A Wife Worth Investing In Read online

  ‘You will not mind playing second fiddle to Monsieur Solignac, then?’

  ‘It will be an honour! I will never supersede Pascal, he is a—a maverick genius and what’s more, he enjoys being in the public eye—whether it is chatting to diners or talking about his menus to the press. Estelle, my twin, would excel at that sort of thing, and even Eloise—for she is so confident, and takes after Aunt Kate. But I much prefer to avoid the limelight, and am happiest behind a stove.’

  ‘As a lone female in a kitchen though, you must have to fight to hold your own.’

  ‘Oh, that is a different matter all together, for the kitchen is my milieu. But I have never been confident among strangers.’

  ‘I am a stranger, and you seem—forgive me—perfectly at ease with me.’

  She flushed. ‘You are my knight errant. Besides, there is something about you—but you’re probably thinking I have talked too much. I have. I do beg your pardon.’

  ‘I am very much enjoying our conversation. I have never met anyone like you, Miss Brannagh, you are quite unique.’

  ‘I’m a twin, so actually one of a pair.’

  ‘Are you identical twins, you and your sister?’

  ‘Oh, no, though we look very alike. Estelle is much more talented than I. As well as being an extremely accomplished musician, she is a bit of an actress—a mimic. I’m not any sort of performer.’

  ‘What does she think of your ambition to become the second-best chef in Paris?’

  ‘Estelle—oh, Estelle, I have lately realised, has a much more conventional outlook on life than I, but she’ll come round.’ She took another sip of wine, frowning slightly. ‘Do you have any sisters or brothers, Mr Harrington? No? Well, the thing about sisters is that they think they know you better than you know yourself, and in a way they do, but they can also—they assume things, you see. I am younger than Estelle by twenty minutes, which makes me officially the baby of the family, since we lost our poor little brother. They think, Estelle and Eloise, that I need protecting, that my cooking is just a hobby. They have not said so outright, indeed Eloise never would for she was determined her gift came without strings, but I know they both believe my coming here is a mistake.’

  ‘But you hope to prove them wrong? By the sounds of it, you are already doing so.’

  ‘Do you think so? I tell myself I’m doing well. In fact I know I am doing so extraordinarily well, I’ve astonished myself. I wish my sisters shared your confidence in me, but in time, they will come to see that I’ve made the right decision to flee the comfort of the nest.’

  ‘All the same, for one who hasn’t been abroad much in the world, to come to Paris on your own must have been a daunting prospect.’

  ‘A baptism of fire—the kitchen was, at any rate. But as for Paris—oh, I fell in love with Paris almost from the first moment. The way of life suits me, it is so very, very different from England. I love my sisters and Aunt Kate, but they are such strong women. I have always lived in the shadow of their low expectations, you know?’

  ‘I do,’ Owen agreed wholeheartedly. ‘Though I don’t have any close family, I have a reputation which I’m rather tired of living down to.’

  ‘My own feelings exactly! I hope that Paris suits you as well as it does me, Mr Harrington. It is the most beautiful city one could ever imagine. I spend every Sunday exploring, following my nose, drinking coffee in cafés, sitting in the parks just watching people stroll by. I play a game with myself,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I like to guess what their favourite foods are.’

  ‘And what would you guess mine would be?’

  ‘Rosbif is what any Frenchman would immediately say, but you are very far from being a typical Englishman.’ She studied him, her hazel eyes gleaming like gold, her chin resting on her hand. ‘I’d say you prefer breakfast to dinner. Eggs, coddled or perhaps scrambled with cream, delicate but delicious. A ham, boiled in spices and served cold. Fresh rolls and salty butter. Coffee. Am I right?’

  ‘Even if you were wrong, you make it sound so delicious that I would change my preference for a dinner of venison stew immediately’

  ‘Now it’s your turn. What do I like to eat?’

  He took the opportunity to study her as she had him, struck afresh by her lush beauty, which so perfectly complemented her charm. ‘Supper,’ he said, smiling, ‘definitely supper, at the end of a long day when you have finished serving dinner to your clientele. Asparagus with a hollandaise sauce and perhaps a lightly poached egg, and a glass of champagne. Essentially English, but with a soupçon of French flair—though I know you’re Irish. How am I doing?’

