Lady of Shame

by Ann Lethbridge

  She might not have minded him so much if the glances he sent her way were for her as a woman, but it was incontrovertibly clear that it was her name that held his interest.

  She smiled sweetly. ‘I would love to be your guest.’

  Samuelson turned to the dowager marchioness. ‘And what about you, my lady. Would you like to join us?’

  Two widows to choose from. Claire gritted her teeth and kept smiling.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lady Hatherton was saying in her light little voice, but her lips were smiling and Sir Nathan licked his. The man clearly intended to keep all his options open.

  ‘You’ll have a grand time, won’t she, Seagrove?’

  ‘I have to admit,’ the Reverend Seagrove said, ‘there is no more magnificent sight than the Derby.’

  ‘Especially if you’ve a guinea or two on the outcome, eh, Seagrove?’

  ‘I think it is Lady Phaedra you should be asking about the Derby,’ Lily said with a smile.

  Samuelson reared back. ‘Ask a woman?’

  ‘I believe it is Lady Phaedra’s fondest wish to win the Derby. She is an excellent judge of horseflesh, according to my fiancé.’

  ‘A woman’s place is beside her husband’s hearth,’ Samuelson said harshly. The repressive way he said it felt like a rock in the middle of Claire’s chest. She couldn’t breathe for the weight of it for a moment.

  It was her duty to endure it. For the sake of Jane’s future.

  ‘Shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?’ she asked brightly, and rose to her feet lest her face display her worry.

  The gentlemen rose with the ladies and bowed as they left for the drawing room and tea.

  It had been a successful dinner. Everything had gone swimmingly well as far as her guests were concerned, but the heaviness in her chest remained.

  Chapter Nine

  Later could not come soon enough for André as he paced the length of his kitchen and back. Claire had cooled his temper outside the dining room, but now André was filled with cold rage. The boy had to be punished. His crime had not only harmed André, but it had also harmed Claire.

  And that was what had aroused his temper to such an extent earlier.

  When Mr Lumsden arrived he ceased his pacing. ‘A bad business this, monsieur,’ the older man said, shaking his grizzled head.

  ‘Indeed. Shall we speak with the boy now?’

  ‘Better to strike while the iron is hot.’

  A doleful sniff came from the scullery maid, Becca.

  ‘What is the matter with her?’ Lumsden asked.

  ‘I gather she is concerned for Joe.’

  Mr Lumsden harrumphed. ‘Well, come along. Let us get this over with.’ Silently they made their way down to the cellars. Coal was stored here and the duke’s wines, as well as potatoes and other supplies that preferred the cold and the dark.

  Mr Lumsden withdrew a key from his pocket rather like a child withdrawing the crown from the king cakes of André’s childhood.

  No sound came from the other side of the door.

  Mr Lumsden unlocked it and pushed it open.

  Joe charged out, knocking the old man off his feet and barrelling past André. Instinct acted quicker than thought and André caught the lad by the collar, swung him around, then, catching his shoulders, pressed him back against the wall.

  ‘Monsieur André,’ a female voice cried. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  Claire.

  André kept Joe pinned to the wall with one arm across his chest and turned his head to watch her stride down the dim passageway.

  ‘Unhand him,’ she said.

  Stern. Assuming the worst, of course. ‘Non, madame, he stays where he is. Monsieur Lumsden, are you all right?’

  Lumsden emerged from the cellar, brushing himself down and muttering under his breath. He glared at Joe. ‘You’ll pay for that, my lad.’

  Claire’s gaze went to each face. ‘Will someone tell me what is going on?’

  ‘He tried to escape,’ Lumsden said. ‘Knocking me down in the process.’ His brows lowered. ‘What do you have to say for yourself, boy?’

  The lad glared back, his face sullen and full of defiance. ‘I ain’t going to prison. Not for something I never did.’

  ‘Oh, Joe, no one said anything about prison,’ Claire said softly. ‘But I would like to understand why you did it before I decide what should be done.’

