Lady of Shame
Page 7
Lumsden either did not notice, or ignored her reaction. ‘She’s in the kitchen again, madam. Disrupting the work of the servants.’
Oh, dear. She had left Jane in the school room studying India on an atlas while she wrote the invitations, but it must have failed to hold her interest, and if she was wandering she must be feeling more at home at Castonbury Park than Claire had thought. Hopefully, she wouldn’t mind one final move, once Claire had a new husband.
A shiver rippled down her back. Not a helpful reaction. ‘Thank you, Lumsden. I will go and collect her. I will let her know that she should remain on the family side of the house.’
Lumsden bowed. ‘Thank you, madam.’ His back was ramrod stiff as he left.
The life they were leading now was different from how they had lived in their small cottage in Rochester this past year. There were rules and boundaries that must not be crossed. Claire winced inwardly. She was reluctant to force too many changes on the child. The past year had been difficult enough. Time enough to do so when she married.
If she married. None of these men might be interested in coming up to scratch, despite Crispin’s confidence. The thought of failure was terrifying.
Her husband’s debts once more loomed large, along with the man to whom they were owed. She could not risk him finding her and Jane before she was ready with the money. She would run and hide again sooner than face him. One of these men had to make her an offer. And soon.
The man she had invited first was a confirmed bachelor according to Reverend Seagrove. Devoted to his mother, who kept his house and ordered his life. On the other hand, the prospect of wedding the sister of a duke might be enough to change the habits of a lifetime. The thought of competing with another female living in the same house made her stomach churn. Yet she could not afford to pass up any opportunity. For Jane’s sake.
And for the sake of the Montagues. It was a heavy responsibility Crispin had asked her to bear on behalf of the family. But it was only fair.
Outside the kitchen, her heart began to beat a little faster. Monsieur André did that to her each and every time they met, and they had been meeting more often because of these dinner parties.
A chef? Surely not? It was simply a feminine appreciation of a handsome face and a strong manly form. Nothing more. Any woman with blood in her veins would notice. She certainly knew better than to believe that what was on the outside in any way reflected a man’s worth.
She straightened her spine, let a mask of cool reserve fall over her features and stepped into the large warm room. Flames from the huge fire danced in the surfaces of pots and pans stacked neatly on shelves. Windows in the walls provided fresh air and daylight to augment the candles in wall sconces. The scent of baking bread filled her nostrils.
There was something completely entrancing about the smell of warm yeast. Heart-warming. Earthily seductive. And here was Jane with her chef’s cap listing over one eye, crumbs and jam around her mouth, sipping a cup of tea with two young women. Becca the scullery maid and one of the kitchen maids, Agnes.
Becca leapt to her feet, wringing her hands and bobbing sporadically, while the other kitchen maid rose slowly, staring at her with interest. Of Monsieur André there was no sign.
Disappointment dipped her stomach. Followed swiftly by anger. At herself. This was how she’d ruined her life before. Falling under the spell of an unsuitable man. This time she would keep her impulses firmly under control.
‘Good afternoon, Becca,’ she said coolly. ‘I am sorry to interrupt your tea, but Miss Jane is required to accompany me.’
‘Did you know Monsieur André fought with Napoleon?’ Jane said, setting down her cup.
Becca flushed scarlet. She gestured weakly at the other girl. ‘Agnes was telling her.’
Gossiping servants. This was why she should keep Jane away. She shot the other girl a severe look and held out her hand. ‘Come along. We are going for a walk.’
Jane popped up from her stool. ‘They murdered the king and all the arist…arist…people with titles in France. Like Uncle. I’m glad I don’t have a title.’
‘England is not France,’ Claire said, holding out her hand. ‘And the King of France is back on the throne.’
‘Without his head?’
Becca fled for her scullery. Agnes picked up a broom and began sweeping the flagstones. Gruesome creatures, filling the child’s head with lurid tales. Or was it the chef who had done so?