  She laughed. ‘I shall return the compliment, Mr Harrington. Even if you are quite wrong, you make me long to have it. You see, it’s a good game, isn’t it? I can while away hours playing it and don’t mind at all sitting by myself to do so. I love the fact that no one knows who I am, far less cares. In Paris, for the first time in my life, I can be completely myself without having to consider anyone else—on my Sundays off, at any rate.’

  ‘You wander Paris alone?’

  ‘Yes, and I love it. Pascal spends his Sundays either experimenting with dishes or catching up on his sleep. Even if I wanted company, I have no acquaintances outside the kitchen, there’s been no time to make friends. But I don’t need them. It is—it is liberating, being alone after always being Estelle’s other, younger half. That sounds terrible, I love my sister—both my sisters—with all my heart and I know they are only being protective but they smother me a little and patronise me just a little too.’

  ‘So you want to cast off the shackles?’

  ‘Yes! Exactly! You do understand.’

  ‘I do indeed. I was thinking something similar just before I stumbled upon this café. And I’m very glad I did stumble upon it. Very glad too—if you will forgive my saying—that Monsieur Solignac is so tardy.’ Monsieur Solignac, who by the sound of it was more than just a friend to the beguiling Miss Brannagh, Owen thought, his animosity towards this maverick genius increasing.

  ‘I take it he does not have the wherewithal to set himself up in business?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Miss Brannagh answered sunnily, entirely unaware of his scepticism. ‘Pascal has the reputation, I have the financial means. That is what I call serendipity.’

  Almost too good to be true from the Frenchman’s perspective, Owen thought as she took out her watch again, frowning at the time.

  ‘He has clearly become absorbed while practising a new dish. It is only after service has finished that he can try out his ideas. Though the dishes he serves are exquisite, they are in essence traditional receipts tweaked with his own flourishes. Classic cuisine with a twist, so to speak, but when we have our own establishment, we will serve food such as the world has never imagined, never mind tasted.’

  ‘And while he creates, you must wait here patiently?’

  ‘Genius must be indulged,’ she said, bristling slightly. ‘And nurtured too.’

  To be nurtured by Miss Phoebe Brannagh was an appealing prospect, Owen thought, regretfully. He had not felt so drawn to a woman in a long time. If only they had met under different circumstances, he’d have made a concerted effort to get to know her better. Captivating, that was the word he’d been looking for, not only in her looks, but in her outlook. She had a true joie de vivre, as if she was reaching out and embracing life—a feeling he had lost. He felt jaded, and had travelled abroad to rediscover a sense of purpose, a zest for life, a freshness. She was brave and she was bold. He admired her audacious attitude.

  ‘I wish you every success,’ Owen said, raising his glass. The words were a hackneyed toast, but he found that he meant them.

  ‘Thank you.’ Miss Brannagh touched her glass to his. He noticed her hands for the first time, the nails cut brutally short, the skin work-roughened, scored with tiny cuts and burn marks. Catching his eyes on them, she snatched th
em away, hiding them under the table. ‘Testament to my trade,’ she said, clearly embarrassed.

  ‘Testament to my lack of purpose,’ Owen said, holding up his own.

  ‘Goodness, you have a sculptor’s hands. Such beautifully long fingers.’

  ‘I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I prefer more physical pursuits.’

  Miss Brannagh sipped her wine, smiling. ‘It is so nice to converse in English, and though I love being in Paris, I do miss chatting with Estelle and Eloise and Aunt Kate. But I have talked far too much about myself. Tell me what brings you to my adopted city, Mr Harrington.’

  ‘Let me see if I can attract the waiter’s attention first and order us another pichet. The man seems determined to ignore me. Excuse me, but I think it might be quicker if I go and buttonhole him.’

