Lady of Shame

by Ann Lethbridge

  It immediately fell down over her eyes and nose.

  ‘It’s too big,’ she said sadly, taking it off and offering it back to him, her face full of disappointment.

  ‘So it is.’ It was a small disappointment in the grand scheme of things, yet the sad face pulled at a cord in his chest. Painfully. He stilled in shock. What was happening here? Why did he care? The child wasn’t his. She was well fed, beloved by her mother, yet still he hated to see her unhappy. He lifted the hat high and gazed at it from all angles. ‘You know, the same thing happened to me once.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  He went to another drawer and pulled out one of the large needles he used for stitching fowl. ‘I used a hat pin.’

  ‘That’s not a hat pin,’ the child said disdainfully. ‘My mother has a hat pin. It has a pearl on top.’

  ‘I suppose we could go and ask to borrow it,’ he said with a smile, and raised a brow.

  ‘Oh, no. She’s busy.’

  And besides, she would probably tell the child to go back to the school room, or wherever it was she was supposed to be. André wasn’t fooled for a moment. ‘Or we can see if this will work.’

  The little girl nodded.

  André folded the hat along its length and then pinned it. This time it fitted her small head perfectly.

  ‘Better, non?’ He pulled up a stool to the table and stood her on it. ‘I am going to make a chicken pie for your uncle. Would you like to help?’

  She nodded. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘You can make the decorations for the top of the pastry.’

  It didn’t take him long to prepare the dough, and soon she was rolling and cutting and generally making oddly shaped little bits covered in flour. She had flour on her hands, on her cheek and some on the tip of her nose. But she seemed perfectly happy.

  Becca popped her head around the door, her eyes streaming. ‘Onions are done, monsewer.’

  André nodded. ‘Go outside and get some air. It will help with the tears, then there are carrots to scrub.’

  The girl scampered off and he heard the scullery door bang shut behind her. He wished there was some way to stop the misery caused by peeling onions, but he’d peeled his share in the past and it was part of her job.

  The door into the hallway opened to reveal Madame Holte, who looked terribly anxious, and she had Mrs Stratton right behind her.

  ‘There you are, Jane,’ the mother said. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere.’

  Guilt hit André hard when he saw the panic fading from her eyes.

  Chapter Five

  ‘I’m making leaves for Uncle’s pie,’ Jane said without looking up.

  Her mother’s expression shifted from worried to nonplussed in a heartbeat. Her gaze rose to meet André’s. ‘I am sorry if she has been troubling you, Monsieur André.’

  ‘Not at all, madame. Mademoiselle Jane has been most helpful. Regardez.’

  Madame Holte took in the pile of mangle and grubby bits of pastry and the flour on the table, the floor and her child, and she smiled.

  The kitchen became a bright and cheery place.

  His heart lifted and he recognised an awful truth. It was the mother’s smile he wanted every bit as much as the child’s. Clearly, he was on a very slippery slope and heading downhill at a rapid rate.

  ‘Monsieur André,’ Mrs Stratton said. ‘You might have let me know Miss Jane was here. We have been searching the house from top to bottom.’

  The housekeeper looked frazzled, which was very unusual. Still there was an understanding twinkle in her eyes, so it seemed now the child was found, everything was fine. ‘I beg your pardon. Next time I will indeed send word.’

  The madame’s smile faded. ‘I really don’t think—’ She bit off her words. ‘Jane, are you finished? You know, I did ask you not to wander off.’ She gave André a quick smile. ‘Jane is rather adventurous.’

  Jane looked at her mother and down at the pile of bits of pastry and then up at him. Something clenched in his stomach. A desire to give the child a hug.

  ‘I think I have all the decorations I need for today, Mademoiselle Jane.’ He bowed. ‘I hope you will visit me again.’

  She took off her hat and handed it to him. ‘Will you keep this for me for next time?’

