The Lady in Disguise

Chapter Nine

Byrne's further study of Lady Adele was interrupted by her companion. "Why, Mr. Byrne, your plate is empty."

"So I see."

"We passed you by several times, but you young men of business," Mrs. Fernside tutted. "So distracted."

Mrs. Baddeley had favored a less formal supper tonight, but he must have missed the part where dishes were passed about, yet another crime to lay at the doorstep of his fixation on Miss Crewe. "I'm sorry if I—"

"Nay, nay. I meant no ill. But all that toil can't be good for a person. I imagine you work so very much," the older woman sighed.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. No doubt she imagined he earned so very much. Despite the fact that he'd been, just now, studying Lady Adele, he felt rather put off her now.

"Now, I've no children of my own, but I'd wager boys all have simply ravenous appetites. Allow me to aid you in your selections."

Perhaps he was judging her too harshly. He had a certain wariness of help, especially from the English. If it hadn't been for his interactions with his family, who hardly deserved to be called such, his experiences since with the upper classes had sealed his distrust. But Mrs. Fernside, a paid companion — not an enviable position to start with, and he couldn't imagine the LeMarquands were paying her well — might not have motives beyond kindness. Some people were kind, he tried to remind himself.

He turned to her, giving her a slight smile. "I should be very grateful."

"First, you must try these potatoes." She passed him a platter. "I've no notion who the chef is, but I imagine he's from somewhere most exotic. They have a bit of spice about them."

Considering the cook was his own, Byrne knew very well that she hailed from Ulster. Still, he saw no use in contradicting her. He'd wager Mrs. Doyle would quite fancy being called an exotic chef. "Yes, they look very nice." He spooned some out.

"And this pork shoulder is so tender." She passed another platter, now pushing the food onto his plate. "And the carrots and don't forget these roasted Brussels sprouts. I've rarely had them this late after Christmas. What a rare treat!"

His smile grew strained. "Yes, very rare." He stared at his plate, piled with more Brussels sprouts than should be allowed. Damn that Mrs. Doyle.

"You must taste them."

"This very moment?"

The lady only nodded with an expectant sort of smile. "From France, you know."

"Yes, I'd heard." He'd been tricked into trying Brussels sprouts before, thinking they'd be a rare French delicacy akin to Escargot, which tasted much better than a dish made of snails should. Not so for Brussels sprouts. He'd been disappointed to find they were little more than very tiny, extremely pungent cabbages — so pungent that the smell of them wafted through the entire house when Mrs. Doyle cooked them, which she did far too often. She had a certain affinity for them and seemed determined to present them to him in every possible way until he agreed with her, with typical Northern Irish stubbornness. All had failed. Whether they were drenched in a béchamel sauce, covered in cheese, or hidden in a layered gratin, he'd never been fooled enough to taste them again and always sent them back to the kitchen untouched in protest.

He quickly tucked a bite in. "Mmm," he hummed, swallowing and exaggerating his enthusiasm enough that he hoped Mrs. Fernside wouldn't noticed he'd actually speared a bit of potato.

"I confess, I consider myself a scholar of food. And I've a preference for all things French, but my palate is nothing to Lady Adele's."

At the sound of her name, the girl glanced up slightly. It was likely the only bit of conversation at the table she understood.