  * * *

  Phoebe watched the Englishman cross the room and accost the waiter. Had she been indiscreet? Had he guessed that she and Pascal were lovers? Her affaire was so very recent, so much part of her new life here in this exciting city, she hadn’t thought how it might appear to anyone else. Had she betrayed her feelings for Pascal in her enthusiasm for him? Mr Harrington had said nothing, but now she wondered what he’d thought of her, sitting alone drinking wine in a café in the early hours of the morning. He had treated her with perfect courtesy. He was certainly surprised to discover her reasons for being here, but he seemed intrigued rather than shocked.

  Most people would think her affaire was scandalous. It was why she’d been very careful in how she described Pascal in her letters to Eloise and to Aunt Kate. She had been much more frank with Estelle, thinking that her twin would understand, but to her astonishment, Estelle had taken the very same attitude that she’d guessed Eloise would, if she knew the truth. Instead of lauding Phoebe’s daring, she had been appalled, drawing some very unflattering parallels with Mama.

  Poor Mama. Phoebe had always known that Eloise didn’t understand her, and to be fair, their eldest sister had borne the brunt of Mama’s rather careless attitude towards her children. But Mama was a free spirit. Eloise couldn’t see how trapped she must have been, by the bonds of matrimony and the expectations of society. It was tragic, for the terrible mismatch that was their parents’ marriage made both Mama and Papa very unhappy, and it could not be denied that their children suffered too, but Mama was such a very bright and particular star, it was quite wrong to judge her by the usual standards. To keep such a glamorous, wild creature confined was like imprisoning a beautiful butterfly in a bell jar. Eloise had never understood this but Phoebe had, and she’d assumed that Estelle did too though they never discussed it, out of respect for their elder sister’s views.

  But Estelle’s response to Phoebe’s shy confession of her affaire with Pascal had made her position very clear. She imagined Phoebe was in thrall to Pascal rather than in love with him, as if she was blind and had no mind of her own. And she had been rather scathing on the subject of Pascal’s involvement too, to the point where Phoebe had even begun to doubt whether he could really be in love with her. She had never in a thousand years expected Pascal to notice her, yet from the first he had seemed to rate her in the kitchen, and he’d made it clear that he found her attractive. She had been hugely flattered, had expected his interest to wane with time, but it had increased. Estelle was wrong. The bond between them was special. It hurt, that her twin didn’t understand that, but Estelle obviously hadn’t inherited any of Mama’s free spirit, so there was no point in trying to sway her. When she came to Paris and saw for herself how deliriously happy Phoebe was, and what a success she was making of her life, she would stop trying to persuade her to come home, but until then, they’d have to agree to differ.

  In future, she would be a little more careful in her letters to Estelle. She would definitely not be telling her of this encounter for a start, Phoebe thought, smiling back at Mr Harrington as he returned, armed triumphantly with a new pichet of wine. Even though she had eyes only for Pascal, she was not blind to the Englishman’s attractions. Although his dark blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes made him look more Norse god than English gentleman, an impression initially formed by the way he’d strode across the room to her rescue earlier, heedless of the fact that he was outnumbered. He was dressed with the kind of careless elegance that only the very rich and the supremely confident can carry off, and there was in his smile a kind of devil-may-care recklessness. Was she being fanciful? No, the term dangerously attractive might have been invented for him.

  In fact, if it were not for Pascal, she would be very tempted to spend more time in Owen Harrington’s company, while he was in Paris. He had none of Pascal’s Gallic flamboyance, a characteristic which Phoebe very occasionally and most disloyally felt teetered over into arrogance. She certainly couldn’t imagine Mr Harrington waxing lyrical in the middle of a market over the first ceps of the year, or tearing his hair if they had already sold out, but then she couldn’t imagine Pascal rescuing her with such finesse from those two men who had accosted her. Pascal would have come charging over waving his fists and shouting, drawing the attention of everyone in the room to her plight. If he actually noticed she was being harassed in the first place, that is. While Mr Harrington had acted with a quiet self-confidence that was far more effective and infinitely more discreet. Though he was very far from being the stuffed shirt that the Parisians imagined all English gentlemen to be, he was clearly very much a gentleman. Paris would take to him, and he to Paris, Phoebe reckoned. It was a shame, she thought, as he sat back down beside her, that she would not be party to it.

