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“ W hy are you so bloody happy this morning, Whit?” King asked grimly from the other side of a mountain of Bayonne ham and poached eggs.

“One might also beg the question of why you are so hungry this morning,” he returned to his friend with a cheerful smile before he took a bite of his own bacon. “It looks as if you’re eating for three.”

King pinned him with an icy glare. “Pray, don’t be defensive just because you’re wearing country tweed paired with a waistcoat that would have better served as a maiden aunt’s drawers.”

“A truly crushing insult, old chap,” he praised, unaffected by King’s slur against his attire.

He raised his demitasse of coffee in salute.

King wasn’t appreciative of his praise, however. His friend’s eyebrows snapped together. “Riverdale, check to see if Whitby is feverish.”

Riverdale glanced in Rhys’s direction and shuddered. “Christ no. I’m not touching him. For all I know, he’s contagious.”

Rhys chuckled. “Where the devil is Richford this morning? Surely he ought to be on the receiving end of some of your mockery. I rather miss his scowl.”

Their friend was, once again, conspicuously absent.

Rhys might have been more troubled by Richford’s unusual behavior if he weren’t so damned pleased with how his courtship of Miranda was proceeding.

Because that was how he was thinking of his slow and steady campaign to woo her into becoming his mistress.

He hadn’t bedded her last night. Instead, he had taken himself in hand and gone to sleep, then risen in the morning with a cockstand of steel only to tug himself to completion again.

Not sufficient, of course, but a man needed to remove the poison, and at the moment, he was—surprisingly enough—more interested in taking care of Miranda than himself. A novel experience, that.

“I haven’t seen Richford since yesterday,” King said. “He’s probably off somewhere growling at his blonde goddess.”

“Blonde goddess?” Rhys repeated, curious. “Is this the mystery woman Richford has been chasing about?”

“We reckon it is,” Riverdale confirmed. “King made one of his elixirs last night after you disappeared. Richford drank half of it himself, the selfish arse. And then he started carrying on about a goddess he couldn’t touch or some such rot.

Something about her being a Gorgon who would make his cock fall off. ”

“Christ.” Rhys shuddered. “No talk of Richford’s cock at breakfast, if you please. I don’t want to have to vomit my eggs. I have a delicate constitution.”

“It’s possible he was delirious,” King added with a shrug. “I added a bit too much of a particular ingredient that tends to have such properties.”

Rhys shook his head. “I don’t even want to ask.”

King grinned. “Then perhaps it’s best you don’t, old chap.”

“Right.” He concentrated on the task of finishing a rasher of bacon.

“Where were you, last night, Whit?” Riverdale asked slyly. “You slipped away just after dinner.”

Fortunately, none of the other club members was seated near enough at the massive table to overhear the conversation. Rhys had no wish to leave Miranda vulnerable to becoming fodder for gossip again.

“I wasn’t aware I needed to ask your permission to conduct my private affairs,” he drawled.

“Private affairs?” Riverdale repeated. “Ah.”

“It would seem Richford is not the only one among us who has found a goddess,” King quipped, cutting into his Bayonne ham. “One can only hope that your particular goddess is not as dangerously capable as his.”

“Quite,” Rhys said, grateful his friend hadn’t mentioned cocks falling off again.

How terribly grim.

And there was nothing at all grim about today. Because Miranda was almost precisely where he wanted her. She had yet to agree to become his mistress, but he was reasonably confident that in one more night, perhaps two, he would have her concession. She couldn’t resist him.

The feeling was mutual, of course.

And that was a problem he wouldn’t dwell on at the moment. He had a breakfast to consume.

“Have you seen Richford this morning?” Riverdale was asking King now, frowning.

“What am I, his mother?” King shook his head. “He is a man grown. He can look after himself.”

“You don’t think your potion was too strong, do you?” Riverdale pressed.

“It wasn’t fashioned of arsenic, you know.”

“What was it made of?” Riverdale countered.

“If I told you, it would no longer be a secret,” King said patiently, in the tone he might have used for a very small child.

Riverdale responded by taking up a forkful of poached egg and launching it at King from across the table. The soft yolk landed with a thud upon King’s coat, and their friend’s reaction was the same, Rhys imagined, as it might have been had Riverdale challenged him to pistols at dawn.

“Did you just throw egg at me?” he demanded, incredulous.

“Yes,” Riverdale said, grinning. “I do believe I did.”

