Page 15 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
“How very... charitable... of him.” Isolde moved closer, her expensive perfume preceding her like a cloud of French sophistication that made Rachel feel like she’d been rolling around in a barn. Which, let’s face it, wasn’t entirely inaccurate given her recent accommodations.
“Geoffrey always says charity is a luxury we can ill afford in these trying times. Though I suppose he means charity that doesn’t directly benefit his coffers or his social standing.”
The bitterness in her voice was sharp enough to cut glass, and Rachel felt an unexpected pang of sympathy. Apparently even medieval trophy wives had their problems.
“What exactly do you do to earn such... charity ?” Isolde continued, and the emphasis on the word made it clear that she had some very specific ideas about what services a strange woman might provide to a disgraced knight, and none of them involved legitimate employment.
“I’m helping him with some... research,” Rachel said carefully, very aware that everyone in the hall was listening with the focused attention of people who lived for gossip and had precious little entertainment otherwise. “Looking into some... discrepancies... in certain trade arrangements.”
It was vague enough to be meaningless and specific enough to sound important, which seemed like the safest approach when dealing with medieval sibling dynamics and whatever complex political soap opera she’d stumbled into.
Isolde went very still, her dark eyes sharpening with a sudden interest like a cat spotting movement in tall grass. “Research. Into trade discrepancies. How fascinating that Geoffrey hasn’t mentioned such... research... in his correspondence about my brother’s activities.”
Oh, perfect. Husband Dearest was apparently keeping tabs on Tristan like some sort of medieval surveillance system. Rachel’s dislike for the unseen Geoffrey intensified from mild distaste to active loathing.
“Among other things,” Rachel confirmed, glancing at Tristan and finding him watching the exchange with the wary expression of someone who recognized dangerous territory when he saw it and was calculating escape routes.
“How very... thorough... of you.” Isolde’s smile turned genuine for the first time since her arrival, though it held an edge that made Rachel think of very sharp knives wrapped in expensive silk.
“And what qualifications do you possess for such... research? Geoffrey always insists on proper credentials for anyone handling sensitive information. He’s quite particular about such things. ”
This was definitely a test, though Rachel wasn’t entirely sure what she was being tested for.
She straightened her spine and met Isolde’s gaze directly, drawing on every ounce of confidence she’d developed from years of dealing with difficult restaurant managers and hostile Yelp reviewers who thought food criticism was a personal attack on their life choices.
“I’m very good at spotting inconsistencies,” she said. “At finding patterns other people miss. At asking the right questions and following the evidence wherever it leads, even when people don’t want me to dig that deep.”
“Indeed.” Isolde began circling her slowly, like a predator evaluating potential prey or a very elegant shark deciding which part to bite first. The scent of roses and something darker—herbs, maybe?—followed in her wake.
“And what evidence have you uncovered thus far?”
Rachel glanced at Tristan, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod that somehow managed to convey both permission and a warning to tread carefully. She took that as authorization to continue, though she kept her answer deliberately vague.
“Enough to know that certain parties had both means and motive to manipulate trade records,” she said. “Enough to know that the right questions haven’t been asked yet. Enough to know that someone with the right connections and the right knowledge could probably uncover quite a lot more.”
Isolde stopped circling and fixed Rachel with a stare that felt like being examined under a microscope by someone who knew exactly what they were looking for and had probably already found it.
“You speak of evidence and connections,” she said slowly, her voice taking on a different quality—less testing, more... calculating.
“But I wonder... what brought you to such work? What tragedy in your own past taught you to recognize the signs of betrayal and manipulation?”
The question hit uncomfortably close to home, like a knife finding the gap in armor she hadn’t even known she was wearing. Trust a medieval noblewoman to zero in on exactly the right psychological pressure point within minutes of meeting her.
“Let’s just say I know what it looks like when someone uses your trust against you,” she said quietly, the taste of old bitterness flooding her mouth. “When people you thought you could count on decide you’re more valuable as a scapegoat than an ally.”
Something shifted in Isolde’s expression—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. For a moment, the calculating mask slipped, revealing something that looked almost like sympathy and a pain that was all too familiar.
“I see,” she said softly. “Then you understand the particular sting of being betrayed by those who should have protected you. Of watching people you once trusted treat you like a commodity to be managed rather than a person to be cherished.”
The raw pain in her voice made it clear they were no longer talking about research or trade routes. This was about marriages made for mutual benefit and the cost of being treated like a business investment rather than a human being.
“I understand that loyalty is rarer than people pretend it is,” Rachel replied. “And that sometimes the people who hurt us most are the ones we trusted most completely.”
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken understanding, filled with the scent of dying torches and something that felt dangerously like kinship.
