Chapter 8
The accusation hung in the humid air of the kitchen, silencing even the crackle of the hearth fires. Mrs. Gable’s fingers hovered mere inches from my apron pocket, where the folded delivery invoices rested against my leg like a live wire. Every instinct screamed at me to back away, to flee through the scullery doors into the courtyard, but running would confirm every lie she wished to pin upon me.
"I am no thief, Mrs. Gable," I said, stepping backward out of her reach before she could touch my uniform. "If you wish to search my belongings, we will do it in the presence of the master. He is currently reviewing the estate accounts, and I am certain he would be fascinated to see what else is missing from this kitchen."
At the mention of the master and the estate accounts, a microscopic flicker of panic crossed Mrs. Gable’s stern features. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a hardened, mask-like scowl, but it was enough. She knew as well as I did that the ledger numbers did not add up.
"Insolent little wretch," Mrs. Gable muttered, her hand dropping to her side. "You think a clever tongue will save you from the gate? Monsieur Laurent, tell her—"
"Enough," a deep voice resonated from the shadowed archway near the pantry entrance.
The kitchen parted instantly. The man in the black tuxedo stood there, his dark wavy hair catching the warm morning light filtering through the high clerestory windows. He had not changed his formal attire, though the jacket was unbuttoned at the cuff. His dark eyes swept over the tense circle of staff, resting finally on Mrs. Gable’s rigid posture and then upon my own steady stance.
"Is there a problem with the morning service, Mrs. Gable?" he asked, his voice low, lacking any outward sign of anger, yet carrying a terrifying gravity that made the head housekeeper pale visibly.
"No, sir," Mrs. Gable stammered, smoothing her apron with trembling fingers. "Just... ordinary staffing discipline. The new maid was delayed from her quarters, and we were addressing her duties."
"Clara was with me," the man stated flatly, stepping further into the room. "And her duties for the morning have been reassigned directly to my office. Follow me, Clara."
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode back down the corridor toward the East Wing. I offered Mrs. Gable one final, unblinking look before turning to follow him, feeling the collective gaze of every terrified cook and scullery boy burn into my back.
The heavy oak doors of the master's private study closed behind us with a soft, decisive click, cutting off the noise of the kitchen entirely. The room smelled of old leather, pipe tobacco, and polished mahogany. Shelves filled with heavy leather-bound ledgers lined the walls, and a single silver tray sat on the desk holding a steaming cup of dark coffee.
The man turned around, leaning back against the edge of the heavy desk, crossing his arms over his black shirt. "You pushed her hard, Clara. A lesser girl would have handed over the apron and fled through the back gates by now."
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"She was about to search me," I replied, pulling the folded delivery invoices from my pocket and placing them squarely on the center of his mahogany desk. "And if she had found these, neither of us would have time to discuss baking."
He looked down at the thin paper, a slow, intense smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Show me what else you found in those books."
