Never Resist Temptation

by Miranda Neville

  Jacobin didn’t want to even think about what would happen when they discovered she was female.

  The Earl of Storrington dismissed his carriage at the entrance to the Pavilion. He preferred to walk the short distance to the Old Ship Inn and let the breeze dissipate the annoyance of a wasted evening. He was beginning to wonder whether his careful cultivation of Prinny was worth the past three months he’d spent in the regent’s circle. He’d come no closer to luring Candover into another game of cards. All he seemed to achieve was a succession of achingly long and ridiculously elaborate meals like the one just served in the prince’s seaside pleasure palace. There’d been enough rich, over-garnished dishes to feed a multitude. Little wonder he needed a walk.

  Somehow Candover had scraped together the twenty thousand pounds he’d lost after the girl eloped with the French cook. And now he stubbornly refused to sit down with Anthony at the piquet table again.

  A commotion ahead pulled him out of his frustrated musing. In the dimly lit street he could make out a figure lying on the ground, under attack by three men.

  He didn’t like to see such unfair odds, so his first impulse was to launch himself into the fray. A mill with a group of ruffians would be just the thing to appease his irritation. But Anthony, who took pride in possessing the logical mind of a mathematician, disdained impulsive actions. He recollected that he was unarmed, and the wise option would be to avoid the scene and go for help. Negotiating a compromise between inclination and common sense, he embarked on a third course: bluff. He lengthened his gait, and as he came closer he could see that the victim was slight, only a youth, but flailing his arms, gamely resisting the efforts of the others to—good Lord—remove his breeches.

  “Stop that!” he shouted.

  The attackers looked up. One of them, a dirty brute with protruding eyes, looked assessingly at the earl, probably trying to decide how much damage he and his fellow bullies would sustain in a brawl. Anthony’s fists clenched with anticipation of inflicting a good deal of damage. Confidence leached out of the lout’s expression as he contemplated the earl’s well-muscled six feet, two inches. That was the trouble with spending hours in the boxing saloon. Only an idiot wanted to pick a fight with you. Alas, this man wasn’t an idiot.

  “Just havin’ a bit of fun, me lord,” he cajoled. “Caught this nancy boy lurkin’ round the prince’s house. Thought we’d give ’im a scare like.”

  The boy on the ground thrashed about at the man’s accusation, but was held fast to the ground by two of his captors. “I’m not a nancy and I wasn’t doing anything,” he gasped, winded by his struggle.

  “I suggest the three of you leave, immediately,” Anthony said, regretfully abandoning visions of combat and falling back on his usual persona of haughty aristocrat. “If you get out of my sight now, I may forget that I saw you and be unable to report you to the magistrate.”

  Casting reluctant backward looks at the youth, the three took themselves off up North Street. Storrington turned to the boy, who was now on hands and knees, trying to get up. A glance was enough to see that the lad’s clothing was of superior quality, his style that of a gentleman. A very young gentleman who had no business being in the streets at such an hour.

  “What are you doing out so late, and alone?” he asked, offering a hand.

  Brown eyes gazed up at him. He could see why the boy’s looks had attracted attention. His face was delicately handsome, saved from girlishness only by a firm jaw.

  “I thank you, sir, for your intervention.” The boy was still short of breath and having difficulty standing, so Storrington seized his hand and tugged him to his feet. The lad lost his balance and fell against him, forcing the earl to clasp him round the waist lest they both tumble to the ground.

  A curious shiver passed through Anthony’s body. He looked at the youth with alarm. Good God, he’d never felt that way about a boy. Almost a sexual frisson.

  Hastily he dropped his arms and stepped backward so quickly that the youngster lost his balance again and stumbled forward. Anthony reached out a hand to ward him off and felt a slender shoulder through the fine wool jacket, sending a shiver of awareness up his arm. Appalled, he snatched it back. A surprisingly light body crashed against his chest, and he found himself inhaling a faint, sweet scent from a cluster of curls that tickled his nose. There was nothing for it but to remain still, suffering the same discomforting physical reaction, until the boy had regained his equilibrium.