  ‘I never did anything. The Frenchie did it and is trying to blame me. He’s got it in for me, he does.’ He swung a punch at André, who caught the fist in his hand and twisted the lad’s arm behind his back, pushing him face-first against the wall.

  ‘Liar,’ André said, his anger red behind his eyes. ‘The stew was fine when it left my kitchen. Did you meet someone on the way?’

  Pressed with his face against the wall, Joe grunted out a muffled no.

  ‘Perhaps you should let him go,’ Claire suggested. ‘So we can talk.’ She glanced at André, clearly asking him to follow her lead.

  Soothed by her voice and her calm cool logic, he eased the pressure on the boy’s back. She was right. The boy could not escape. Nor did André want to hurt him. He just wanted him to pay for his crime.

  The boy leaned his back against the wall, rubbing his wrist.

  ‘You won’t run away, will you, Joe?’ Claire continued in a serious tone. ‘You see, Monsieur André will catch you very quickly if you do and it will be proof of your guilt.’

  Joe eyed André warily. ‘You’re stronger than you look.’

  ‘Monsieur André is a pugilist,’ Claire said. Was that a note of admiration in her voice?

  Joe’s eyes widened and something filled his expression, something that looked a bit like respect.

  ‘I spar,’ André said.

  ‘Is that how your beak got broke?’

  ‘My beak?’

  ‘He means your nose,’ Claire said. She looked as if she was trying not to laugh.

  ‘Let us return to the matter at hand,’ Lumsden said testily. ‘Why did you put mint in the stew?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘It would be better if you told the truth, Joe,’ Claire said gently. ‘Really it would.’

  ‘I’m not admitting to something I never did.’

  ‘Then you can pack your bags and be gone in the morning, and without a reference,’ Lumsden said. ‘You’ve been troublesome since the day you arrived.’

  Joe hunched a shoulder. ‘Fine with me.’

  André winced at the fear behind the bravado. It was a hard time for a lad to be out of work. He didn’t want him dismissed, just punished.

  He looked at Claire, for he could not step into Lumsden’s bailiwick. He was surprised to find her looking at him.

  She turned to Lumsden. ‘I do realise this is your domain, Mr Lumsden, and far be it for me to interfere, but perhaps we could give Joe another chance.’

  Saints above, had she read his mind?

  ‘Not unless he admits his guilt,’ Lumsden said, crossing his arms over his narrow chest.

  ‘I didn’t do it.’ The boy’s chin thrust forward.

  ‘There is no proof that he did,’ Claire said.

  She didn’t want the lad dismissed. It was obvious in her eyes and in the droop of her soft lower lip.

  ‘There might be a way to tell if he is guilty, though it will not prove his innocence,’ André said, and felt a rush of gladness that there was a way he could make Claire feel better about this whole thing.

  Joe regarded him warily. ‘How?’

  ‘Hold out your hands.’

  The boy jerked his hands behind his back.

  ‘Hold them out, Joe,’ Claire said.

  ‘I’m not letting him touch me,’ Joe said.

  ‘Tell me what to look for,’ Claire said, coming to stand between André and the young footman.

  ‘If he handled mint, he would smell of it. It would be on his skin, or in the fabric of his coat.’

  ‘Hold out your hands, Joe,’
Claire said crisply.

  The lad thrust his fists at her face, then turned them over flat. Claire inhaled and shook her head.

  ‘Please take off your coat,’ she instructed gently.

  He did so and, with Lumsden’s help, they established that there was not a whiff of mint on the lad.

  ‘Could it have dissipated already?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Dissi-whated?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Faded,’ Claire said.

  André shook his head.

  ‘Then you know I didn’t do it.’ He glowered at André. ‘You did it. You were trying to get me into trouble. You Frenchies are all the same. Killed my brothers, your lot did.’

  ‘Joe,’ Claire rapped out. ‘Enough. As Monsieur André said, this does not prove you innocent, though it certainly helps. And it was Monsieur André’s idea, so you should be grateful. While we cannot punish you for a crime we cannot prove, we can punish you for your rudeness and for knocking Mr Lumsden down.’