  There likely wouldn’t be a next time. And probably for the best. He didn’t want to become fond of either of them. He would be leaving soon. Yet he nodded. ‘It will be here waiting.’ He tucked it back into the drawer.

  Madame Holte helped her daughter down from the stool, brushed the flour off the front of her dress, then walked her to the door.

  The little girl tugged her hand free and turned back to him. ‘Next time I should have an apron too.’

  Her mother shook her head and led the child away, with Mrs Stratton bringing up the rear.

  Becca ran in flustered, then stopped short. ‘She’s gone?’

  ‘Her mother collected her.’

  ‘Joe said as how they was tearing the house apart looking for her in a proper panic.’

  It was odd, that panic. The child could not have gone far. And the look of utter relief on Madame Holte’s face had been completely out of all proportion to the discovery of the child in his kitchen.

  He sighed. Now he was seeing mysteries where there were none. What the family of the house did was none of his concern. He simply had to fulfil his contract and at the end of the month return to London.

  He went back to his pie, but somehow the joy had gone out of it.

  * * *

  Two days later, André was working at his accounts when Mrs Stratton popped her head around his door. ‘Mrs Holte requests you attend her in the small drawing room.’

  For a moment his heart lifted, then he got a grip on reality. No doubt this was a reprimand for keeping her child in his kitchen. He should have given her a sweetmeat and shooed the child away as most chefs would. If the child hadn’t seemed so lonely…

  He rose to his feet with a sigh. ‘Immédiatement, madame.’

  The housekeeper’s eyes glinted with something that looked like amusement. Perhaps even excitement. He could ask her if she knew what was wanted, but that would taste of lack of confidence.

  They parted company where the corridor divided east and west, family and staff, high and low, and he squared his shoulders as he strode along a rug that had seen better days. Castonbury looked well enough from the outside, he thought morosely, but inside, in the family quarters and those of the servants, it had seen better days. He couldn’t wait to leave Derbyshire and get back to London. Going sooner than he’d expected would not be so bad. As long as they didn’t renege on his contract. Getting this position had required he call in several favours. It would set him back years if things fell apart.

  He knocked on the door and entered the cheerful room.

  Madame Holte looked up from her book, one of those she had borrowed from the library.

  How tiny she looked in the overstuffed armchair. A shaft of wintery sunlight caressed her caramel-coloured hair and made it glint gold. She had shed her widow’s weeds for a gown of pale blue. A modest gown, but it showed her womanly curves to perfection and gave her grey eyes a bluish tinge. Her neck was long, he realised, elegant as a swan’s. And the thought of touching his lips to the pale skin below her ear gave his body a jolt.

  Arousal. Because she had a beautiful neck? He took a deep breath and ignored the inappropriate desire. Aristocratic women were out of his league. And not just because of their status. Like his mother, they were idle creatures, with no thought for any but themselves. They served little purpose except for decoration as far as he had ever seen. Or at least most of them. Madame Holte was not like that. He wished she was. She would be easier to resist.

  ‘Madame Stratton said you wished to see me,’ he said stiffly, holding himself erect much as he would have for a superior officer when he was a soldier.

  ‘Yes.’ Pink stained her cheeks.

  Here it came, then.
The lecture. The putting him in his place. He kept his face impassive.

  ‘I am planning several dinner parties for the duke over the next few weeks. I thought we might discuss menus.’

  If she had stripped off naked and run round the room he would not have been more surprised. Or any better pleased, though that would have pleased him a great deal.

  He forced his mind out of the gutter and his body to calm. ‘I should be pleased to give you any assistance required.’ He frowned. ‘Is Lord Giles aware of this?’

  It really was not his place to ask, but Lord Giles kept a firm hand on the purse strings for his father, according to the duke’s steward.

  Her colour heightened. ‘I do this at His Grace’s request.’

  Something in her voice did not quite ring true, but it was not his place to question the duke’s sister. He might, however, enquire of Madame Stratton. Or Smithins.

