“A mysterious lady, bent on revenge, and a mystery-solving Lord will take you on a thrilling ride through Regency England in this smashing debut novel.”
“Have a seat, monsieur,” snapped Arianna, indicating the lone stool at one end of the steel-scarred length of maple. She set aside the fillet blade and took up a paring knife. “While I peel and dice the carrots.”
“No amanita mushrooms?” he said softly.
The reference to the deadly poisonous species took her aback. Good God, did the man actually have a sense of humor?
Arianna grunted in reply. “Zees may be a joke to you, sir, but it eez my reputation at stake.”
“Not to speak of your life.”
She felt herself blanch, but remained silent.
Perching a hip on the stool, Saybrook watched her scoop up a handful of the vegetables and begin trimming off the tops. “You have the hands of an artist, Monsieur Alphonse,” he remarked, shifting his gaze to the heavy steel blades and graters arrayed around him and then back again. “One would not expect such fine-boned fingers to wield the tools of your trade with quite so much skill.”
Her throat seized and Arianna didn’t dare try to speak, fearing a feminine squeak would give her away. At this distance, the darkness of his eyes appeared due to the telltale dilation of his pupils—Mr. De Quincy clearly imbibed a goodly amount of laudanum to ease his pain. But apparently the drug had not dulled the sharpness of his wits.
She must not make the mistake of underestimating him. She had made too many errors already.