Free The Notorious Lord Havergal by Joan Smith

the confrontation regarding the new menu.
    “I don’t suppose turtle soup is possible?” Lettie asked doubtfully.
    Cook rustled her aprons and sniffed. “Where would we be getting a turtle, mum? There’s never been a turtle in Ashford.”
    “Fish then. A nice fresh salmon.”
    “The fishmonger likes a week’s warning for salmon. I’ve ordered turbot, which will do as well with my white sauce.” Lettie gave up pretending she had anything to say about the menu, and Cook continued. “Luckily I have a brace of dandy green geese hanging out back. With some of our own mutton, peas, and turnips you need not blush for your dinner.”
    “And pork for Mr. Norton. Now for dessert, perhaps that peach cake with cream?”
    “We ate the last of the peach preserves when your uncle was here last week.”
    “Pity.”
    “I can substitute apples.”
    “Oh not apples, Cook. I want something special."
    “I’ll have a look at my book and come up with something grand enough for a duke’s tooth, never fear.”
    “Make sure you don’t burn it. The gammon at breakfast was wretched.” Cook gave a mutinous look. “I expect you have a touch of whatever is ailing all the servants,” Lettie said forgivingly. “You do look a little flushed, Mrs. Siddons.”
    Her cook made no reply to this but just rose silently and left, feeling as guilty as sin. It was that half bottle Cuttle had left behind the night before that had done the mischief. Siddons was dead set against her drinking. She only meant to taste it, but it was so good, and she was hot and tired from making her bread. At least the mistress was in the dark about it—and Siddons would never give her away.
    At ten o’clock Miss FitzSimmons arrived home, her bonnet askew, her hair flying out from under it, her cheeks pink, and her smile as broad as the sofa.
    “It is incredible, Lettie. Sixteen miles an hour! I felt I was flying. We passed Mr. Smallbone and nearly bowled him off the road, but Havergal is such an excellent fiddler that he squeaked us past unharmed. Bundle up, for the wind nearly carries you away.”
    “Good gracious, Violet! You’re all blown to pieces.”
    “So exhilarating! There is nothing like it. Havergal is waiting out front.”
    “Havergal? You sound very familiar.”
    “He asked me to stop calling him Lord Havergal. And he called me Violet,” she confessed. It was hard to tell, but Lettie thought she was blushing—and well she might.
    “I am surprised at you, Violet. No, I am more than surprised. I am shocked. You have known Mr. Norton ten years and have never called him Ned. You scarcely know Lord Havergal.”
    “London manners,” Violet said offhandedly. “We do not wish to appear too provincial.”
    “What is truly provincial is a belief that London is the top of the world—and an eagerness to ape London manners,” she added tartly.
    Yet as Lettie lifted her plain round bonnet to put on, she wished it were a smarter, more London-looking bonnet. She tied the ribbons tightly under her chin and went out. This was her first view of Havergal’s dashing curricle. It gleamed golden yellow in the sun, accoutred with much gleaming silver. The frisky grays harnessed up to it appeared perfectly fresh. They pawed the ground in their eagerness to be off. It occurred to Lettie that the seat was very high off the ground and very insecurely guarded. A railing only eight inches high was all that held the passenger in her seat. Even getting into that high seat promised some difficulty.
    Havergal leapt down from his perch and came to her assistance. The marauding wind that had undone Violet’s coiffure left Havergal’s untouched. No wisps of hair escaped the curled beaver, set at a jaunty angle on his head. His face was ruddy, but his complexion was customarily high.
    “It’s not as treacherous as it looks,” he smiled, seeing her consternation. “Just put one foot here,” he continued, indicating a metal disk that served as a toehold.
    He steadied