Thunder and Roses by Mary Jo Putney Page B

too clever for comfort.” He sipped his wine, expression thoughtful. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you that an old friend of mine is active in intelligence work, and I sometimes passed on information that I thought might interest him. Occasionally I acted as a courier as well, if it fit into my own plans. I was never a serious spy, though. That would have been too much like work.”
     
    She was intrigued by his reluctance to admit that he had served his country. Perhaps he wasn’t quite the wastrel he pretended; then again, perhaps he had simply enjoyed the adventure of spying.
     
    Williams and Dilys entered the room together. The girl, with nervous glances at the earl, cleared away the dishes from the first course. Williams placed a platter of scorched-looking lamb in front of his master, then served half a dozen other dishes. After dismissing the butler, Nicholas carved the lamb. “If the soup is any indicator, Gladys is out of her depth in the kitchen. This joint doesn’t look too promising, either.”
     
    When Clare tasted the leathery meat, she had to agree. Nicholas winced when he tried his.
     
    “Something must be done about the food.”       
     
    Seeing his speculative glance, Clare laid down her fork and gave him a warning scowl. “Yes, I’m a good cook, but I will not have time to work in the kitchen. And don’t try to convince me that a mistress also has to cook for her lover.”
     
    “I wasn’t thinking of wasting your valuable time in the kitchen.” He smiled mischievously. “But a mistress can do interesting things with food. Shall I describe them?”
     
    “No!”
     
    “Another time, perhaps.” He prodded a boiled potato with his fork. It promptly disintegrated into a shapeless white mass. “Do you know of a decent cook who is looking for a situation?”
     
    “Not in the valley. You might be able to find someone in Swansea, but you’d probably be better off sending to London. There must be agencies that specialize in finding French chefs for aristocratic houses.”
     
    “French chefs are usually temperamental, and most would go mad with boredom in Wales. Aren’t there any good Welsh country cooks around?”
     
    Clare’s brows drew together. “Surely that kind of food must seem very plain to a gentleman.”
     
    “I like country cooking as long as it’s done well.” After careful scrutiny, he pushed a sinister-looking lump to the side of his plate. “Even the penguins would sneer at this fish. Are you sure you don’t know a competent person who could start soon—preferably tomorrow?”
     
    His aristocratic impatience made her smile. “There’s a woman in Penreith who worked at Aberdare as a kitchen maid before her marriage. She’s not a formally trained cook, but whenever I’ve eaten at her house, the food has been wonderful. And she could use the work—her husband died in the pit last year.”
     
    Nicholas spooned a mysterious substance onto his plate. It was brown and it oozed. “What’s this? No, don’t tell me, I’d rather not know. If you can coax the widow up here tomorrow, I’ll be eternally grateful.”
     
    “I’ll see what I can do.” Clare wrinkled her nose at the cold, gray, mushy Brussels sprouts. “I have a stake in the results myself.”
     
    After several more minutes of unenthusiastic chewing, Nicholas said, “Now that you’ve had time to reflect, have you devised a redecoration strategy?”
     
    “Surveying the ground floor confirmed my original impression: cleaning and simplification will work wonders.” Clare tried the apple tart, which proved to be flavorless but edible. “I won’t do anything too radical—when you remarry, I’m sure your wife will have plans of her own.”
     
    Nicholas set his wine glass on the table with a force that threatened to shatter it. “You needn’t concern yourself about that. I will never remarry.”
     
    There was a black edge to his voice that Clare had not heard before, and his