Lady of Shame

by Ann Lethbridge

  ‘I couldn’t stop him,’ she said between sobs. ‘I pulled, but he wouldn’t stop.’

  Monsieur André’s brows went up. ‘You were driving?’

  ‘She was learning to drive,’ Claire said. ‘She is old enough. I learned at the same age.’

  His dark eyes came to her face, inscrutable, despite the rapid rise and fall of his chest from his exertions on their behalf. ‘As did I, madame,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ Jane said.

  ‘You can,’ Claire replied. ‘Really you can. I promise. You know, horses are the stupidest creatures. They run when they are scared. I would have been in exactly the same boat if I had been holding the reins. Now dry your tears or Monsieur André will think you are a watering pot.’

  Jane took the handkerchief and dried her eyes and blew her nose.

  ‘Feeling better, ma petite?’ Monsieur André said, his face gentle. He looked like a different man when his gaze fell on Jane, she realised. He looked younger, even a touch out of his depth, as if he found her fascinating.

  ‘Oui, monsieur,’ Jane said. ‘But I don’t want to drive any more.’

  If the philosophy Claire had learned in her own childhood was right, she should make the child drive right away, but Jane had suffered a terrible fright and Claire couldn’t see torturing her. ‘You can try again another day.’ She looked down at the chef. Goodness, he looked magnificent with his skin brightened by the wind and his dark eyes watching her child with concern.

  ‘We are most grateful for your timely appearance, Monsieur André. Were you leaving Castonbury Park or returning?’ she asked.

  ‘Returning, madame.’ He bowed and stepped back.

  The action of a servant. Of course, she had made it very clear last night that their worlds were far apart.

  ‘May I offer you a ride, then?’ she said, knowing she should not. It was not done. If they were seen… Dash it all, she was a widow, not a debutante. If she wanted to offer a man who had saved her life a ride, she would. And to the devil with the gossips.

  He shook his head. ‘I enjoy the exercise.’ There was pride in that dark face. In the set of his shoulders. Even in the slightly broken nose that ruined the chiselled perfection of his features.

  ‘It is going to snow, Monsieur André,’ she said. ‘I will not have it said that I caused dinner to be late because I let you get lost in a blizzard.’

  He looked up at the sky and back at her. A rueful smile twisted his lips. ‘I suppose it is my duty, then.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll squeeze up next to Mama and make room,’ Jane said.

  ‘I am much obliged, mademoiselle.’ His long legs took the step up in one easy stride and he settled in beside Jane. He still held the reins. He shot Claire a sideways glance and a small smile curled his full lips. ‘I will drive. It is better if my hands are busy, no?’ He urged the horse into a walk.

  Claire’s face flushed hot. She prayed it looked like a burn from the wind.

  ‘I really must thank you, Monsieur André. I do not know what might have happened if you had not been there.’ She was glad to hear her voice did not echo the trembles inside her.

  He stared straight ahead, but even in profile she could see the twinkle in his eye. ‘The horse would have slowed and you would have continued on your way.’

  About to object, she noticed the way his gaze flickered down to her daughter. A warning. Do not scare her more than she is already scared, it said. She blinked. How on earth could she read all of that into a mere flicker of an eyelash? The very idea.

  Yet she knew in her heart, in the depth of her being, that was what he had meant.

  ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘Poor little beast. A branch broken by the wind scared him.’

  ‘I think you are right about a coming storm,’ he said, glancing across the valleys and hills. ‘It is a wild place, this Derbyshire.’

  ‘Where in France did you come from?’ she asked.

  ‘Bordeaux,’ Jane announced. ‘In the south. Monsieur André showed me on the map.’

  Claire raised her brow. ‘I didn’t know we had maps in the kitchen?’

  Monsieur André gave Jane a pointed look.

  ‘I took a book of maps from the library. I wanted to see France.’

  ‘Blaeu’s Le grand atlas.’ Monsieur André’s voice was dry.

  ‘Oh, goodness. That book is worth a king’s ransom.’

  ‘I put it right back,’ Jane said.

  ‘Without the addition of any flour,’ Monsieur André added.