  Anthony dismissed his initial intention of seeing the boy home safely. Not when he found himself looking at a pair of lips and noticing that they were plump, rosy, and sensually curved.

  “It’s nothing,” he said gruffly. “Get along now, be careful, and don’t wander the streets of Brighton at night again.”

  The boy scampered off, and Anthony resisted the urge to watch where he went.

  The devil! What was the matter with him? Almost two years without a woman, without even wanting a woman. It seemed that the Almighty, or some other power, was playing a joke on him.

  Chapter 2

  The morning after a banquet was a pleasant change from the fevered activity of the event. Some of the mountains of leftover food could be reused for the evening’s meal, but there was still a healthy surplus. Starting early in the morning, servants from other Brighton households appeared at the back door with dishes to be filled. With so few members of the ton in Brighton in November, the demand was less than in summer, when the kitchens of fashionable households drove up prices with their lust for luxurious scraps from the royal table. Nevertheless, the cooks were kept busy apportioning out the uneaten remains.

  A particular china serving dish made Jacobin grimace. She recognized the Candover crest as she filled it with the rose-flavored Bavarian cream she’d made the previous morning. She was well aware that it was one of Lord Candover’s favorite puddings. Apparently his passion for the dish wasn’t shared by others; it had been returned almost untouched to the ice room the previous night.

  A summons to the main kitchen interrupted the lazy tenor of the day. As the confectionery staff hurried into the great chamber, the rumor traveled through the ranks that the Prince Regent was making one of his periodic visits to the magnificent domestic offices that were among the wonders of the Pavilion. The senior cooks ordered everyone to make sure they wore clean uniforms before they lined up, like soldiers in a regiment, for royal inspection. Jacobin blessed the fact that her jacket had survived the morning without a stain. There was no time to find a private spot to change.

  A more pressing worry arose when she heard that His Highness was accompanied by the Russian ambassador and several other gentlemen. She pulled the floppy crown of her toque around, so it would at least partly cover her face, then slipped into the back row behind a pair of particularly tall fellows. If Candover were among the visitors he probably wouldn’t notice one among dozens of similarly garbed cooks, but it didn’t hurt to take precautions. Perhaps the Earl of Storrington would come too; she knew he’d also been one of the dinner guests.

  The regent walked in with a thin man wearing a foreign order, presumably the ambassador, followed by about half a dozen others. Though Jacobin couldn’t be certain, she didn’t think Candover was among the cluster of men in the prince’s entourage. Her uncle was likely still in bed, sleeping off the three bottles of claret that were his minimum daily intake. She was wondering if one of the overweight exquisites, each rivaling their prince as dedicated trenchermen, was Storrington, when she noticed a tall man bringing up the rear.

  His relative youth, good looks, and muscular form set him apart from the rest of the royal cronies, as did the restrained manner of his dress. He was plainly garbed in a dark green morning coat over a matching waistcoat, the cut of these garments as fine as that of his buff pantaloons and as impeccable as his perfectly arranged white neck linen. Light brown hair was arranged in a windswept style, but without the disorderly excess she had seen in some dandies on the strut during the fashionab
le hour in Hyde Park. Instead the tousled locks made a pleasant counterbalance to the severity of his clothing. From her vantage point at the far end of the kitchen she couldn’t have described the color of his eyes or the details of his features, but she had no trouble recognizing him. He was her rescuer from the previous night.

  She stared at him like a village idiot, oblivious for a moment of Candover, Storrington, or the Prince Regent himself.

  The prince was asking for Carême. “The ambassador wishes to compliment him on the excellence of last night’s dinner,” he explained to the head sauce cook, who bent almost double in his effort to acknowledge the supreme honor of such attention.

  “Alas, Your Highness, Maître Carême is indisposed,” the cook explained. “He has a fever.”

  “Not caused by the travails of last night, I trust?” inquired the prince graciously.

  No indeed, the cook elaborated. Monsieur Carême had been in his bed since yesterday morning.

