The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

Mannering gave another cough and gazed at a point just beyond Julien’s left ear. “It is the Frenchman, my lord,” he said with mournful finality. He brought his focus back to his master, as if to ask instructions, his point clearly made.

“The Frenchman? You refer, I presume, to François, my chef.”

“Of course, my lord.”

A sense of foreboding descended upon Julien. He didn’t want to ask, but he knew he had to. “You may tell me the truth, Mannering. Has a scullery maid fled St. Clair in terror of her life? Did he try to kill the kitchen cat?”

Mannering drew himself up and said with dignity, “It is not our staff, my lord. As I said, it is the Frenchman. He swears that he cannot be expected to be an artist in such a backward, barbaric kitchen. I believe he also called our kitchens squalid, but I may have misunderstood him, what with that ridiculous accent of his. That, I think, my lord, is the gist of it.” He did not add that in his opinion it wouldn’t be at all a bad thing if his pretentious, utterly revolting excuse for a chef were to fling out of the kitchen and remove his voluble presence elsewhere, preferably far from St. Clair.

Julien knew, of course, even from the restrained account Mannering had given, that François was on a rampage. “Squalid” was the key word. If Percy and Hugh were not to sit down to an empty dinner table, he must soothe his chef’s outraged sensibilities. Damn, he should never have ordered François to accompany him here. He’d done it primarily for Percy, who always proclaimed a violent dislike for sturdy English fare. Julien recalled that he wouldn’t be overly displeased if Percy and Hugh found St. Clair quite a bore and departed posthaste for London. Perhaps, his thinking continued in fine Machiavellian style, it would not be such a catastrophic occurrence were François to leave in a huff.

Having reached this happy conclusion, Julien favored Mannering with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders and said with the greatest unconcern, “Mannering, please inform François that if he finds his accommodations here not to his liking, he will be paid his quarterly wages and driven to Dapplemoor to catch the mail coach back to London. And, if you please,” Julien continued, “have a footman fetch Stokeworthy and ask Cook to send me a light luncheon. I will be in the library.”

Mannering’s jaw dropped. In that instant, his respect for his master soared to heights heretofore unknown. “Fancy,” he repeated in awed tones later to Mrs. Cradshaw, “his lordship was as calm as a lord admiral. Quite ready he was to let that repulsive Frenchman go without a blink of an eyelash. He just shrugged, that’s all, just a wonderful shrug.”

As Julien partook of cold chicken and crusty bread, he was informed by Mannering, who was unable to contain the news, that upon hearing of his master’s undisguised sentiments, François had abruptly ceased his French ravings and in a burst of enthusiasm declared that his lordship and his guests would have the finest, most exquisite repast his culinary skills could achieve, a dinner more formidable than anything these peasants who surrounded him and clearly didn’t appreciate him could ever imagine.

Julien received this news with mixed feelings. He shrugged, deciding that at the very least, he would suffer no more tantrums from the fellow.

4

After he finished his luncheon, Julien made his way to the estate room, for generations the account room of the earls of March. As he awaited his agent’s arrival, he let his mind wander back to his curious encounter that morning with the Brandons. “What an impertinent girl,” he said half-aloud, but without an ounce of displeasure. Though he had openly derided the girl’s clothing, he could not help dwelling briefly upon that quite nicely shaped figure of hers, emphasized by the tight breeches. And the long, thick russet hair. Lovely hair. He had never seen hair like that before. He tried to remember freckles. Perhaps there’d been a light dusting across her nose. His fingers itched now to trace over them. He was mildly surprised he hadn’t until now made her acquaintance, nor that of her brother, Harry. But then, since he was at least six years Harry’s senior, it was no wonder that their paths hadn’t crossed in his youth. They would have been but children when he left for Eton.