In the last hour he had managed to annoy everyone who’d come through the kitchen, interfering in their work where he usually had the good sense to let them get on with it. Gigi wished she could leave in angry silence, like Babs and Harry just had, but she was stuck in his company as she poured the egg custard over the thinly sliced potatoes of her gratin. “Cook, what is this?” He pointed accusingly at the open page. Gigi lifted her gratin dish and put it in the oven before leaning over him to look. “Comté.” “And what is that?” His hands tightened around the ledger, and his knuckles went white. “It is a type of French cheese,” she said gently. Edgars was far too tightly wound. “In future, please make sure there is an English explanation beside your entries.” “D’accord.” She gave a nod. “Of course. I apologize.” He blinked, and she wondered if she was too hard on him, since he was that surprised by a simple apology. Iris came down the rear stairs and, like a pointer scenting a bird in the rushes, Edgars became riveted to her.