King used his napkin to wipe the egg piece away with a flick of his wrist. “That’s an act of treason, you know. Wet egg yolk is despicably difficult to remove from fine silk.”

“Is it?” Riverdale asked innocently. “I was rather thinking it made an excellent brooch.”

King glowered. “I don’t wear brooches, you arse.”

“The two of you are little better than a pair of squabbling children,” Rhys commented lightly, still utterly unaffected by the vignette unfolding before him.

King responded by hurling a hunk of Bayonne ham at Riverdale. The piece hit him in the temple with a resounding thwack. Their friend’s astonishment was comical. Shock followed by an icy calm.

“You know what this means, do you not?” Riverdale asked.

“I’m sure I don’t,” King said mildly, returning his attention to his plate.

“War,” Riverdale declared.

And then the egg and ham began to sail through the air.

The ices for this evening’s Glace à la Dudley were in their molds and would spend the next two and a half hours in their ice caves.

Miranda had devoted the morning and most of the afternoon to making both a cream ice and water ice, the latter of which had been quite rigorous.

She had pounded bananas, juiced oranges and a lemon, chopped pistachios and preserved ginger, and added the perfect combination of carmine and apricot yellow to form the water ice.

For the cream ice, she had blended rose water, cream, vanilla, and kirsch syrup, before coloring the roses in her molds with more carmine and sap green.

Whilst the ices and molds were chilling, Miranda slipped from the kitchens, pleased with her creations and yet oddly on edge.

With a heavy sigh, she meandered through the labyrinth of servants’ halls to the stairs, mounting them swiftly on sore and tired feet, trying not to think about the Duke of Whitby.

And failing utterly.

Not wanting to risk herself by venturing to the gardens for air again, she made her way instead to her room, knowing Rhys would be playing host to his guests.

She intended to throw herself into the task of planning tomorrow’s dessert, to be paired with salmon filets, quail à la Chaponnay , an assortment of potatoes, and asparagus in Hollandaise as the entrées and relevés .

Perhaps her Monte Carlo violet ice would make a nice accompaniment, she thought.

Or nougatine with almond cream. There was the princess basket as well, which always looked lovely filled with an assortment of ices formed to resemble fruit.

Then again, she had offered nougat baskets yesterday with her chocolate mushroom-shaped ices.

Miranda reached the ordinarily deserted hall where her chamber was located and was surprised to see another woman bustling toward her.

A lovely woman, with golden hair and a pink silk gown that proved she was no servant.

Who was she, and what was she doing in this largely deserted wing of the manor house?

Frowning, she drew up short. Was it someone looking for Rhys, perhaps a former lover or admirer? Regardless of who the woman was, she looked as startled to see Miranda as Miranda was to find her there.

The woman came to a halt, her skirts swaying as she pressed a hand over her heart. “Good heavens, you gave me quite a fright.”

“Forgive me,” Miranda apologized, taking note that the unexpected woman appeared a bit younger in age, with brilliant blue eyes and something about her countenance that was vaguely familiar.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest the fault was yours,” the woman said, smiling warmly. “I simply meant that I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in this wing of the manor house.”

“Nor was I,” Miranda offered, thinking belatedly that she ought to have donned a mask, for although the other woman appeared friendly, it was possible she might be a gossip. “I expect you are one of the houseguests?”

“I…” The blonde faltered, looking suddenly uncertain. “Not precisely. And you?”

A strange response, Miranda thought, uncertain of how she ought to answer the same question herself. “Not precisely either.”

The blonde’s smile faltered. “How interesting.”

“Indeed.”

They stared at each other for a tense moment.

“I do hope you won’t mention seeing me here,” the woman said, breaking the silence. “It wouldn’t do for anyone to know I am present at such a gathering, you see.”

Miranda offered her a wry smile. “Once again, we find ourselves in similar circumstances. I would appreciate your secrecy as well.”

“That is easily promised. I haven’t any notion of who you are.”

“Nor I you.”

“Well, then.” The woman beamed at her. “I shall forget our paths ever crossed, and you may do the same for me.”

Miranda inclined her head. “Of course.”

The blonde made to move past her in the hall but hesitated suddenly, biting her lip. “Are you…staying in this wing of the manor house?”

This was dangerous territory. Miranda wasn’t certain how she ought to answer. The woman had yet to explain who she was or why she was wandering in this particular hall herself.