Bateman was waiting in the street at 10 o’ clock the next morning when Isabel and Simmonds left the house via the servants’ entrance. Isabel glanced across at him, before hurrying up the road. When she looked back, he still strolled behind them. Although it irked her that he had imposed his will on her, on another level it was reassuring to know he was there, waiting in the wings, if she needed assistance.
Not that she was concerned that any of the gentlemen who frequented the restaurant and smoking lounge would somehow make their way below stairs and accost her. But the cook’s assistant, who had made an appearance shortly after Mr Bateman had left the kitchen the day before, had been overly familiar in his manner towards her. She only hoped he would not be there this morning.
Unfortunately, he was there, standing beside the cook when she walked into the kitchen. The smirk on his spotty face made her skin crawl. His gaze swept over her figure in an insolent manner, and Isabel resisted the urge to give him a sharp set down. She contented herself merely with a fierce frown.
Mr Bateman had been correct when he had pointed out that her position in life had protected her from the advances of undesirable males. Masquerading as a servant, she was fair game to any man who might take it upon himself to approach her. She was woefully ignorant of the lives of working-class women, and the struggles they faced. But now, without the armour of her title, she was as vulnerable as they were, and it had given her a new awareness of the kind of existence they must lead on a day-to-day basis.
She listened as the cook outlined the dishes he was making that morning, and carefully observed his cooking methods. She couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, however, when she and Simmonds eventually left the kitchen at midday. Spotty-Face had stared at her throughout the morning. Thankfully Simmonds was with her, and had given the youth such basilisk glares that he had kept his distance. They had just exited via the servants’ entrance and were walking home, when Spotty-Face pushed past them and barred their way.
“Not so fast, wench,” he said, with a leer.
He grabbed Isabel’s right arm and her left wrist in a vice-like grip, and she froze. He was much stronger than he looked. She winced as his fingers dug into her flesh, “Unhand me now!”
His grasp on her arm only tightened, while his other hand all but crushed the bones in her wrist. Simmonds hit him with the basket she was carrying, but he did not let go of Isabel and she felt a wave of pain pass over her. But before she could say or do anything else, Mr Bateman wrenched the youth away from her. Spotty-Face lost his balance and sprawled on the road.
Mr Bateman stood over him. “Get up!”
The youth staggered to his feet. Mr Bateman grasped his arms, and turned him to face Isabel. “You will apologise.” His face was forbidding, and the expression in his eyes so icy that Isabel would have pitied the object of his wrath if he had not been such a vile specimen of humanity.
“Begging your pa-pardon, Miss,” he stammered. Gone was the young man’s bravado. His skin was pale, and there were visible beads of sweat on his forehead.
Isabel, with a jerk of her head in Simmonds’ direction, hurried away. She only hoped she would reach the sanctuary of her home before Mr Bateman came after her.
Fortunately, he did not catch up with them and she entered the house via the servants’ entrance without further mishap, with Simmonds clucking beside her all the way. Isabel made her way to her bedchamber, where her maid changed her dress, and she submitted to her ministrations in a dream-like state. Shaken to the core, all Isabel wanted was to have a good weep, but she did not give in to the urge. Her wrist and her arm ached, but she must not be weak. This was a situation of her own making, after all.
Someone knocked on the door of her bedchamber, and a housemaid entered the room to inform her that Mr Bateman awaited her in the drawing room. Isabel frowned. Perhaps she could send a message that she was not at home? But then he might believe she had not returned to the house, which could lead to him kicking up a dreadful dust. No, the best thing to do was to go downstairs to the drawing room and face him. She would have to get the meeting over with sooner or later, and, on balance, she would prefer it to be sooner.
She entered the drawing room ten minutes later, wearing a long-sleeved morning dress, which effectively hid the bruise already developing on her upper arm. Her aching wrist had already turned blue and she only hoped he would not notice it.
Her hope was in vain. Mr Bateman strode to her, and gently took her wrists in his hands. His face whitened when he saw the bruising on her left wrist. “That little cur.”
Isabel’s hands trembled. “Mr Bateman – thank you for assisting me. I am most grateful.”
He looked down at her, his face set in grim lines. “I could inform you that I told you so. But, in this instance, I am not happy to have been proven correct. I hate to see you hurt, my dear.”
She moved her arm stiffly and he frowned. “Is your arm also bruised?”
She bit her lip and nodded, and he released her wrists and strode to the other end of the room and back. “After you left, I took that brute back to The Hindoostane and informed both Tanuj and Spencer of his conduct. He has been turned off without a reference.”
“Thank you.” Isabel’s lips quavered.
“I informed them that I was on my way to pay you a visit – in your capacity as a Marchioness, of course, and not as a servant. Spencer sends his apologies and wishes me to relay the message to you that he hopes your cook will return tomorrow morning for her final lesson.”
“But does this not appear strange to him?” Isabel’s brow creased. “How would you know my cook?”
“I told him that your cook informed me you were her employer when I rescued her.”
“Oh, I see.”