  Joe’s mouth dropped open.

  André’s jaw wanted to drop too. The little brown mouse had the roar of a lion when roused, it seemed. But then he already knew she had hidden passion.

  His blood warmed.

  Good Gracious, how did she do it to him, when he had already decided not to let it happen again? Was her allure growing too strong for his well-honed control? If so, he should start thinking about leaving sooner than he had planned.

  Claire looked at him and at Mr Lumsden. ‘I think one of the problems with Joe is too much unspent energy. Too much time standing around with nothing to do but look smart in his livery.’

  There was a wicked twinkle in her eye and it seemed to be directed his way. André felt his stomach tighten with anticipation and a bit of dread as he waited to find out what she would say next.

  ‘Monsieur André is extremely busy in kitchen. If Mr Lumsden will agree, you can be assigned to assist him. It will do you good to learn how much work is required of a chef and how disheartening it is when someone spoils that work.’

  A woman with a brain and a dollop of kindness. A rare breed indeed, in his experience. It would give André a chance to keep an eye on the lad, find out if he truly was guilty.

  Lumsden hesitated, then gave a hard nod. ‘I agree.’

  ‘What, you’ll turn me into a kitchen maid? Or a nancy boy finickin’ around with food. Not me.’

  Claire’s eyebrows went up and then lowered. Her mouth lost all vestiges of softness. ‘It is that or dismissal, Joe.’

  Now that was a firmness he really had not expected.

  André bared his teeth in a hard non-amused smile. ‘Expect to work hard, mon ami, for I will show you no quarter.’

  Joe sneered. ‘How hard can peeling a few tatties be?’

  Goodness, the boy was incorrigible. And Claire. She was extraordinary. If the boy really was guilty, then this was a fitting punishment.

  But if Joe was speaking the truth and did not spoil the dinner, who did? And would they try again?

  * * *

  The following morning brought a nosegay of snowdrops from Sir Nathan along with a note hoping he would meet her at the assembly to be held in Buxton at the end of the week.

  He was hooked. It didn’t mean she could land him as a bridegroom, but it did mean he was interested.

  She should feel elated.

  She didn’t. Quite the opposite. She felt like a woman with her head in a noose. It was the same feeling she’d experienced when she’d seen the list of suitable gentlemen her brother had suggested she marry years ago. So she’d run off with George instead. What a bad judge of character she had been. He’d been charming right up to the moment he discovered he wasn’t getting any money, then he’d despised her, made it clear he found her of no value. Over time she’d come to believe him.

  This time she would be guided by her brother.

  And besides, this marriage wasn’t for her sake. It was for Jane. To give her the future she deserved. A settled, safe home. She would have to find a way for Jane to meet Sir Nathan. Introduce the child to the idea gently. If only she could imagine Jane taking to Sir Nathan the way she had taken to André.

  And if he didn’t come up to scratch, she still had one more string to her bow.

  Mr Carstairs was coming for dinner next week, a little bit later than originally planned but he’d been in London on business. Crispin would approve of any one of these three men. Perhaps she would like the next one better. Perhaps she should wait and see before coming to a decision.

  She picked up the paper and scanned the headlines. Another brutal murder in the rookeries in the east end of London. She shivered and could not help wonder if the same person responsible for her husband’s death was responsible for this one too.

  Thankfully, his weakness for gambling and subsequent debts had led him to change his name from time to time. She was sure Pratt didn’t know their real last name. Or anything about her origins. George had kept that one promise, she was sure. She bit her lip. Almost sure.

  The door flew open and one of the maids rushed in. The ungainly one from the kitchen. Becca. ‘You’ve got to come quick, mum. He’s going to kill him.’

  Claire shot to her feet. ‘Who is killing who?’

  ‘Monsewer. He’s killing Joe. It is not Joe’s fault. It isn’t. It isn’t.’

  Oh, dear, perhaps her idea of having the boy work in the kitchen was not such a good one, after all. She hadn’t intended for André to hurt the boy.

