A Wife Worth Investing In

Estelle had been shocked and furious when Phoebe had finally confessed that she and Pascal were living under one roof—and that Pascal was not paying a sou for the privilege. Nothing Phoebe said could convince her sister that such arrangements were acceptable in Paris, nor that the situation could end in anything other than disaster. And Estelle had been proved right.

Right about Pascal, and right about Phoebe’s ambition too? Estelle simply couldn’t understand why Phoebe was putting herself through the rigorous training and unrelenting hard work of a restaurant kitchen. She couldn’t understand why Phoebe wasn’t content to cook for her loved ones, why she would put herself through all the effort of serving up food to an unknown public who would have no compunction in deriding it, if it didn’t please them. Estelle thought that Phoebe would be much happier spending her settlement on building her dream kitchen in her own home, rather than cooking in someone else’s kitchen for complete strangers. Estelle simply didn’t understand Phoebe’s passion, and this was very difficult to bear, especially since Phoebe completely understood her twin’s love of music.

Estelle had a very special gift that elevated her playing above the ordinary. Phoebe had hoped that she had such a gift too, for cooking. Estelle didn’t understand that, but she’d hoped Pascal, a culinary genius, would. He’d seemed to, at first, but ultimately she’d either failed to prove herself or he’d been lying to her from the first. Either way, the net result was the same. She had set her sights too high, and she had—predictably—failed. All that was to be done now was to try again, with her sights set lower, to make her own way. Though her heart ached at the wedge which the argument had driven between herself and her twin, she was determined to find a way to re-establish herself before the rift between them could be healed.

What would she do if Mr Harrington could not recommend a suitable post? If he could, she would work night and day to prove herself. Please, she said to herself, crossing her fingers, please let him know of someone.

Her tummy clenched with nerves. She should enjoy the luxury of having her tea and bread served in bed, ask the maid to have a bath made ready, and make the most of her time in this fabulously indulgent and expensive hotel, not waste it fretting.

* * *

She had succeeded in this small ambition, but when a message arrived informing her that Mr Harrington’s town coach awaited her convenience, Phoebe was immediately assailed by anxiety. Even if he could not help her, she was glad of the opportunity to see him again. The conversation yesterday had been focused on her plight. She had learned little of his own travails save the sketchy details he had told her. His accident seemed to have made a recluse of him. When had it happened? How far had he got on his travels after he left Paris? Pain had changed him, but she found it difficult to believe that the charismatic man she had met two years ago would have given up on the world so completely. He appeared, on reflection, to be a man without hope. Though perhaps she had simply caught him on a bad day.

* * *

‘Miss Brannagh, how do you do today?’ Owen asked, indicating the chair at the fireside she had occupied yesterday. ‘You slept well?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

She sat down, making a fuss over the arranging of her skirts, thoughtfully allowing him time to settle gingerly in his own chair before looking over at him expectantly, and Owen was immediately assailed by doubts. What right had he to ask so much of one so young and so utterly beautiful? She was unhappy now, her pride and her confidence had both taken a severe blow, but she would recover in time. What had seemed so clear in the early hours of the morning, was now clouding in his mind. The enthusiasm which had kept his pain at bay all morning waned, and he became aware once more of the dull, dragging ache in his hip. One step at a time, he reminded himself, as he had so often in the last two years, though this time the steps were metaphorical and not physical.

‘If you had the chance to open your own restaurant here in London, would you take it?’ he asked.

Miss Brannagh’s eyes lit up. ‘My very own establishment, with my own menus, my own dishes. A place where men and women can dine together, as they can in Paris. Just imagine!’

‘That would certainly be unique in London.’

‘Exactly. Aside from private dining rooms, which are the province of the rich and titled, there is nothing like it at present.’

It was a strange thing, but while his accident had left Owen almost completely numb emotionally, he had discovered that something akin to excitement took hold of him when he sensed a good business deal, a sort of tingling in his belly like an attack of nerves. He felt it now. ‘Combine that idea with a female head chef, and you have, if you’ll forgive the pun, a mouthwatering opportunity,’ he said.

Miss Brannagh’s face fell. ‘If only, but that will never happen. It’s probably just as well too, for I’m not at all sure I am good enough to preside over such an establishment.’

‘Not good enough? What happened to being bowed but unbroken?’

‘Nothing happened, I’m simply being realistic. It makes much more sense to aim for what I know I can achieve than to even dream of the impossible. I’ve failed once, I don’t want to fail again.’

‘Solignac seems to have done an excellent job of cutting you down to size, that’s for sure. What if he’s wrong?’

‘He didn’t cut me down to size. I was too big for my boots. And it wasn’t only Pascal who thought so, it was...’

‘Your sister, the musician.’

‘Yes.’

Clearly the twin was a very painful subject, Owen, thought to himself. ‘She too could be wrong,’ he offered gently.

‘I’ve already wasted all my money and two years of my life trying to prove that, and look where it’s got me.’

