Chapter One

London, 1815

The Campbell Residence, Upper Clapton

M arie Cadeaux stirred the stew, a rich peasant dish of chicken, onions, potatoes, carrots, and red wine. The cheaper, the better, and as the chicken breasts turned a delightful dark-red color, the smells drifting from the simmering stew made her mouth water.

She took a wooden spoon and tasted the sauce slightly, relishing the hot, wet liquid. It was as delicious as she'd thought it'd be but needed more salt. She added another dash of salt and pepper and kept stirring.

She stood in a medium-sized airy kitchen with stone floors, dimly lit by aged windows to the outdoors, and no view to speak of, for it was on the ground floor and connected to the tradesmen's entrance below a set of steps. When it rained the earth threatened to flood, and it wasn't always safe. Often, the dim sunlight only filtered a few rays down into the kitchen, so the room would be dark and in shadow. But it was warm and safe enough, and Marie got to do what she loved best: cooking .

She'd pinned back her straight, brown hair, rich with almost a tint of red in the sunlight, and retied her worn linen kerchief to keep the strands out of her face.

"Hello? Mary, are you there?" a voice called.

Marie's mouth quirked in a frown. Her name was Marie, yet her employers found that to be too French, along with her accent, her surname, and even the way she turned her head. And the French were at war with the English, so they persisted in calling her Mary Cadough, instead of Marie Cadeaux. Mrs. Campbell's idea.

Marie brushed her hands off on her apron and turned around. "Yes?"

The upper stairs creaked under the careful weight of Mr. Campbell, who looked around as if to see who was present and entered the kitchen. A large man with a hanging belly and squat face like a toad, he loved to come by and check on the meals being prepared for dinner, and to taste some if he could.

At that moment, his eye took in the sight of Marie in her simple, homespun dress and apron, and he licked his lips. "And what do we have cooking for tonight's dinner?"

"Well, I know Mrs. Campbell said she wanted chicken, but I thought since it's February and the nights are still cold, you might like a bit of stew." Coq au vin , she thought. She'd consulted her trusty recipe book, an old French tome that had belonged to her parents, now passed down to her. She gently closed the cover and pushed it across the worktable. It might have been battered and old, but she treasured it.

Mr. Campbell came closer, happily sniffing the air until he stood beside her. "May I?"

As if he needed to ask. It was his home, but she was glad he respected her domain. Really, it was Mrs. Herring's province, but Marie had been working in the kitchen since she'd been a child. Mrs. Herring trusted her with the sauces and deboning of chicken, but her salads needed more work.

Mr. Campbell took the wooden spoon and leaned over the stew, tipping the spoon in and tasting the rich sauce. He smacked his lips. "Delicious. I love chicken stew. Can't wait. Will you serve it with crusty bread rolls? With butter?"

Marie's face split into a smile and she nodded.

At that moment, Mrs. Herring walked into the kitchen with Mrs. Campbell. A tall, thin woman with a long, pointed nose; bushy, short, brown hair; and sharp eyes who reminded Marie of a crane or egret, the lady of the house tended to wear shades of grey and opted for a rather severe look, which made her pinched features stand out more. At the sight of her husband standing with Marie, her mouth withered. "What are you doing?"

"Tasting tonight's dinner," Mr. Campbell said. "Try this chicken stew, pet. It's wonderful."

"I doubt you need to be associating with the servants, Michael." Mrs. Campbell sniffed and eyed the bubbling pot. "That doesn't look like the roast chicken I ordered."

"I thought you might like a stew, Mrs. Campbell. Seeing as it's cold out still," Marie said.

Mrs. Herring shot her a warning look. A stout woman with a thickening middle but a clean starched apron, she often communicated through looks and emotive sounds rather than words, if a person was quick enough to take her meaning.

Mrs. Campbell's upper lip twitched. "That is not what I asked for." She walked briskly over to the stew and sniffed, coughing. "Mary, throw it out. It's ruined. You've added far too much salt and I can smell the pepper from here. What a waste." She tsked .

"But, ma'am, I can fix it, I swear," Marie said.

"Mary, I did not ask for your opinion. A good servant does not offer argument, only an apology. You have ruined this chicken I had Mrs. Herring buy specially for tonight. You knew we were inviting Father Reynolds over and his son to meet Hortense. They will want something delectable and excellent, not a plain chicken stew. What are we, peasants? Throw it out. And Mrs. Herring, go buy another chicken. Prepare it yourself this time, if you please."

Mrs. Herring's eyes widened and Marie's mouth dropped open. "Mrs. Campbell, I'm sorry. I can fix it. We can serve the chicken with the sauce."