‘A new king,’ Claire said. ‘Come, let us get you cleaned up and we can talk about what happened in France on our way to the Dower House.’
‘Are we going to see the baby?’
She had told Jane about her cousin earlier in the week. ‘Perhaps. That will depend upon his mother.’ They walked along the corridor side by side. ‘Where is Monsieur André this morning?’
Oh, no, had she really asked that? She felt herself warm. Well, she needed to know if he had left Jane alone with those girls after he had agreed Jane would not spend time in his kitchen.
‘He went out.’ She shrugged.
It was a very small shrug, like the one Monsieur André often employed. On the man, it was a slight lift of very broad shoulders, and heart-stoppingly attractive. On the little girl, it made Claire laugh.
‘You, young lady, are a minx. You were supposed to await me in the school room. Now we will have to wash your face before we can set out.’
‘I finished my book.’
‘You could have started another.’
‘I wanted to see what Monsieur André was cooking for supper.’
‘You wanted sweetmeats.’
‘That too.’ Jane grinned up at her.
Claire pulled her close and gave her a quick squeeze. ‘I just wish you would let me know where you are going.’
‘But then you wouldn’t let me go.’
The child was right. In fact, if it was possible, Claire wouldn’t let her out of her sight for a minute. But everyone would guess something was wrong if she behaved in such an extraordinary way.
‘Promise me this, then. That you will not leave the house without letting me know.’
Jane nodded solemnly. ‘I promise.’
‘Then I shall say no more. But if Monsieur André is busy and asks you to leave, you will do as he asks.’
Again a nod. ‘He won’t though. Monsieur André is my friend. He is teaching me French and I am helping him with his English.’
Claire didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry. Of all the people her daughter had to latch on to, it was the man who presented the most danger to her peace of mind. The horrors of French learned in the gutters popped into her mind. ‘What do you mean, he is teaching you French?’
‘Comment allez-vous, Maman?’ Jane said. ‘It means “How are you today?” You must say, Très bien. It means “I am well.” A cow is la vache. Milk is le lait. He names all the things in the kitchen and teaches me how to speak the words. Like a Frenchwoman.’
A sigh of relief left Claire’s lips, but there was a warm feeling too. Monsieur André was extraordinarily kind to a little girl who haunted his kitchen. She would make sure she thanked him next time they met. Which would be tomorrow in the morning, before her first dinner party.
Her stomach tightened. If only she could look forward to it with a little less dread.
Chapter Six
Lady Hatherton was one of the prettiest young ladies Claire had ever encountered. Her blonde hair shone like spun gold and framed a round angelic face. Her eyes were blue as forget-me-nots and she used them to effect, glancing up from beneath her lashes with a smile on her full rosebud lips. But she seemed nervous.
It was not unexpected that she was a little on edge. Or that she was a little cool, Claire thought. Smithins’s comment about the lack of proof of her marriage was probably the reason for the wary look in her eyes.
‘How old is little Crispin?’ she asked, hoping to put the younger woman at ease. What mother did not want to talk about her child?
‘Can I play with him?’ Jane asked.
‘He is sleeping,’ Lady Hatherton said. ‘But you can peek in on him before you leave.’
Jane did not look impressed by the offer and wandered off to look out of the window.
‘What will you do with the child tomorrow night?’ Claire asked.
‘Why, bring him, of course,’ the girl replied. The light in her eyes became rather hard.
Much as she loved children, entertaining one at dinner wasn’t quite what she had in mind. ‘Don’t you have a nanny who could look after him?’
Lady Hatherton’s smile didn’t falter. ‘Oh, yes, his nurse will take care of him in the nursery. The children can eat together. Come let us take a peek at him before you go.’
Clearly, her audience was at an end. It was impossible for a mere Mrs Holte to argue with a dowager marchioness, even if it was only a courtesy title awarded to her nephew. And the child was the next heir, if Alicia’s claims were true. Claire had no reason to believe otherwise. She had decided it was just the family refusing to admit Jamie had died.