The same two years he had wasted, trying and failing to recover what he had lost. Owen was now utterly determined to help her, if only to prove her superior twin wrong, never mind Solignac, regardless of whether or not in doing so she could help him. ‘Am I right in assuming you would not consider applying to your elder sister for the necessary capital? The Earl of Fearnoch, her husband, is a very rich man...’

‘No! Absolutely not. I would not dream of it. I would rather peel potatoes for the rest of my life than do that. I thought you understood, Mr Harrington.’

‘Owen. Please, call me Owen.’

‘Owen.’ She leaned forward earnestly. ‘Although my sister is wildly in love with her husband, in fact her marriage was arranged. Eloise never wished to marry, she did so in large part to provide Estelle and I with the means to make anything we wanted of our own lives. The fact that she is so happy is wonderful, but it could easily have been otherwise. Though she swore she would not have married Alexander if she had disliked him, to be perfectly frank, I believe it would have taken a great deal to dissuade her. Eloise has done more than enough for me already. I would never ask her under any circumstances, even if our relationship was not at present strained.’

Owen shifted uncomfortably on his chair. The footstool eased the pain in his hip, but if he sat still too long, his damned foot went to sleep. ‘So what you really need is an investor.’

She laughed bitterly. ‘The chances of my finding one are about as high as Pascal begging me to come back to Paris. I may not be a maverick genius, but I still think I can cook. But Pascal, who is undoubtedly a maverick genius, says otherwise, and which one of us would the world believe, do you think? I am about as risky a business proposition as you are likely to encounter. I have no references, I’ve been sacked from my one and only position, and I’m a woman. Would you invest in me, Mr Harr—Owen? I don’t think so.’

‘I believe I told you, the first time we met in Paris, that I would and happily.’

‘In jest, when you knew that there was no possibility of my accepting.’

‘I’m not jesting now, I’m perfectly serious.’

Her eyes widened. Her cheeks flushed and then paled. ‘Thank you, you are very kind, very generous, but no, absolutely not.’

‘I’m offering to be your backer, Miss Brannagh, not your protector. Believe me, the last thing I’m in the market for is a mistress. I am not Solignac, beguiled by your pretty face and well-turned ankle.’

‘Forgive me, but no one in their right mind would take such a risk with me, and you know nothing about food—in fact I recall you told me that you are a culinary philistine. If you are not offering me a carte blanche, then I can only assume that you must feel sorry for me. The answer in either case is the same. I can’t take your money.’

Her refusal didn’t surprise him, but his conscience insisted that he press his point. He had to be sure that she believed his final proposition was her best and not her only option. ‘Miss Brannagh...’

‘Phoebe. Please, call me Phoebe.’

‘Phoebe. Just over two years ago, I realised that I was bored with my feckless existence. As fate would have it, my travels were cut short, but my desire for some sort of occupation is one of the few things I didn’t lose. Circumstances left me with a lot of time on my hands. I don’t sleep well, I rarely go out and I fill a great many of the empty hours with reading. I subscribe to countless periodicals, I read every newspaper, and all the Parliamentary reports. The net effect is that I know what’s going on the world I no longer inhabit, and I have discovered that I have an instinct for investment opportunities. It’s like a sixth sense. I have a nose for making money. My father left me very wealthy. By investing that money wisely I’ve made myself rich beyond most people’s wildest imaginings. Which is a long-winded way of saying that I have a hunch that you are worth investing in.’

‘But you have no evidence to support that,’ Phoebe said, becoming agitated. ‘I could have a completely inflated opinion of my own abilities. And even if I don’t, you are underestimating how radical my venture would be. Eating in a restaurant is a much more established tradition in Paris than it is in London—in restaurants such as Le Grand Véfour for example, the clientele is mixed. But as far as I know, the only similar place here is Crockford’s and that is for gentlemen only. Imagine the scandal, Owen, if a restaurant were to open in London which served food to both sexes, and had a woman running the kitchen.’

‘What you call scandal, I would call priceless free publicity.’

‘No, no, no. I want my food to speak for itself, I don’t want people to come to gawk at me.’

‘Phoebe, your idea is as you said, revolutionary. I hope that your customers would return for the food, but initially, you are going to have to accept that many of them will want, as you put it, to gawk at you.’

‘Then it’s as well that it’s all just a pipe dream,’ she said, once again becoming dejected. ‘I need to earn my living, not accept charity, no matter how well intentioned.’

Here was a gilt-edged opening. Owen braced himself, taken aback to discover that his heart was hammering, though perhaps it wasn’t so surprising, with no less than three lives at stake. ‘There is another way,’ he said carefully. ‘An arrangement which would allow me to invest in you, and for you to legitimately earn my backing.’

‘What arrangement could that possibly be?’

Get on with it, Owen urged himself, but now it came to the crux, he was loathe to reveal the true extent of his suffering, and not at all sure he could even explain it without sounding like the madman he had for a while imagined himself to be. His instinct was to get to his feet, to pace, to move, but moving entailed pain, and pain interfered with his concentration and induced those lost moments.

‘Bear with me,’ he said, for Phoebe was starting to look concerned. ‘What I have to say is—it is difficult.’

‘More difficult than confessing that you are penniless, heartbroken and humiliated, as I yesterday?’