  Expressing his astonishment that the dinner had been so well executed, the prince congratulated the kitchen staff on their success without the guidance of their leader.

  “I am disappointed,” said the ambassador. “I hoped to convey the regards of my master, Tsar Alexander, who enjoyed Monsieur Carême’s services in Paris last year. Also, I wished to thank him for the compliment of including a Russian confit in the presentation last night. Doubtless the charming ermitage was created before Monsieur Carême was taken ill.”

  “True, Your Excellency, but the finishing touches were supplied in the morning by one of the confectionary staff.”

  “Ah,” said the ambassador. “Perhaps in the absence of the master I may compliment his capable deputy.”

  The sauce cook bowed. “Of course, Your Excellency.” He turned to Mrs. Underwood, who stood behind him. “It was Léon, I believe, who completed the pièce montée. Where is he?”

  Looking less than enchanted, Mrs. Underwood sent out the word for Léon to appear. Jacobin hesitated to emerge from the protection of the two tall roast cooks who stood in front of her, but one of the footmen spotted her and pointed her out. She felt the curious eyes of the entire staff on her as she made her way across the cavernous chamber to the regent’s group.

  Keeping her head low in feigned humility, she managed to examine the group of gentlemen, her heart in her mouth as she wondered what on earth she would do if her uncle was present. Her confidence rose as she failed to find him; she straightened her stance and found herself meeting the eyes of her rescuer. They were gray-blue, and their alerted expression left her in no doubt that he’d recognized her. At closer quarters she realized what she’d been too agitated to see the previous night: he was an exceedingly good-looking man. But his appearance was marred by the cold arrogance of his mien. Under his steely gaze, lacking any trace of warmth or humor, the flutter in her stomach engendered by his looks subsided to a dull resentment. What had she done to make him regard her as though she were a bothersome insect? It wasn’t her fault she’d been attacked by those marauding drunks.

  Having reached the visiting dignitaries, she turned her attention to the regent. Under other circumstances she would have enjoyed the opportunity to view England’s ruling prince at close quarters. He was tall and imposing, bulky of course, but impressively dressed and coiffed. Anyway, she was hardly in a position to criticize his avoirdupois, given the substantial false belly bulging under her linen jacket. She thrust her shoulders back and tilted her chin before sweeping into an extravagant bow. She couldn’t help a thrill of pride that her skills were receiving such lofty recognition.

  “This is Jacob Léon,” said the sauce cook. “He came to us a few months ago. I believe he was trained in Paris.”

  “My compliments on the hermitage,” said the ambassador, speaking in French. “A magnificent piece of work, although,” he added with a smile, “palm trees are not often found in Russia.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency,” Jacobin replied in the same language. It felt good to converse in French, and she could relax now she was sure Candover wasn’t in the visiting party. “I added only a few finishing touches. Most of the praise must go to Monsieur Carême.” Thus she tactfully dismissed hours of painful work. She couldn’t afford to offend Carême by having it reported she was stealing his glory.

  “You are very young for such responsibility. Where did you learn your skills?”

  “I was apprentice to a former colleague of Monsieur Carême,” Jacobin replied, “a cook who worked at the maître’s shop in the Rue de la Paix. I have been fortunate, even at second hand, to learn some of the master’s extraordinary skill.”

  “Very good, very good,” interrupted the regent, sounding impatient. “Very well done, young man. Your master will be pleased with you, I have no doubt.” He turned to the head sauce cook. “I shall have my own physician attend Carême.” Then, doubtless considering his lesser servants sufficiently honored, he drew the ambassador’s attention to the construction of the kitchen and the vast central steam table, capable of keeping forty platters of food hot at the same time.

  Jacobin feared she had now drawn the interest of the entire staff and the envy of many. Given the intrigues and resentments that were rife in the prince’s kitchens, her rise to prominence would cause more problems than not. In her situation it would be safer to relapse into obscurity. As soon as she could, she escaped out to the kitchen court to share a tankard of ale with young Charlie and Dick Johnson. Dick was an amiable member of the confectionery staff, who didn’t hold “Jacob’s” Frenchness against him. Right now he was more interested in his potential windfall from the sale of the food surplus than in Jacob Léon’s sudden notoriety.