"Did you not hear me?" Her employer's voice was shrill. "I said to throw it out. Why on Earth would I serve these men some red chicken in an over-salted sauce? The food is a reflection of our household, and I will not have it be salty."

"But, Mrs. Campbell—" Marie started.

"No. Enough." She held up a hand. "Mary, I took you in out of the goodness of my heart, you and that uncle of yours. But he at least knows his place. You won't find him sneaking French dishes into our kitchen."

Marie's eyes widened.

"Oh, don't think I don't know—you and he are likely spies or traitors to the Crown. You're nothing but a pair of refugees trying to hide under the goodness of the Prince Regent's kindness, all the while muttering in French to each other. It's rude."

"We aren't traitors, ma'am," Marie said. "And surely, we would be traitors to France, not England. We are not English, so how could we betray an English ruler?"

Mrs. Campbell reddened. "I've had quite enough of your insolence. If I cannot trust you to fulfill a simple request, that means I cannot trust you to do anything. Get out of my house."

"What?"

"Prudence, that's a bit harsh," Mr. Campbell said.

"I wasn't asking you, Michael." She glared at Marie. "What are you still doing here? I told you, girl. Pack your bags. You are dismissed from my service. "

"But—"

"Mrs. Campbell, let me fix this," said Mrs. Herring. "I can buy a new chicken and make it good and proper for Father Reynolds and his son. But I'll need Marie's help. Please, ma'am."

Mrs. Campbell's eyes were steely as she appraised Marie. "You may assist Mrs. Herring. But I want you gone by tonight." She turned and snapped her fingers. "Michael. Come away from there. I need you." She stomped up the stairs, her long skirts whisking in her wake.

Mr. Campbell turned pink and he patted Marie's hand. "Don't worry. I'll make her see reason. She always gets like this before we entertain. You just do what you do best." He looked longingly at the stew and followed his wife upstairs.

Once the door between the kitchen and upper floor had closed, Marie sank into a chair. "What am I going to do?"

Mrs. Herring clucked, making a clicking noise with her tongue as she shook her head. "Ooh, you've done it now, girl. I like your stew as much as the next person, but you know what the missus is like. She wants things done her way and if you don't do it, you're out."

"Do you really think she's given me the sack?"

"I don't know. I'll have a word with Mr. Campbell and see what we can do, but you'd best look for another place to stay tonight."

Marie stiffened. "But… I don't have anywhere to go."

"Go get Mr. Allard. He'll know what to do." She made a shooing motion with her hands. "Go on, and I'll see what I can do about this mess."

Mrs. Herring, as usual, pronounced his last name wrong, Marie noted. It was pronounced Allard, like " renard ," with a soft "d," not Allard as in " mannered ." But it didn't matter.

Marie darted outside to the courtyard, where Mr. Allard was chopping wood for the fire. Now in his late fifties, he still had the physical speed and strength of a young man, but there was a certain stiffness in his movements she detected now, as well as traces of grey and silver in his hair.

He was a sort of jack of all trades—at times underbutler, footman, valet, dogsbody, everything. He was infinitely more valuable to the Campbells than herself, she knew. But she had known him since she'd been a child, and he was the closest thing she had to a living male relative. They were not related, she knew that. But… they were connected somehow. He had always told her to call him "uncle," so she did.

"Uncle Baptiste…" she started.

He looked up from his chopping and rested the axe blade to the ground. He gave her an easy smile, then saw her expression. "What is it?"

"Mrs. Campbell, she's… She's dismissed me," Marie said.

He stared. "What? Why? What's happened?" he asked in French.

Marie sniffed and replied, "I took the chicken she wanted to use to entertain her guests tonight and thought it'd make a nice stew instead. Coq au vin ."

"And she found out and decided she'd wanted it roasted." He shook his head. "That woman wouldn't know good food if it hit her in the face."

They shared a smile, and Marie looked away. "She's told me to stay somewhere else tonight. But I have nowhere to go and I don't know where…"

He set down his axe. "It's all right. I'll make inquiries. We'll leave tomorrow morning before breakfast."

"‘We'? You're coming with me?"

"Of course." He gave her a swift hug. "As it so happens, I've been thinking of leaving for some time now. But you seemed happy here, so I stayed. I was just waiting for the right opportunity, so here we are. Don't worry."

She watched him go and went inside. There wasn't a lot to do, as the Campbells had more servants, so she went upstairs to her room that she shared with another maid and began packing a bag. She wrapped her family's cookbook in one of her work dresses and carefully tucked it away, making sure it wasn't disturbed.