  ‘How many events are you planning?’ he asked. ‘And who are the guests? Are the same people to be invited more than once?’

  She picked up a piece of paper from the table where she had placed her book. ‘There are to be three dinners in all, the first next week. I am hoping His Grace will attend, but it will depend on his health.’

  Elation began a slow build inside him. This was the chance he’d been waiting for. It would be better if the duke attended, and he could quite see why she would want to hold out his presence as an inducement. Very few people would turn down an invitation from a duke.

  ‘The Reverend Seagrove will be present for all of the dinners as well as myself, and perhaps his daughter. And if Lord Giles should return, the duke would expect him to attend also.’ She consulted her paper. ‘The first dinner will include Mr Dyer and his mother. At the second I expect Sir Nathan Samuelson. And at the third, Mr Carstairs and Miss Carstairs.’

  Small intimate dinners. He could do them with one hand tied behind his back.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘and the dowager marchioness is to be invited too.’

  Interesting. For the most part, Lady Hatherton had been kept at arm’s length. Servants’ gossip said there was doubt about the validity of her claim. It seemed those doubts were past.

  The other guests Madame Holte named were from prominent families in the neighbourhood. Gentlemen and ladies who travelled to Town for the Season. People who would speak of his skill, if he pleased them. Yes, this was just what he had hoped for when he’d accepted this contract. A chance to grow his reputation as a chef among members of the ton. To move his own plans forward. The fact that he would do so for Madame Holte made it doubly rewarding. Saints save him, he was grinning from ear to ear. He pulled himself together. ‘How many courses do you wish to serve?’

  ‘Enough to appear generous, but not so many as to seem ostentatious. I would be grateful for your suggestions.’ She cast him a brief smile. It held shyness and hope and a shred of wariness. It was that last that caught at something in his chest.

  Women often smiled upon him. Women from all walks of life, high and low. He’d learned to ignore the glances from the highborn. They carried nothing but danger. But this one was different. There was no arrogance in her glance, no speculation, just a plea for his help.

  Her problems should hold no interest for such as him. The opportunity of cooking these dinners was all that concerned him. With such small numbers, it was hardly a challenge, but it was an important step on the ladder of his ambition.

  Yet he did care. He just didn’t know how to get to the source of her concern. ‘Do you have specific dishes in mind or would you prefer I draft some menus for your approval?’

  ‘I do have some ideas, if you would be so kind as to take a seat.’

  Only years of practice at never showing emotion prevented his mouth from falling open. A servant never sat in the presence of his betters. Not that he thought any man, or woman for that matter, above anyone by right of birth. If he ever had, it had been beaten out of him. But they did, these aristos. It was ingrained into them from birth. It took a great deal to change such deeply held beliefs. A crucible of fire.

  He’d been through the flames.

  The thought that this small woman might have similarly suffered made his gut clench. It wasn’t possible. England had never endured the ordeal that had changed France for ever.

  She was a widow. Perhaps his earlier instincts were correct. Perhaps she was looking for a lover. His body hardened at the thought. And he sneered at the reaction. He was not a man to risk all for a tumble. Nevertheless, as he sat beside her, he was aware of her skirts not quite touching his thigh, aware of the curve of her cheek and the way little wisps of hair touched the nape of her lovely neck.

  She handed him the piece of paper. Not only were the guests listed out in detail, but there were notes of the dishes favoured by the men.

  He glanced at her sharply. She returned his gaze with a steady stare. ‘Reverend Seagrove dines with these gentlemen from time to time and has been able to draw an opinion as to their favourite foods. I thought we might use them as our starting place.’

  ‘These are purely social functions?’ he asked, staring at the names and at the handwritten notes. ‘Or the duke wishes to—’ he hesitated ‘—make a case for something? Some investment, some plan?’

  She lifted her grey eyes. A pink wash stained her cheeks.

  André couldn’t think why she should look embarrassed. There was some subtlety here he wasn’t grasping. To do with her.

  ‘The duke? Not that I am aware,’ she said breathlessly.