And she didn’t blame them. But eventually they would have to embrace the hard truth, just as she had been forced to acknowledge the mistake she had made in her marriage. Only Jane’s arrival had made her existence bearable.
She rose to her feet and followed the young widow up the stairs. She had thought they would have more in common, being widows and having children, but the younger woman seemed inclined to keep her at a distance.
Claire also had the sinking feeling she’d made a mistake in agreeing to the request that the woman be invited to these dinners. What man would look at her, when the beautiful Lady Hatherton was in the room?
But since the duke was footing the bill and had surprised her by sending word that he had every intention of attending tonight, there was nothing for it but to accede with good grace.
The child’s room was on the second floor, and when they entered a young woman leapt to her feet from her chair beside the cradle. She bobbed a curtsey and slid unobtrusively from the room.
Lady Hatherton tiptoed to the cot against the wall and gently drew down the covers to reveal the sleeping child.
The boy looked like her. Blond curls damp against the pink skin of his cherubically round face.
‘He’s lovely,’ Claire whispered. And nothing like Jamie. The Montagues tended to darkness. Their Norman heritage, everyone said.
Jane pushed closer. ‘He’s so little,’ she whispered.
Lady Hatherton froze as the baby, disturbed by the loudness of Jane’s whisper, stirred. She pressed a finger to her lips and signalled for them to leave.
Claire took Jane’s hand and led her out of the room.
‘He’s just a baby,’ Jane said, clearly disappointed.
‘That he is,’ Claire agreed. ‘And he needs his sleep so he can grow big and strong.’
Lady Hatherton caught them up at the top of the stairs. ‘I do thank you for calling,’ she said to Claire.
‘And I look forward to dinner tomorrow night,’ Claire offered.
‘As do I.’ She smiled vaguely and turned back for the nursery, while Claire and Jane continued down the stairs.
The footman in Rothermere scarlet who had let them in stood waiting with their outer raiment and in a short space of time they were out in the cold north wind heading home. As they reached the path that would take them back to Castonbury main house, they noticed a tall figure striding ahead.
‘It’s Monsieur André,’ Jane said.
Claire’s stomach gave a funny little lurch.
‘Monsieur,’ Jane yelled.
‘Jane, no,’ Claire said. But too late. The chef stopped and turned.
‘Now I remember.’ Jane gave a little skip. ‘He said he was going to the Dower House to talk to the cook.’
Claire frowned at her daughter. ‘Your memory seems very convenient?’
Jane looked blank.
As she should. What seven-year-old child would plot a meeting?
Unfortunately there was no ignoring the man, now the child had called out to him. She pinned a smile on her face as they drew close.
His bow emphasised his masculinity, the size and strength of him and his innate confidence. ‘Madame Holte. Mademoiselle. What a coincidence.’ His dark eyes twinkled at Jane. ‘I thought I left you in charge of my kitchen, Mademoiselle Jane. Now Mademoiselle Becca will have drunk all the tea and eaten all the biscuits.’
So he had known Jane was in his kitchen.
He must have sensed her thoughts for he glanced at her swiftly. ‘I left word with Madame Stratton as to her whereabouts.’
Jane giggled. ‘We had tarts. Becca only had one. And so did Agnes. I made sure.’
It seemed no matter the age of the female, he managed to charm. And Mr Lumsden had delivered the information in his own way. Downstairs politics, no doubt.
‘Lumsden informed me,’ Claire said. ‘I was hoping to see you today, Monsieur André.’
A brow winged up, making him look dashing and, if possible, more handsome. ‘A happy coincidence, then, madame.’
Was he flirting? Or was she seeing what she wanted to see? His face was perfectly serious, but there was a gleam of something in his eyes. Interest? Her stomach gave an irresponsible little flutter. She ignored it. ‘Lady Hatherton plans to bring her child with her tomorrow night. I wonder if you could arrange for an appropriate meal for the two children and the nurse to be taken in the school room. I will let Mrs Stratton know of these new arrangements, of course.’