  “I wonder how much we’ll get from this morning’s work,” he mused, blowing a smoke ring from a cheroot, filched by one of the footmen from the post-dinner detritus of the dining room. “Let’s hope the head cook doesn’t rise from his bed and snaffle the lot.”

  With Carême still indisposed, the kitchen staff was particularly cheerful that morning, for the earnings from the surplus food would be distributed to the staff according to the long-established system of entitlements. Not least among the grudges held by the Prince Regent’s staff against the French chef was Carême’s habit of making his own deals for the sale of food and retaining the income for himself.

  “Mon Dieu, it doesn’t seem fair,” Jacobin agreed, “if it is indeed true that his salary is two thousand guineas. Quelle richesse!”

  Charlie’s eyes looked ready to pop at the notion of such wealth. “Wot would you do with two thousand yellow boys, Jake?”

  Jacobin laughed and rumpled the boy’s hair. “I don’t know, Charlie. Maybe drink a bottle of wine every day? The good stuff, not the filth they serve to the staff.”

  “One! I’d drink two! And get meself a fine coach and ’orses and drive round all day like a nob.”

  “I’d marry Alice Tomkins,” averred Dick, who was consistently ignored by the prettiest kitchen maid. “She’d be all arsey-varsey for me if I was rich. And I’d get out of here and buy me a cottage in the country.”

  “Not me,” Jacobin countered. “I’d go to London and open a pastry shop, and all the fashionable households would buy from me, instead of Gunter’s.”

  “You could do it, Jake,” said Charlie. “Your pastries are the best in the kitchen.”

  “And how would you know that?” she asked. “None of the others let you pinch samples like I do.”

  “I know,” Charlie said stubbornly. “And now His Highness knows too. Soon you’ll be as famous as Mr. Carême.”

  In her more optimistic moments she indeed harbored such grandiose ambitions. And when realism intruded, her goal was more modest: to have enough money to resume her own identity and live comfortably without the grueling work of being in service. With a small shop in London she could enjoy some of the pleasures of town life. Her years in the country had been damnably dull compared to her girlhood in Paris.

  But two thousand gu
ineas were unlikely to come in her direction. All the more reason to hope a few shillings from this morning’s trade would supplement her wage of thirty pounds a year.

  Their comfortable ruminations on wealth were interrupted by the arrival of a stranger, a servant but not a member of the royal staff. From his clothing he appeared to be a groom rather than an indoor servant.

  “I’m looking for a French cook,” the man said. “Can you tell me where to find”—he referred to a slip of paper—“Jacob Léon.”

  “I am Léon,” said Jacobin in surprise. “What do you want of me?”

  “I’ve come to offer you a job,” said the man. “My master is looking for a new pastry cook and he’s heard you’re a good one. Heard you can cook as well as Carême.”

  Jacobin laughed. “Hardly, monsieur. Your master must have heard that I finished some of Monsieur Carême’s work in his absence.”

  “But you can make those fancy French pastries the nobs are mad for?” the man persisted.

  “I am an excellent pastry cook,” Jacobin acknowledged proudly. “Is your master a connoisseur of such cuisine?”

  The man looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know about a connersewer, but he likes puddings and he needs a good cook. He told me to offer you eighty pounds a year.”

  Jacobin pursed her lips and nodded appreciatively. That was a princely salary, and would let her save for her shop much faster. For the first time since escaping her uncle’s house, she glimpsed a future with possibilities beyond the boundaries of her imagination. Perhaps it was a good thing Candover and Storrington had engaged in their immoral wager. Without it she’d never have left the safe but confining dead end of life as her uncle’s despised dependent.

  “That is generous, monsieur,” she said, visions of golden guineas dancing in her head. “Tell me, what is the name of your master who loves pastry so much?”

  “Bless me, did I forget to tell you? My master is the Earl of Storrington, and I am Jem Webster, his groom.”