“Well, it starts tonight,” Belle stated, “with Mama’s ball to introduce Emma to the ton. So maybe you’ll get lucky, and we’ll have so many suitors that we won’t have time to bother you.”

“God willing,” Cook muttered.

“Now, Cook,” Emma put in, “have mercy on us. If you don’t let us help out down here, Aunt Caroline will have us arranging flowers again.”

“Please,” Belle cajoled. “You know how much you love ordering us about.”

“Oh, all right,” Cook grumbled. It was true. Belle and Emma did cheer up the kitchen staff with their crazy antics. They also lifted Cook’s spirits; she just didn’t want them knowing it. “I s’pose you two devils will annoy me all morning ’til I give in. Goes against my good judgment, this does. You need to be getting ready abovestairs, not dancing around my kitchen.”

“But you adore our charming company, don’t you, Cook?” Belle grinned.

“Charming company, my foot,” Cook muttered as she hauled a sack of sugar out of the pantry. “You see those mixing bowls out on the counter? I’ll want six cups of flour in each. And two cups of sugar. Now be careful with that and stay out of everyone’s way.”

“Where’s the flour?” Emma asked, looking about.

Cook sighed and started to head back to the pantry. “Wait a minute. If you’re so eager to have my job, you lift those big sacks.”

Emma chuckled as she easily carried the sack of flour back over to where Belle was measuring out sugar.

Belle laughed, too. “Thank goodness we escaped Mama. She’d probably want us to start getting dressed already, and the ball is more than eight hours away.”

Emma nodded. In all honesty, she was quite excited about her first London ball. She was eager to put all those fitting sessions and dancing lessons to use. But Aunt Caroline was nothing if not a perfectionist, and she was issuing orders like an army general. After weeks of gowns, flowers, and music selections, neither Emma nor Belle wanted to be found anywhere near the ballroom while Belle’s mother was getting everything ready. The kitchen was the last place Caroline would look for them.

Once they started their measuring, Belle turned to Emma, her blue eyes serious. “Are you nervous?”

“About tonight?”

Belle nodded.

“A little. You English can be a little daunting, you know, with all of your rules and etiquette.”

Belle smiled sympathetically, pushing a lock of her wavy blond hair out of her eyes. “You’ll do fine. You’ve got self-confidence. It has been my experience that if you act like you know what you’re doing, people will believe you.”

“Such a sage,” Emma said affectionately. “You read too much.”

“I know. It will be the death of me. I will never”—Belle rolled her eyes in mock horror—“find a husband when I’ve got my nose in a book.”

“Did your mother say that?”

“Yes, but she means well, you know. She would never make me get married just for the sake of getting married. She let me refuse an offer from the Earl of Stockton last year, and he was considered the season’s biggest catch.”

“What was wrong with him?”

“He was a bit concerned by the fact that I like to read.”

Emma smiled as she scooped some more flour into bowls.

“He told me that reading wasn’t appropriate for the female brain,” Belle continued. “He said it gave women ‘ideas.’”

“Heaven forbid we have ideas.”

“I know, I know. He told me not to worry, however, that he was certain he could break me of the habit once we were married.”

Emma shot her a sideways glance. “You should have asked him if he thought you’d be able to break him of his pompous attitude.”

“I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

“I would have.”

“I know.” Belle smiled and looked up at her cousin. “You do have a talent for speaking your mind.”

“Is that a compliment?”

Belle pondered the question for a few moments before answering. “I rather think it is. Redheads aren’t really in fashion just now, but I predict that you—and your outrageous mouth—will be such a success that by next month I will be informed—by Those Who Inform—that red hair is positively the latest thing and isn’t that lucky for my poor cousin who has the misfortune of being American.”

“Somehow I doubt that, but it’s very kind of you to say so.” Emma knew she wasn’t as lovely as Belle, but she was satisfied with her looks, having long ago decided that if she couldn’t be a beauty, at least she was unusual. Ned had once called her a chameleon, pointing out that her hair seemed to change color with each shake of her head. One glimmer of light set her locks aflame. And her eyes, normally a clear violet, smoldered and darkened to dangerous black when she was in a temper.

Emma scooped some flour into the last bowl and wiped her hands on her apron. “Cook!” she called out. “What next? We’ve measured out all the flour and sugar.”

“Eggs. I want three in each bowl. And no shells, you hear me? If I find any shells in my cakes, I’ll keep them in the kitchen and serve up your heads instead.”

“My, my, Cook is fierce this morning,” Belle chuckled.

“I heard that, missy! Don’t you think I didn’t. I’ll have none of that. Now, if you’re going to be in my kitchen, get to work!”