  Then she remembered the chef’s bruises and his cut lip. Perhaps the man took pleasure in taking out his anger on others with his fists. Some men did. Her husband, for example. But only when in his cups. She’d learned to remain silent when he’d imbibed more than usual.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In the carriage house. Thought he could hide what he was doing out there,’ the girl said, ‘but Agnes heard the row when she went out to empty the slops. She came to get me to watch the show. Half the footmen are out there watching too. And none of them doing a thing to help poor Joe.’

  Claire grabbed her shawl and followed the girl down the servants’ steps and out to the stables. The wind was freezing and her thin slippers offered little protection from the hard-packed snow.

  Entering the stable, they bypassed the stalls and went right to the back of the block where the carriages were kept. The large open space was to allow them to be turned around, but today the girl was correct; half the men from the house and all of the grooms were gathered around in a loose circle, watching something in the middle.

  Claire pushed her way through. And stopped. Simultaneously aghast and fascinated.

  André was naked to the waist. Her mouth dried at the beauty of the man. A statue of a god brought to life. His chest was broad and muscular, its hardness softened only by a triangle of dark crisp curls. Large well-defined muscles in his arms flexed and bunched as he circled his opponent. There were gloves on his hands. The kind pugilists wore for practice. Now his back turned towards her, a smooth expanse of olive-skinned perfection.

  Droplets of sweat sheened his skin and here and there ran down the silken skin of his back. Fascinated she watched them trail all the way down to his waistband and disappear.

  This man was nothing like her husband, who had been pasty white and rather soft. He looked almost brutal as he towered over the terribly scrawny Joe, who had a chest like a rabbit and boyish muscles.

  ‘Keep your hands up,’ André was saying to the lad.

  The boy brought his gloved hands up to cover his face. André jabbed at him, so swiftly it was not much more than a blur of movement. The lad fell on his rump with a thump and the men roared with laughter.

  He was hurting the boy.

  ‘Monsieur André,’ she said, striding into the circle. ‘Enough of this.’

  Joe looked at her sheepishly, but sprang to his feet.

  André swung around, his face full of shock. ‘Madame Holte?’

  ‘I did not intend for you to brutalise th
e boy, sir.’

  Joe took advantage of the chef’s distraction and swung a punch at his temple.

  Monsieur André staggered sideways. Some of the men sniggered. Most shouted foul.

  André shot Joe a glare. ‘Remember what I told you about fighting fair. This is not a street brawl. It is a science.’

  He looked back at Claire. ‘Madame, I suggest you return to the house.’

  ‘Not until we have had words.’

  He closed his eyes in that typical gesture of male irritation. ‘Very well.’ He looked at Joe. ‘The lesson is finished for today. Wash off and return to your duties.’

  To Claire’s surprise, Joe looked thoroughly disappointed. ‘We was hardly getting started.’

  ‘Go,’ André said. ‘And the rest of you. Everyone, back to work.’ He spoke as if he had only just realised how many of the male servants were present.

  The servants slunk away. Soon, all that was left was the sound of her own breathing and the blood rushing in her ears.

  ‘Who told you we were out here?’ he asked, his back to her as he removed his gloves.

  To her disappointment his lovely back disappeared beneath the billowing white of his shirt. It didn’t matter. Never would she forget the sight of him bare to the waist, like some primitive warrior about to do battle.

  ‘Becca came and found me.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Now what did that mean?’

  He shrugged into his coat and turned to face her. ‘It means that I think there is something going on between those two. She was distraught when she discovered he’d been accused of tampering with the food.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It may be nothing. She’s a very strange girl.’

  ‘I’ll speak to Mrs Stratton about her.’ She took a deep breath. ‘André, I asked you to put the boy to work, not beat him to death.’

  His dark eyes narrowed, his head tilted in that arrogant manner. His shoulders tensed. Then he shrugged as if her question barely deserved an answer, but that he would grace her with one. ‘I thought it would do him good. He harbours a great deal of bitterness about his brothers. He pines for them. I know what it is to feel helpless in the face of injustice. It makes a man angry.’