Banquet of Lies Read Free Page B

she had, but her disappearance would have tipped him off that her father had most likely lied. That she had the document for which he was prepared to kill.
    So it made sense that he would come looking for her here. With her father dead, where else would she go other than her family home?
    A light came on in Goldfern’s hall, illuminating the fan light above the door. She held her breath.
    No one came out, and the light moved on into another room.
    A servant, checking the locks?
    There should be at least three servants in residence, but she couldn’t be sure. And she didn’t know them, anyway. She couldn’t trust them.
    If she could give the document to the right person, the shadow man would have one less reason to look for her. And she would not let her father’s sacrifice be for nothing. Thornton had wanted it delivered fast and in secret.
    She’d asked Georges if the man he worked for, the Duke of Wittaker, would do something with it—could take it to the right person. But Georges had told her his employer wouldmost likely toss it in the fire, given his long-standing fight with the Crown over taxes.
    She couldn’t take that risk. She had to find someone else.
    The bells of a nearby church began to chime five o’clock, and she turned and started toward Lord Aldridge’s town house. She had spent too long watching Goldfern, and now she would be late.
    Some of the houses on the street were truly magnificent. Goldfern was solid and large, a sort of portly uncle, she’d always thought, but some were sleek, elegant rakes or serene beauties.
    Aldridge House was beautifully proportioned, and something about it tugged at her memory. She had been here before, perhaps, when she was younger and her mother had still been alive. Her eyes were on the windows, not on the street, and her foot turned suddenly on a rock in the road.
    She gave a hop and went straight into two girls coming out of the narrow service alley toward which she was headed.
    With a cry, all three of them tumbled to the ground.
    “ Je suis désolé! Pardon mille fois. ” Gigi tried to struggle to her feet and went down again with a cry on her sore foot.
    One of the girls, her face rough-hewn and florid, hauled herself up and put her hands on her hips. “You the French cook, then?”
    Gigi was glad she was on the ground and in pain. It hid the blood draining from her face as she realized how she could so easily have spoken English. She had been speaking French quietly with Georges since this morning, so it was the languageforemost in her head, and she could only thank the stars for that.
    “Of course she’s the French cook, Babs, you lump.” The other girl got her feet under her and stood. “I’m Iris, miss, and Babs ’n’ me’ll get you in the house. Fancy you coming for the job interview and getting mown down by us two on yer way in.”
    Iris was strong, athletically so, and her face was quite beautiful. She also had a very impressive bosom under her wool coat. She lifted Gigi in the same way she probably hauled the coal buckets in the morning.
    “Yes, I come for the cook position.” Gigi ladled on a French accent as thick as a glass of chilled Chartreuse.
    Iris tucked an arm under Gigi’s, and Babs did the same; then they began moving her toward the service alley.
    “I ’ope you get the job ’n’ all. We’re desperate belowstairs, taking it in turns to cook for ourselves while the master eats at his club. It can’t go on,” Iris said cheerfully.
    “His Edginess will have something to say about our mowing her down,” Babs muttered under her breath.
    Gigi glanced at her, but so did Iris, and Babs shut her mouth with a snap. Her cheeks flushed a dull red and Gigi didn’t think it was from the exertion of half carrying her to the kitchen entrance.
    She tested her foot and found she could put more weight on it.
    She had a strange sense, as they helped her along, that her plight was like that of a girl in one of the folktales her