Free Banquet of Lies by Michelle Diener Page B

story than this.
    “You know a lot about him,” she said, taking her gaze off Iris in the hope she would talk more easily.
    “Grew up near him. We played together as children. Got a job when he was footman, as the scullery maid.”
    And he’d been playing high and mighty ever since, Gigi guessed, with enough flashes of the old Edgars to keep her hoping he’d change.
    “You’ve moved up the ranks, too, then.” Gigi paused. “And it hasn’t gone to your head.”
    Iris shrugged. “He took Mavis in. He’s not that far gone.”
    That was true. There were rarely absolutely black villains in real life, her father was fond of saying. They were found in fairy tales to illustrate evil clearly, but most villains were colored in shades of gray.
    Except the shadow man.
    “He took in Mavis,” she conceded. “He occasionally thanks you when you do him a favor, I notice. But that doesn’t excuse him, Iris. Or how he spoke to me this morning. The nonsense he made up, to pretend he had control over what I drank, for heaven’s sake!”
    Iris gave a nod. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then finally said: “Just ease up, will ya? Give ’im a gracefulway out, if you can.” She hunched a little as they came closer to the market and more and more people began clogging the way. “ ’Twas his kitchen, all intents and purposes, ’til you came yesterday. He can’t switch it off just like that.”
    Gigi didn’t answer. It hadn’t been just a territorial dispute. Edgars had tried to belittle her, as if doing so would somehow lift him up. And no matter how much she needed the safety and anonymity of Aldridge House, she could not accept that.
    If she’d been born poor, been in Iris’s shoes, how would she have coped? Been pragmatic about it? Or would she finally have ended up broken?
    She shook off the dark, heavy feeling that tried to settle over her like a suffocating blanket, and focused on the stalls just up ahead.
    “Let me show you the art of bargaining, Iris.” She caught sight of the produce on display. “And what real food looks like.”

10

    S he had found Reine Claude plums at the market. Reine Claudes!
    When she’d exclaimed that it couldn’t be, that Reine Claudes were only ready for harvest in July, the trader told her they were just off a ship come in from Cape Town, from the tip of Africa. Grown by the French Huguenots who had settled there.
    It was lucky for Lord Aldridge she’d found them at the end of her shopping, because once she had them in her hands, she’d gone straight home and started making jam.
    It didn’t take long to make it, and while it was cooling she’d put in a tray of brioche to cook, ground some coffee, and taken a long, deep breath. As the scents and aromas swirled around her, she knew she had never been closer to her mother than since before she’d died.
    A bell rang above the door, a signal from Rob that Lord Aldridge was down for breakfast, and Gigi put the brioche, jam and coffee on a tray for Harry to take up.
    He’d only been gone a few minutes, and Gigi was busy with an omelette, when Edgars came down.
    “His lordship is down for breakfast.” Edgars watched her from the stairs, his lips tight and a gleam in his eye. She had the impression he was gloating.
    “I know.” She gave him a friendly smile as she tipped the beaten eggs into a pan. The perfume of herbs and tomato fanned her face, and she swirled the mixture around.
    “Where is it, then?” Edgars asked.
    Ah. He was waiting for an English breakfast. Gigi lifted a single brow, pouting her lips, giving her head an arrogant tilt. Oh, she was the epitome of an Englishman’s Frenchie. “His lordship asked for a French cook, n’est-ce pas ?” She went back to her omelette.
    He was very quiet and she ignored him, folding the omelette, tipping it onto a plate, and holding it out to him. It was fragrant, tender perfection.
    “My concession to English bacon and eggs,” she said. “Tell his lordship