Marie heard from the other servants that Mrs. Campbell was delighted with the prospect of her leaving, but Mr. Campbell was less so to learn that they would be losing Mr. Allard as well. He offered Marie's uncle money to stay, but Mr. Allard refused. As he told Marie later, his price was her, and on that, he would not budge. Either they both stayed, or they both left. So Mr. Campbell paid him his wages and wished him luck.

Marie didn't see Uncle Baptiste at dinner, nor the rest of that evening. As she climbed into her small bed, the only one she'd known since being a child, she wondered what was to come of her. She was being kicked out of the only home she remembered. When she joined the other servants at dinner that night, there were many knowing looks and poorly hidden smiles.

She had no friends, aside from Mr. Allard, but she felt embarrassed to sit there as everyone knew. They dined on the chicken stew she'd prepared, and whilst Marie couldn't tell if Mrs. Herring was being resourceful or insulting by disregarding Mrs. Campbell's instructions to throw it out, the empty bowls and enthusiastic eating made her feel a little better. She excused herself early and went up the stairs, closing the door. But it hung ajar, and she could hear the others' conversation as she paused halfway up.

"Well, I won't be sorry to never see her again," Hannah, a housemaid, said. "She walks around like she's the Queen of Sheba, always giving herself airs and acting like she's the best cook who ever lived. You should see the recipe book she has in her room. Full of French recipes. It's not right."

"Enough of that," Mrs. Herring said. "She's only gone because Mrs. Campbell doesn't like her, that's all. Her work was fine."

"But dismissed without a reference?" Thomas, an underbutler, said. "No wages? I heard the missus told her to clear out. It's about time."

"I'm sorry to see her go," Luke, a footman, said. "She's a right pretty thing. Nice to look at. And always has a smile for me."

"You always think a girl has a smile for you, Luke," Mrs. Herring said. "Besides, Mr. Campbell's more sorry to lose Mr. Allard. Where he'll find another underbutler and valet like that, I don't know. And so cheap."

"That was part of the deal, though," said old Mr. Jeffries, the butler well past his prime and on his way to retirement. "I was there. The girl was just a child when she and Mr. Allard came by and begged to be taken on, for cheap. And in return, they'd be overlooked."

"What do you mean?" Hannah asked.

"They came here from France, via Dover. Fleeing with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The way he tells it, her mother was a beauty as well. He talks of her like she was a princess."

"It's no wonder Marie has such airs if that's what her mama was like," Hannah said. "What happened to her?"

"I never met her. Mr. Jeffries explained. "But it's a hard decision to send a child away and not even write to the girl. But that was years ago. Whoever Mary's mother is, she's probably dead."

Marie's shoulders slumped as she took the back staircase up to the servants' quarters at the top of the house. She had never received a letter from her mother, as far as she could remember.

She pulled out the silver locket that hung around her neck, a keepsake from her mother. It was small but bore two miniature portraits of her mother and father, both young and comely, both smiling as if they had smiles ready, just for her. She looked at it whenever she felt low or needed a little sign that she wasn't alone. She relied on her uncle, and was grateful to have him to depend on, as she was a French outsider in an English household, but deep in her heart, she missed her parents terribly.

The next morning, Marie and Mr. Allard quit the Campbells' residence for the last time. Mr. Allard did not look back, but Marie did.

"Forget about them," he told her. "This place was never your home."

"What do you mean? It's the only home I ever knew."

He shook his head and pulled the small trunk of clothes with him down the street. "Home is with the people you love, who love you. It's not working for a bunch of stuffy people who turn you out on the street."

Marie sniffed and tried not to cry. She'd had to endure Hannah's teasing that night after dinner, with the maid telling her she was likely to die of dysentery within the year, or worse. At that moment, anything sounded better than staying at the Campbells'.

"Where are we going? Did you find somewhere for us to stay?" Marie asked. She hoped it would not be somewhere like Covent Garden, as she knew it was a rowdy place at night, with many taverns, pubs, and bawdy houses where women of loose morals roamed the streets.

"I made inquiries and found us a place. It was all I could find at short notice." He sniffed.

She wondered if she had offended him but remained silent and kept her eyes and ears open as they wandered into London's West End, to Cleveland Row, and approached a very distinctive blue house at the tradesmen's entrance. She had little but a small traveling trunk with some clothes, a recipe book, and her locket. Not a lot to speak of for the ripe, old age of twenty-two, she supposed.