  ‘Santé,’ Phoebe said, touching her fresh glass to his. ‘Now, you were going to tell me what it is that brings you to Paris?’

  ‘To quote the dictionary man, Dr Johnson, when a man is tired of London he is tired of life.’ He stared down at his wine, swirling his glass. ‘I’m here because I’m sick of both London and my life there, but that makes me sound like an over-indulged, arrogant narcissist.’

  ‘What is the truth?’

  ‘That I’m chasing rainbows, like you, though I don’t have any particular pot of gold in mind as yet. I want to—not so much discover who I am as who I might become. Lord, that really does sound pompous.’

  ‘No, it sounds exciting.’

  He laughed wryly. ‘Excitingly vague. I envy you your certainty and your verve. You know what you want, and you don’t care if you have to flout convention to achieve it. I can’t tell you how refreshing that is, and how much I admire you for it.’

  ‘You make me sound like a rebel.’

  ‘I think you are, even if you don’t realise it. I have always thought myself a bit of a rebel, but I simply behave badly in the conventional manner of spoiled, rich young men. You have widened my horizons already, Miss Brannagh. Until now, I’ve never had any ambition other than to enjoy myself.’

  ‘Goodness, how lucky you are to be able to indulge yourself.’

  ‘I inherited a fortune from my father, who died ten years ago when I was sixteen. Since I came of age, I have been the toast of society, both high and low. If one pays heed to the scandal sheets I am the richest, the wildest, the wittiest, most handsome, most daring, man in London. My presence can make or break a dinner party or a ball. I never refuse a dare and have never suffered anything worse than a broken wrist in doing so. In a nutshell, for all of my twenty-six years, I’ve lived a charmed existence. Or so my best friend, Jasper, tells me. What I’ve come to wonder, these last few months, is whether what I’m living is actually a feckless and shallow one.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ Phoebe exclaimed, taken aback and extremely intrigued. ‘Are you being entirely serious?’

  ‘I am never serious, unless it’s regarding something trivial.’

  ‘Estelle, my twin, does that,’ Phoebe said. ‘Resorts to sarcasm when she’s embarrassed, I mean, or when she’s talking about something that she cares deeply about.’

 
‘My problem is that I don’t care very deeply about anything.’

  ‘That can’t be true!’

  ‘No less an authority than John Bull magazine described me as “a dedicated hedonist with a penchant for death-defying dares, who cares for naught but funning.”’

  Was he teasing her? There was an edge to his smile though. ‘Save that you are bored with having fun and have come to Paris to—I’m sorry, I still don’t know what specifically you hope to gain from your visit?’

  ‘No more do I, Miss Brannagh, save that it is a very different city from London, and I am already glad that I decided to visit, since I have made your acquaintance. If only you lacked the funds for your restaurant, I would offer to go into business with you, but sadly for me, you can already finance your dream.’

  ‘Then fund your own dream. You must have one, Mr Harrington. Everyone has a dream.’

  ‘Do they?’ He threw the contents of his glass down his throat in one gulp. ‘I am living most people’s dream, and it bores me rigid. I am carefree and I couldn’t care less. I’m an ungrateful over-indulged, arrogant narcissist, for there is a part of me that wishes I had not been so blessed, then I may have had something to live for.’

  ‘You should be careful what you wish for, Mr Harrington,’ Phoebe retorted, ‘and grateful for what you have.’

  ‘Well said, Miss Brannagh. You are quite right, of course. I need a purpose in life. Though what form that will take, and whether I will discover it in Paris, or Venice, or St Petersburg or Vienna, I have no idea.’

  ‘Why look so close to home? If you are as rich as you claim, you could try the Antipodes, or Brazil, or Argentina.’

  ‘Or China, perhaps? I’ll tell you what, why don’t we meet here in—say, a year’s time, and I shall unveil the new, improved Owen Harrington to you, and you can then invite me to dine at your new restaurant, which by then will be the toast of Paris.’