‘With pleasure, madame.’
The silky soft way he said pleasure made her toes curl inside her boots. It was his accent that made even the most pro forma of words sound sensual.
He fell in beside her as they began walking again. Somehow the wind seemed less sharp. And it wasn’t just the bloom of her own warmth at his nearness. His body sheltered her from the worst of the wind. A coincidence, surely? Or a kindness.
It had been a long time since a man had strolled beside her. George had never taken her out after their marriage. And she’d been glad. The company he kept was not of the best. Now it felt oddly comforting, even though she really ought to repress his presumption. He really should know to let her go on ahead and then follow discreetly. The man was a foreigner, she told herself, and from a country that had done away with its nobility. Perhaps on those grounds he could be excused for not knowing English customs between employer and servant. He just never seemed like a servant.
There was something he wanted to say, she could hear it in the silence, feel it in the dark glance he sent her way from time to time. How strange that she should be so attune to his thoughts.
Perhaps he had something to say about the dinners? ‘Feel free to tell me what is on your mind, Monsieur André.’
This time his glance was direct and full of surprise. ‘Very well, madame. There is talk among the servants that the aim of these dinner parties is to find you a husband.’
She could not contain her gasp. Smithins. It could be no one else. The man abused his privilege and so she would tell her brother. Ire made her want to tell the chef it was none of his business and walk ahead, but something inside her resisted. Pride.
And besides, the cat was out of the bag. Servants always knew what went on in a house like Castonbury, even if they pretended they didn’t.
‘The dinners are a means of introducing me back into society, and a way of showing the duke’s support. The rest is pure conjecture, although any one of these gentlemen is eligible.’
‘You sell yourself short, madame. These gentlemen are by all accounts worthy, but they are far too old, too set in their ways, for a woman in her prime. One is bullied, another a bully, the third, well, he is known for his wit.’
Aghast at his frankness, she stared up at him. ‘You can’t know this.’<
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A muscle in his jaw flickered. His eyes were as hard as onyx. ‘Gossip is rife in inns where tongues are loose. If I was your brother, I would not let you entertain any of these men as a match.’
She laughed then, albeit a little hysterically. ‘You are far removed from being my brother, sir. Or from being a person to offer me advice.’ The moment she said it, she regretted the words.
He didn’t flinch, though she sensed him stiffen. ‘But I offer it, nonetheless,’ he said. ‘There are many suitable men to be found in London, madame. Young men of good heart as well as fortune and title.’
‘Your concern is heart-warming, monsieur. However, I will follow my brother’s wishes in this matter. I went against him once. I will not do it again. For Jane’s sake.’
Why did she feel the need to explain, to make him understand, as if his good opinion mattered? But it did. In him she sensed more interest that she had felt in a very long time. And Jane liked him.
That intriguing muscle flickered again. ‘If it is your wish to woo one of these men to the altar, then we need to think further about our menu.’
Was that the reason for his enquiry? A professional interest? Her heart squeezed a little. A small pang in her chest, as if she had wanted him to talk her out of this decision.
Now she really was being ridiculous. ‘What sort of changes?’
‘It is true that the path to a man’s heart is often by way of his stomach,’ he said. ‘And you have been wise in choosing their favourite dishes. However, I doubt that this is a matter of the heart.’
‘No.’ She inwardly shuddered. She had tried that once and been sorely disappointed. ‘I am the daughter of one duke and the sister of another, Monsieur André. Marriages are a matter of connections and alliances.’
‘And I gather the most recent alliances leading to marriage have not been particularly advantageous to the duke and so you are to be the sacrificial lamb.’
His matter-of-fact tone was rather insulting. ‘You go too far, sir.’
His firm lips pressed together in acknowledgement of her words.