The house on Cleveland Row was very grand, tall with high windows and a balcony with blue, painted brick walls. It sat at the end of a fashionable street, and many fine carriages with well-dressed couples drove past.

Marie hugged her purple cloak closer and idly wished she could be as grand as some of the ladies walking by. They looked so distinguished in their shined boots, bonnets, and walking dresses. Comparing that to her grey, homespun dress and faded, purple cloak, she felt positively provincial. She kept her head down as they walked by, and she followed Mr. Allard into the tradesmen's entrance. She vaguely heard them being welcomed inside, and she stepped inside a large kitchen.

Instantly, she looked up. The air was full of smells, delicious ones too, and her stomach rumbled, for they had not yet eaten today. The sounds of chopping, slicing, dicing, soups simmering, cooks stirring, servants covering a worktable with flour and pounding dough with hard slaps—it was music to Marie's ears.

She took a step toward the cooking food, then stopped. Her traveling trunk struck her right foot and pinched it. She bit her lip in pain and straightened.

Mr. Allard looked back at her. "Well? Come on."

The housekeeper, a stern woman, met them and showed them up to their rooms on the top floor, which was divided by sex. Once they were situated, they met back again and were shown through a grand hall and to a private parlor, that they were informed belonged to the proprietor, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

Marie stood by and fidgeted as they were bid to sit down on a plush, pink sofa that looked far too grand and accepted a cup of tea from the lady. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was a middle-aged woman swathed in black, but expertly so. She wore a gauzy, black veil over her face and was clearly in mourning attire but managed to make it look elegant rather than depressing. But there was no denying the cold intelligence in her eyes. "Good morning. Thank you for coming here so early."

After fretting all night over her situation, Marie was tired and could barely keep her eyes open. After a strong cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, Marie and Mr. Allard were sent to work in the household. Marie was given a parlor maid's uniform and was put to work setting the fires and tidying the rooms while Mr. Allard worked with the footmen below stairs. It was long and tiring work, but Marie was glad of it, for it kept her busy.

By the time luncheon had come around, she was ravenous and gladly joined the others at the table downstairs. The meal was a thick, potato soup, which, while it proved to be stodgy and filling, left something to be desired in terms of taste. Marie tasted a spoonful and looked at Uncle Baptiste, who wrinkled his nose slightly and tried to withhold a disappointed sigh. It needed salt, pepper, and herbs. Maybe a splash of white wine to make it divine.

But she was hungry and ate her portion, and she tried to overlook the blandness of the food. She looked up into the watchful gaze of a thick man with round cheeks.

"You like that, eh?" He winked. "I made that soup. It's good, isn't it?"

"Mmm," Marie agreed, not wanting to speak out of turn.

"What are you thinking?" a mousy-haired girl who sat at her right asked.

Marie thought to herself: a bit of onion, perhaps some garlic, herbs would liven it up a bit. But no matter. She was there to work, not to cook. Maybe she'd get a chance someday. She licked her lips at the thought and ate more of the stodgy soup.

There was a gasp, and people stared at her.

"Marie," Mr. Allard chided. "Hold your tongue."

Marie blinked and looked up from her soup. Had she spoken aloud? "What?"

The man's friendly smile disappeared. He looked at her with a hard gaze. "You think this could be improved, eh? And what do you know about cooking? Do you know the difference between a sauce and a soup?"

"Of course. I've been making soups since I was six."

"Care to put your skills to the test?" the cook asked, his eyes narrowed.

"All right."

The butler, a Mr. Jones, an older gentleman who stood tall, thin, and with an impressive grey mustache, who sat at the head of the table, clapped his hands. "No. We will have no competitions here. This is a household, not a gambling den."

Eyebrows rose.

Mr. Jones's cheeks reddened. "All right, fair point. No pun intended. But still. We will have decorum downstairs, even if the patrons upstairs do not."

Now it was Marie's eyebrows that rose. "What do you mean?"

Heads turned to her, glancing at her and Mr. Allard.

"She doesn't know?" a footman asked.

"No, she does not," Mr. Allard said.

"You didn't tell her?" another asked.

"What don't I know?" Marie's eyebrows furrowed.

Faces glanced at her, then looked away.

"Will no one tell me?" Marie asked.

One of the men sat at the dining table, built stocky and with a military bearing, looked up from his soup. "Mrs. Dove-Lyon runs an establishment upstairs called the Lyon's Den. It's where men go to forget about their troubles, play cards and gamble a bit, and meet women." He grunted. "She's a very good matchmaker."

Marie blinked at Mr. Allard. "Uncle, we're living here?"