Mr Bateman reached for the bell pull and rang for the butler, who entered the room a few minutes later. “Please send up a tray of tea, Watkins, and a bottle of brandy. And some ice.”
“Ice, sir?”
“There is an icehouse near the mews, is there not?” Mr Bateman asked impatiently.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Well, send some up, man, along with a cloth. Her ladyship has injured her wrist. I want to put ice on it.”
The butler sent Isabel a swift glance of concern before bowing and hurrying from the room.
“I am quite well, Mr Bateman. I do not need to drink tea – or to have ice put on my wrist.”
“I beg to differ, my girl. The ice will minimise the swelling. You shall drink tea sweetened with sugar, as well as a glass of brandy. You’ve sustained a shock.”
“Brandy?” Isabel pulled a face. “My brother gave me a glass once, pretending it was ratafia. It is vile stuff.”
“Still – you should have at least a few sips. Sit down, my dear. You must be aching all over.”
Isabel lowered herself gingerly onto the cushioned seat of the sofa near the window.
“That arm needs to be examined,” he said, frowning.
Isabel shook her head. “It is only a bruise. He gripped me very tightly, so it is throbbing a little. Please sit down.”
He sat in a chair across from her, and scrutinised her face. “Will you return to The Hindoostane tomorrow morning?”
Isabel hesitated before answering. She was tempted to wash her hands of her cookery lessons. However, whenever she had fallen off her horse as a child, her elder brother had insisted she climb straight back on so she did not develop a fear of riding. Perhaps, she should apply the same principle now and return to the restaurant tomorrow.
She rested her chin on her uninjured hand. “I believe I will. Allowing that horrid boy’s behaviour to scare me away from something I enjoy would be lily-livered.”
“I thought you would say that. I will accompany you tomorrow morning and see you safely home.”
“Thank you, Mr Bateman.” She studied her slippers for a long while before looking up and saying in a diffident voice, “I – I acknowledge now that you were quite right yesterday when you told me it was unwise for me to masquerade as a cook.”
He smiled lazily at her. “I live in hope that at some point in the future you will acknowledge that I am right about other matters as well.”
She had a strange sense of inevitability as she gazed at him, almost as if her future had been determined already, and the Fates merely waited for her to catch up with their plans. A silly, fanciful notion, perhaps, but it was difficult to dismiss it.
And if she were entirely honest with herself, the idea of sharing a life with Mr Bateman was far from repugnant to her. Even though he had every right to crow over her recent misfortune, particularly as he had in no uncertain terms predicted it, his only concern had been for her comfort and well-being. Surely such a man would prove to be the most considerate of husbands?
Isabel dismissed the unsettling thought. She must not allow herself to view him in such a way. He would sense even a little weakening on her part, and press his full advantage. And then where would she be? Well on her way to walking up the aisle again and saying her wedding vows.
So, ignoring his provocative words, she leant back in her chair, wincing as her arm bumped the armrest. “Please tell me about the cooking methods you learnt in America, Mr Bateman. I am fascinated by your dual knowledge of Eastern and French cuisine.”
He raised one brow as he closely observed her. “There is something between us that needs to be settled, Lady Axbridge. You and I both know that.”
She nodded her head in a regal fashion. “There is indeed something between us, Mr Bateman. But it does not need to be settled. That is the joy of living in a civilised age. We no longer need to act on our base impulses. Our higher functions can guide our way.”
He gave a shout of laughter. “Pray elaborate on these – er – base impulses you do not wish to act upon, my lady?”
Her eyes kindled. “At present the only base impulse I will admit to is an overwhelming desire to –” She stopped short, and drew in a deep, calming breath.
“Box my ears?”
“Yes.” She eyed him narrowly. “You, sir, have the ability to make me forget my manners as well as all sense of propriety.”
“I am relieved.” He grinned. “I was beginning to think we were making no progress at all.”
The drawing room door opened at that moment, and Watkins entered, carrying a tray of tea. In addition to tea, the tray contained a chunk of ice and a cloth, a decanter of brandy, and a crystal glass. Watkins set it on the table between them. Mr Bateman thanked the butler, and as soon as the servant had withdrawn from the room, he wrapped the cloth around the ice and handed it to Isabel. “Press this against your wrist while I pour the tea.”
She took the cold compress, and held it against her wrist while he poured the tea into a fine china teacup, then added milk and sugar, before placing it on the table in front of her.
With the compress resting on her left wrist, she gingerly picked up the cup of tea with her right hand. She sipped it and pulled a face. “It is very sweet, Mr Bateman!”
“It will do you good. So will the brandy.”
He opened the decanter, and poured a small amount of the golden liquid into the glass, before handing it to her. “Drink this after you have finished your tea.”
She sipped her tea, and then drank the brandy, which tasted a lot better than she remembered, although it burned a path straight down to her stomach. She spluttered, and then a warm sensation started to spread through her. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a minute. “Thank you.” Her eyelids fluttered open. “I feel much recovered already.”
“Have a rest, now, my lady. I will see you tomorrow morning.”
On those words, he rose and bowed, before leaving the room. Isabel stared at the closed door for an age after he had gone. She was in serious trouble.