  A prevarication. An aristocrat lying to an underling. But why should it matter? It didn’t. He would do his job and do it well.

  ‘I would suggest, then, madame, eight courses, with two removes.’

  She looked a little shocked. ‘So many?’

  Why would she be surprised? Surely she was accustomed to the groaning boards set by the wealthy here in England? Or perhaps not, given how pale and thin she had looked the day she arrived. He kept his face impassive, his voice gentle. ‘It is expected, madame.’

  She lowered her head in acceptance. ‘Then that is what we will do.’

  ‘When are the dinners to take place?’

  ‘The first next Saturday, and likely two more the following week. I will know better when I have received replies to the invitations.’

  Three major dinners in two weeks? Life was looking up.

  She must have seen something in his face because she frowned. ‘Is it not possible?’

  ‘Madame, of course it is possible. I was just a little surprised. I beg your pardon.’

  She looked relieved. Clearly, these dinners were important to her as well as the duke. And he was beginning to suspect why. All of these men were bachelors. Men worthy of marriage to the daughter of a duke.

  Something inside him did not like what he was thinking. Indeed, the idea made him feel tense, angry.

  With force of will, he kept his hands loose. This was not his concern. If the duke wanted to find her a new husband, that was his prerogative. And if she was willing, then so be it.

  His opinion of these self-satisfied country squires counted for nothing. Even so, the slow burn of anger that she would sell herself to any one of them refused to be extinguished. He needed to escape before he said something he would regret. And it had been a long time since his tongue had led him into that kind of soup.

  ‘May I bring you my ideas tomorrow? I need to look at my supplies. See what is available from the butcher and so on.’

  ‘Tomorrow will be fine.’

  André rose to his feet and stood looking down at her. She looked lovely. Glowing. And it warmed him to know that his artistry with food had restored some of that beauty. Yet there were still shadows in her eyes. Still a tightness to her mouth as if the path on which she had set her feet caused her anxiety. It was as if she was haunted. Or hunted.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, madame?’ Was he out of his senses? What could he do that her family with all their power
could not do? If indeed what troubled her was more than what to serve for these dinners.

  For all that, he waited while she pondered his question.

  ‘Wine,’ she said suddenly. ‘And port. The wine provided at dinner is not always the best. Do you…’ She blushed.

  His question had not been about food or wine, but he was a chef and their common ground was these dinners. And if she had occasionally looked at him as a woman looked at a man, it was simply in passing. And he would do well not to think of her as a woman, but as his employer. ‘I know wine, madame, and I have seen the duke’s cellars. I will instruct Lumsden regarding what to serve with each course.’

  She stood up. ‘Monsieur André, thank you for all of your help.’

  He bowed, acknowledging his dismissal. ‘Tomorrow morning at nine, if that is convenient, I will bring my suggestions for the rest of the menus.’

  ‘That will do very well. Thank you.’

  It didn’t matter why she was holding these dinners. It was his job to make the food a memory never to be forgotten. Much as he would never forget the picture of her standing there, the golden gleams of sunlight in her hair. A small delicate woman with grey eyes full of shadows.

  * * *

  Seated at the escritoire in the library, Claire sealed the second batch of invitations she had issued this week and rang the bell. Lumsden arrived within moments.

  ‘Please have these delivered, Lumsden.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ He bowed and took all but one of the invitations. ‘I wonder if I might speak out of turn?’

  Claire couldn’t hide her surprise. Since her return, Lumsden had barely unbent enough to indicate he remembered her at all. He reeked of disapproval. And she didn’t blame him. She had behaved very badly and an old retainer like Lumsden would see her insult to the family name as an insult to him too.

  The duke was lucky to enjoy such loyalty.

  ‘Please, feel free to speak your mind.’

  ‘It is about the young lady, Miss Jane.’

  Claire stiffened. Perhaps she wasn’t so sanguine about allowing the servant to speak his mind, after all.