  He was smiling down at the child and Jane was looking back at him with worship in her eyes. He’d charmed the daughter as much as he’d charmed the mother. Was this his intention? Was he deliberately trying to worm his way into her affections? Thinking to move up in the world? As George had.

  Somehow she couldn’t picture him doing anything so underhanded. He’d been nothing but honest with her. Straightforward to the point of rude, on occasion. And she admired him for that. A great deal. He might be a servant but he was unquestionably honourable.

  It was part of what made him so dashed attractive. Warmth flowed through her veins and her heart seemed to open in welcome.

  So unwise. She forced her mind back to the conversation. ‘Did you find Bordeaux on the map?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jane nodded hard. ‘You can’t see it from England. It is in the south. You can see Calais from England though. From Dover on a clear day, Monsieur André says. And you can see Dover from Calais too. There are white cliffs across the…the manche.’

  ‘In Britain we call it the English Channel,’ Claire said, smiling.

  ‘In France it is the “sleeve,”’ Monsieur André put in.

  ‘Does the sea belong to England?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Claire said.

  ‘No,’ Monsieur André said at the same moment. Then he laughed. ‘It depends on your perspective, I suppose. But really, how can water belong to anyone? You cannot hold it. It never stays in one place for long, and if you heat it up, it disappears.’

  ‘Like magic?’ Jane asked.

  ‘In steam,’ Claire said, enjoying the back and forth of conversation. Monsieur André was a surprisingly well-educated man and very patient with her daughter’s interminable questions. The more she knew him the more there was to admire.

  She ought not to admire him. They really ought not to be talking about things the way they did. She just couldn’t seem to help herself.

  ‘Are fog and steam the same?’ Jane asked.

  ‘No,’ Monsieur André said. ‘Steam is hot. Fog is cold. But they are very similar. Snow is also water that is very cold.’

  ‘And so is ice,’ Jane said.

  ‘And clouds,’ Claire added.

  Jane frowned. ‘How?’

  ‘I think your daughter is going to be a scientist when she grows up,’ Monsieur André said. ‘She is so curious.’

  ‘Women do not study science.’ Or law. Or medicine. Not in any meaningful way.

  ‘In France they did. For a while,’ Monsieur André said.

  ‘Did you believe that philosophy about all men being equal?’ Claire asked. ‘The Jacobin stuff.’

  He looked at her askance, his eyes unfathomable. ‘A great many men died for their beliefs in that “stuff,” as you call it.’

  ‘And others died because they did not.’

  He inclined his head in acknowledgement. A sad looked crossed his face. ‘Too many in my own country, I am afraid.’

  ‘So you do not believe in it. My family does not.’

  His brow lowered. ‘I believe that men should have the opportunity to make the best of their lives by their own efforts. If they are skilled, if they work hard, then they should be recompensed accordingly. I do not believe that any man is better than another because of his birth.’

  ‘Positively revolutionary. Yet you work for a man who believes he is better for that very reason.’

  He turned the gig through the gates
of the Park and raised a hand to the gatekeeper as they passed by.

  Claire noticed that Jane had fallen asleep against Monsieur André’s shoulder. She glanced up at his face in surprise. He smiled sweetly at the child and her heart tumbled over. This man would be a wonderful father. But not to her children, she reminded herself. It would not be permitted. She reached for Jane.

  ‘Leave her, she is fine,’ he said gently.

  She tried to stave off the soft feelings melting her heart and focus on what she should not admire in him. ‘I am surprised you came to England, feeling as you do.’

  He grimaced. ‘That is because you do not know France. I love my country. I fought for her. But England had the Magna Carta. This country too, is changing—the changes began long ago, and continue steadily if slowly. In France it happened quickly. And with many losses.’

  She wanted to ask him if he had suffered losses, but wondered if he might resent her probing too deeply.

  ‘There are still many here who would like to follow France’s example. The workers in the mills are in a terrible turmoil. Look at the riots at Spa Field only a few months ago.’

  His mouth flattened. ‘There have been some mistakes, it is true. And there are many who cling to outmoded beliefs. The world passes them by. Eventually they will become obsolete.’

