Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

A letter to the editor

My good man, I wish to take issue with your choice of food critic. As displayed in his weekly column, the fool is clearly lacking when it comes to the fundamentals of the culinary arts. This reader has been unfairly forced to endure his bumbling words of praise for both the Graceful Swan and the Rose and Thorns. One would think that in a city the size of London, you would be able to find someone with a better understanding of what consistency in food offerings truly means.

Your continually dissatisfied reader.

R obert tossed the newspaper onto the kitchen table and swore. "Bumbling words, who the bloody hell does this reader think he is? The cheek of the man."

This was the second of these missives in as many days. The Morning Herald had only printed a salient few lines of the first one, but this morning, they'd clearly had spare inches in the paper and had run the whole of a second letter.

He might not be the one cooking in the kitchens of the places he reviewed, but he still viewed this as a personal attack. Against him. Against his expertise.

He'd now received word that within days of his reviews for the Graceful Swan and the Rose and Thorns , appearing in the newspaper, agents for the East India had paid both establishments a visit, and after making threats, had seized their spice supplies. The Graceful Swan had now cancelled their new arrangement with him, and gone back to the EIC, while the proprietor of the Rose and Thorns had been so frightened by the men who'd arrived on his doorstep late at night that he'd up and sold the restaurant.

Robert thrummed his fingers on the oak wood surface of the kitchen table and pondered his next move. If he took these attacks quietly, let them run roughshod over him, he might as well give up the fight. No. By all means necessary. That had been his personal mantra since the day he'd decided to take on the East India and bring them down.

He'd been able to lure new customers to his spice supply business with the promise of them receiving a favorable review in the Morning Herald . His reviews were not always glowing—Robert did have some standards to uphold—but they were good enough that the restaurant owner should expect to see new diners trekking through their doors as a result.

Now he had one former customer who was too scared to work with him, and one who'd been forced out of business. Word would soon get around town that those who got a good review in the Morning Herald did so at their own peril.

And now this pompous upstart is calling my reviews into question.

A knock at the back door of the kitchen stirred him from his thoughts. Robert rose from his stool and picked up his pistol. It was already loaded. Cocking it, he moved toward the door. "Yes."

"Crocus calling," said a voice from outside.

He sighed with relief and unlocked the door. George stepped into the narrow entrance, and carefully closed the door behind him, turning the key once more. "I've spoken to the owner of a tavern over on Grub Street, and he says he will take a month's supply of pepper, mustard, and cumin if you will write him a review."

When Robert didn't instantly leap with joy, his man of business scowled. "What's got you in such a sour mood, Your Grace? Not that you are ever in a happy one."

Robert ignored that last quip. The past months had seen him constantly on edge. Worrying that at any moment a knock on the door could see several heavily armed, black-suited agents from the East India Company offering to have more than a quiet word with him.

They don't know who I am, but it only takes one loose pair of lips.

He ushered George into the kitchen and pointed at the pot which sat on the brand new iron stove. "Help yourself to some fresh coffee. I'm just about to put some scones in the oven."

George gave him a quizzical look but said nothing. His servant had long ago given up trying to get him to understand that a duke wasn't meant to work in his own kitchen. The rest of the nobility had households full of people to do that, but then again, Robert Tolley wasn't like the rest of England's elite. As far as either of them knew, Robert was the only highwayman come smuggler come restaurant reviewing duke.

"I'm in a mood as you so insolently put it, because some chap has decided I need to step down as the reviewer for the Morning Herald ."

"Why?" asked George, helping himself to a cup of morning brew before setting it on the end of the long wooden kitchen table. Bending, he retrieved a large tin cannister from under the table and opened it. He peered inside. "Oh good. I was hoping you'd left me some."

Perched on a chair at the end of the table, George quickly made himself at home. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and two of Robert's oatcakes in the other. Robert held out a hand and caught the oatcake his servant tossed his way.

"Why does some self-important reader think I should step down? Well apparently, they're none too pleased with my last couple of reviews. They seem to think I'm leading people on a merry dance. And I could ignore that if not for two very important reasons. One if the newspaper didn't print their letters, and two if they weren't dead wrong."

George finished chewing his oatcake. "What are you going to do? At the moment it seems as if we are chasing our tails with reviews and the East India."

Grabbing a long-bladed knife from off the table, Robert began cutting up the scone dough, slicing it into small squares. While he worked, he considered George's question. Ignoring the letters wasn't an option. Threatening the editor of the Morning Herald wouldn't be a smart move. But if the newspaper was going to continue publishing these sorts of letters, he owed it to his other loyal readers to defend himself.

Actually that's a sterling idea.

The best way to get people on his side, and that of the restaurants he was looking to do business with, was to defend himself. But do so in an entertaining manner.

"I'm going to take this outraged reader on at his own game. See how he likes being openly mocked in public."

He slapped the first of the scones down on a tray, then went for the next one. By the time he'd filled the baking tray and was ready to place it in his state-of-the-art stove, a plan had formed in Robert's mind.

He'd challenge the reader to see who knew the most about food. It wouldn't take long for him to put the man in his place. And once he had done that, the letters would no doubt cease, and he could go back to dealing with the problem of stealing business from his enemy.

"As soon as I have finished baking these scones, I'm going to go and pay the Morning Herald a visit. The editor is one of only three people, yourself included, who know I write for the paper. If he thinks a battle between me and a disgruntled reader will sell more copies of the Morning Herald , he will be on board with my plan."

George snorted. "I almost pity the poor reader. Then again, he did bring it on himself."

Robert dusted the flour from his fingers. His next column in the newspaper would be a declaration of war. After he was done, this self-important reader would rue the day he took on the Duke of Spice.