Rachel felt the strange sensation of being evaluated on entirely different criteria than she’d expected.
This wasn’t about her qualifications or her mysterious origins anymore.
This was about something deeper, more personal.
“Tell me,” Isolde said suddenly, her voice taking on yet another quality—sharper now, more focused, like someone who’d just caught the scent of something very interesting indeed.
“This research of yours. Does it involve any... unusual sources? Ancient texts, perhaps? Documents that might seem... out of place... to casual observers?”
Rachel blinked, caught completely off guard by the shift in questioning. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up like she’d just walked through a spider web in the dark. “Why do you ask?”
“Because,” Isolde said, moving closer with the focused intensity of a hawk spotting prey, “in my experience, the most valuable information often comes from the most unexpected places. Old recipes, for instance. Family documents. Books that appear to be one thing but contain knowledge that seems... impossibly advanced for their apparent age.”
A chill ran down Rachel’s spine like someone had just opened a door to winter. There was something in Isolde’s voice, in the way she was watching Rachel’s face with predatory attention, that suggested this wasn’t idle curiosity.
“You seem to know quite a lot about... unusual sources,” Rachel said carefully, her mouth suddenly dry as parchment.
“I know many things that Geoffrey would consider unseemly for a proper wife,” Isolde replied, her smile sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous.
“I know that certain families have always had... interests... that extend beyond the conventional. I know that some knowledge has a way of surfacing when it’s most needed, regardless of whether it appears to belong to its time and place.”
Rachel’s heart started hammering against her ribs like a bird trying to escape a cage. Was she talking about...?
“Books, for instance,” Isolde continued, her gaze never leaving Rachel’s face, watching for every flicker of expression like someone reading a particularly fascinating manuscript.
“Ancient cookbooks containing recipes that seem to draw from culinary traditions spanning centuries. Texts that appear to be simple household guides but contain knowledge that could only come from someone who’d experienced far more than any single lifetime should allow.”
The blood roared in Rachel’s ears like a freight train. She knew. Somehow, impossibly, Lady Isolde Beaumont knew about the cookbook.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rachel said, but her voice came out weak and unconvincing, like someone claiming they’d never seen the murder weapon while still holding it.
“Don’t you?” Isolde stepped closer, close enough that Rachel could see the gold flecks in her dark eyes, could smell the expensive perfume that couldn’t quite mask something earthier beneath—herbs, maybe, or something that reminded her uncomfortably of Mistress Caldwell’s more questionable potions.
“Because I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.
I think you’ve encountered something that shouldn’t exist, something that defies easy explanation.
And I think that’s how you came to be here, in my brother’s garden, wearing clothes that belong to no fashion I’ve ever seen and speaking with an accent that exists in no land I know of. ”
Rachel’s heart was hammering so hard she was sure everyone in the hall could hear it echoing off the stone walls. The taste of copper pennies flooded her mouth. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Isolde’s smile was triumphant now, the expression of someone who’d just won a particularly challenging game of chess while their opponent was still trying to figure out the rules.
“Then you won’t mind if I examine this mysterious cookbook that brought you here? The one I’m quite certain you have hidden away somewhere, wrapped in cloth and secreted like the treasure it is?”
The silence that followed was so complete that Rachel could hear the crackling of torches, the distant sound of horses in the courtyard, the rapid beating of her own traitorous heart.
Every eye in the hall was fixed on her, but she was only aware of Isolde’s knowing gaze and Tristan’s sharp intake of breath as the pieces fell into place for him as well.
The scent of woodsmoke and something that might have been fear hung thick in the air.
“How?” she whispered, abandoning all pretense along with any hope of maintaining her cover story. “How could you possibly know?”
“Because, my dear,” Isolde said, her voice warm with satisfaction and something that might have been welcome—or warning, “you’re not the first person to arrive at Greystone carrying impossible knowledge and wearing clothes that don’t belong to this century.
You’re simply the first to arrive in my lifetime. ”
She turned to address the hall at large, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question or delay.
“Everyone out,” she commanded, and servants began scurrying toward the exits like mice fleeing a burning barn. “What we have to discuss is not for common ears. Hugo, see that we’re not disturbed. Brother dear, I believe it’s time we had a very long overdue conversation about family history.”
Her gaze found Rachel again, sharp as winter frost.
“And perhaps about why certain cookbooks have a tendency to find their way to people who need them most, regardless of what century they happen to be living in.”
As the hall emptied with remarkable speed, Rachel found herself alone with the de Valois siblings and the terrifying realization that her impossible situation had just become infinitely more complicated.
And possibly, if the gleam in Isolde’s eyes was any indication, much more dangerous than she’d ever imagined.