  ‘Many like my brother, for example?’

  ‘His sons already understand the new world. Or at least Lord Giles does, I think. And Lady Kate. I see England as a land of opportunity for a man such as me. And if it is not, then I will go elsewhere.’

  Another man always on the move. A pang of regret touched her heart. Still, what business was it of hers? She had her own plans. ‘Where would you go? America?’

  ‘Possibly. Or Canada.’

  It sounded terribly far away. And there was absolutely no reason for her to feel a sense of disappointment, but she found she did not want to talk about him leaving. ‘I don’t suppose you found out who doctored the fish?’

  His lips pressed together. He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

  No doubt when he did that person would be very sorry indeed.

  He drew the gig up at the front door, jumped down and held up his arms for Jane. Claire shook her awake. ‘We are home, child.’

  Jane blinked sleepily at the house. ‘This isn’t home. Our home is in Rochester.’

  ‘Not any more, sweet,’ Claire said, reaching up to lift her down. Soon they would have a house, a place where they could settle permanently. A place Jane could call home for the rest of her life.

  ‘Allow me,’ Monsieur André said. He lifted the child down with impressive ease, carried her to the front door and handed her off to a footman. ‘Mademoiselle Jane suffered quite a shock on her way home—carry her up to her chamber,’ he commanded. The footman shot him a dark look, but did as requested.

  The footman was wise. The man exuded danger and not only because he held Jacobin views about the rights of men. There was an indefinable quality about him that made others bow to his will that would have seemed quite ordinary for a nobleman, but seemed quite at odds with his situation as a chef.

  And now she owed him a debt of gratitude for his help today. The question was how to repay it. Somehow she did not think he would be pleased by an offer of money. Not that she had any.

  She didn’t look back, but she did hear the front door close and felt a strange sense of loss.

  * * *

  The footmen milled around the kitchen, dropping off dirty dishes and reloading their silver trays with steaming tureens and platters. They lined up ready to ascend the stairs. As he had for the first course, André went ahead of them and stood at the dining room door with his spoons at the ready.

  Before he allowed any of them to pass, he tasted each dish again. He would not allow anything to go wrong this time.

  Everything was fine until the beef stew. At first, he could not believe his palate. He had to be imagining it. He took a fresh spoon and tasted again.

  The unmistakable flavour of peppermint filled his mouth. Overpowering. Dreadful.

  He glared at the footman in livery, Joe Coyle, the one who muttered against him because he was French. ‘You.’ His voice was more growl than words. He threw down the spoon.

  ‘Bastard. What’s the matter with you?’ Joe tried to push past into the dining room.

  André snatched the tray out of his hand and pressed it onto one of the men on his way out, lifting the tureen off the tray as he did so.

  Joe stared at him. ‘What the hell are you doing, poltroon?’

  ‘Cochon. Fils d’une salope.’

  ‘I don’t know what you said, mate, but whatever it was, you got no right talking to me like that.’

  Bravado. The boy had it by the bushel full. Ire coloured André’s vision red. He grabbed the boy by his stock and pulled him out of the way of the men waiting to go in. ‘You think I am stupid? Mint. You ruin my food with mint?’

  ‘What are you blethering about?’

  André could scarcely contain himself. ‘You like mint in your boeuf bourguignon? Then you shall have it.’

  He thrust the bowl at him. ‘Eat.’

  The dining room door opened and Claire slipped out with Lumsden hard on her heels. Her glance took in the scene and her face filled with horror. ‘What is going on?’ she whispered. ‘We can hear you from inside.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Madame Holte. Try the beef stew. This cochon ruined it with mint.’

  ‘I d-didn’t,’ Joe stuttered, looking to Mr Lumsden. ‘I carried it up. I never touched it.’

  Claire leaned forward and delicately sniffed the dish and then raised her gaze to meet André’s. ‘It definitely smells like peppermint.’

  André handed the dish to one of the footmen who was lingering watching the show. ‘Hold this.’

  He turned to Joe, grabbed his lapels and shook him. ‘It was perfect before you got your hands on it.’ He could scarcely contain his rage, not so much for himself but because this cretin, this fool who liked to play tricks on his fellows, had almost ruined Claire’s dinner. Again. ‘How dare you? How dare you ruin my food? How dare you shame Castonbury with your prejudiced antics?’

  The boy cringed. ‘I never.’

  A touch to his shoulder had him swinging around, fists clenched, expecting one of the others to try to help his friend.

  He drew up short when he realised it was Claire. She looked anxious. ‘This is neither the time nor the place.’ She glanced at the butler. ‘Please find somewhere for Joe to remain under lock and key until we get to the bottom of this.’

  She was protecting the lad. From him. From his temper. Sickness flooded his mouth. He stepped back. ‘I think that would be wise. We do not wish to give him another chance to tamper with the food.’ He glanced over at the dish. ‘I will bring more. Or I will, if what is left in the pot is not also ruined. Once more it is the dish you particularly requested.’

  ‘I see that.’ She sounded so calm, so collected, while he wanted to murder someone. Her coolness quieted his anger. Melted his rage.

  It was the second time her calm voice and quiet manner had taken the edge off his temper. Reason swiftly returned as she smiled at him. He stared at her in awe.

  ‘I think it would be a good idea if Mr Lumsden brought up the replacement,’ she said. ‘Please go with him, Monsieur André. Now I must return to my guests.’

  He watched her walk away, shoulders straight, the erotic sway of her hips in the silken gown a siren’s call. No longer angry, she inflamed him in a different way.

  ‘Lock him in the cellar,’ Lumsden said to one of the other men.

  ‘The wine cellar?’ Joe said with a shadow of his normally cocky manner. He was afraid. André could see the fear in his eyes. Because he was guilty and he knew it.

  ‘The root cellar,’ Lumsden said.

  ‘I never done nothing, Mr Lumsden,’ Joe said, pleading.

  ‘Anything,’ Lumsden said. ‘I do not have time to deal with this,
Joe.’ He cast a look of dislike at André. ‘I have a dinner to serve. I will speak with you both later.’

  * * *

  ‘The duke’s chef has excelled himself,’ Samuelson said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his stomach.

  ‘I am glad you approve, Sir Nathan,’ Claire said softly, thankful that there had been more beef stew and that all of the other of the dishes had remained unadulterated, which did not bode well for Joe.

  ‘Mrs Holte chose the menus,’ Reverend Seagrove said. ‘And a wonderful array of dishes it was.’

  Claire doubted Mr Seagrove had eaten so well in years. ‘I let myself be guided by Monsieur André.’

  ‘A wise women lets herself be guided by a knowledgeable man,’ Sir Nathan said with a smile that seemed almost a leer.

  Claire wished she could like this man better. He was the sort of man who would protect what he had. If only he did not see women as chattels, not quite the equal of his property or his horses. But it might not be such a bad thing, having a man who would not quail before a fight.

  He was one man she felt confident could stand up to Ernie Pratt and his henchmen. André was another, she realised. He wouldn’t be the slightest bit intimidated.

  Surely it would not come to that? The only man who might attempt a challenge had no idea of her real identity. He would never find her here. The moment she was married, she and Jane would be safe, because she would have paid off her late husband’s debts.

  ‘I hear your stud has gone from strength to strength, Sir Nathan,’ Claire said, having done her homework. ‘Do you plan to enter the Derby, this year?’

  ‘Always do, Mrs Holte. I anticipate doing very well. Very well indeed.’

  ‘I had heard your Green Dragon had come down lame,’ Reverend Seagrove said.

  ‘Aye. That fool horse master of mine ran him too hard last time out.’ His face took on a grim expression. ‘He won’t make that mistake again.’

  That sounded terribly like a threat.

  ‘Will you come to the races, Mrs Holte?’ Samuelson asked. ‘I would be happy to have you as my guest.’

  There it was, the kind of invitation she had been hoping for. Only it did not lift her spirits at all. Two hours in Samuelson’s company and she felt battered. By his opinions. And by his personality. There was no doubting his power.