Never Resist Temptation

by Miranda Neville

  Antonin Carême

  “What do you think of the earl?” Miss Lavinia Bellamy examined the fair curls clustered at her temples and fluffed them up with anxious fingers. The ladies had withdrawn at the conclusion of dinner, leaving the gentlemen to their wine, and been shown to a bedroom on the second floor by their hostess. It was, Lady Kitty explained, the chamber she’d occupied during her two seasons. It was well equipped with every kind of looking glass for the critical assessment and maintenance of a debutante’s toilette. Most of the women had completed their repairs, leaving the two Bellamy girls the sole occupants of the room.

  From her perch in the sewing room that adjoined the bedroom Jacobin wished the pair would hurry up and leave. She’d come here to change into masculine attire, and time was short if she was to execute her plan safely.

  “He’s certainly handsome enough,” replied the other girl, Lavinia’s older cousin. Susan Bellamy’s voice was mature and poised in contrast to that of her companion, whose ever-present giggle was an indication that childhood had barely been left behind. “But he seems a little distracted. I think I prefer a gentleman who shows more interest when he converses. His brother has far more address and is just as handsome.”

  “What fustian!” Miss Lavinia said dismissively. “Captain Storrs is a younger son. He may be better company than his brother, but there is no comparison.”

  “Are you setting your cap at Storrington, then?” inquired Miss Susan. “You were certainly making up to him. He must be thirty-five if he’s a day, and according to Aunt Caroline has never shown the least inclination to marry.”

  Jacobin felt quite indignant on Lord Storrington’s behalf. Perhaps it wasn’t such a great thing to be a rich nobleman if it meant being pursued by idiot chits interested only in your money and title.

  On second thought, she decided, Storrington could take care of himself. The truth was she envied these young ladies, who could sit in the dining room and chat and flirt and eat delicious food. Unlike Jacobin, who was merely awarded the dubious honor of preparing part of the meal. At least her dishes had returned to the kitchen in ruins, proof that the confections had found favor with the guests.

  “It’s odd, you know,” Miss Lavinia continued. “When he was Lord Storrs the earl had quite a reputation. I hear there were all sorts of shocking parties in this house.”

  “Lavinia! That’s servants’ gossip. Stop at once.”

  Go on, Jacobin urged silently, wanting to discover more about the younger, jollier Storrington already hinted at by his cook.

  “In any case, since his father’s death Lord Storrington has obviously decided to be as stuffy and dull as Mama and Papa.” From her tone, Miss Lavinia didn’t think this was a good thing. “Mind you, Mama might not like the match above half, given what happened to the earl’s mother.”

  She lowered her voice confidentially, and Jacobin had to strain to hear what was being said.

  “Aunt Mary said she was quite mad and ran off with a lover.”

  “Really! Lavinia!” Jacobin pictured Miss Susan throwing up her hands in despair. “You’ll be kept indoors for a week if my aunt catches you. But seriously, I can’t imagine why she should have doubts about a man simply because his mother died in an accident when he was quite young. Even if the circumstances were scandalous, I can’t see how she can blame the son.”

  “Oh, you know Mama. She’s the highest stickler. But I believe she’ll have to adjust. If she disapproves of every gentleman with a relative who has done something doubtful, neither of us will ever get married.” She giggled. “I believe I may try for Storrington. It might be worth being married to an old man to be a countess.”

  Old man! The chit was out of her mind. Nothing Jacobin had seen suggested Storrington was too old for anything.

  She began to dislike Miss Lavinia Bellamy. Just as well, since her plan for the rest of the evening was to prove the girl’s father guilty of attempted murder.

  It was a damn dull dinner party. Kitty’s notion of “not too young” when it applied to marriageable ladies turned out to be “over eighteen but under twenty-two.” The younger Bellamy girl, who didn’t even meet that criterion, was quite a saucy piece and persisted in trying to engage him in flirtation, which both amused him and made him feel old. The niece, Miss Susan Bellamy was better: handsome rather than pretty, and possessed of some intelligence and wit.

  “Nice girl,” muttered James as the ladies withdrew from the dining room. His brother had been seated next to Miss Susan, lucky man. Anthony had to endure the utter tedium of Lady Caroline Bellamy’s conversation. As the daughter of a duke the woman was higher in the instep than a French-heeled shoe and just as uncomfortable. There was no escape. The woman would have been fatally insulted if not given the place of honor at her host’s right.

  Now it was time to see if the male half of the couple had anything interesting to say. Objectively of course, there was no chance that the Honorable Chauncey would have anything to contribute that wouldn’t send the average man into a stupor. But Anthony retained a faint trace of optimism that reminiscing about his far-off—and dare he hope misspent?—youth in the wicked city of Paris would breathe life into the corpse.

  It didn’t.

  “I spent a short time there,” Bellamy said stiffly, as though it was distasteful for him to have to admit he’d ever set foot within one hundred miles of the French capital. “I was very young and I don’t recall coming across your late parents. I wasn’t there long enough to mix in society.”

  “I suppose you were busy enjoying the architectural marvels of Paris?”

  “My late father, like many of his era, thought it essential to my education to see Italy, France, and some of the German principalities. If one thing good came from the recent wars, it was putting an end to such travels. Our sons are safer in England. Sending impressionable youth among foreigners can only lead to them wandering into error.”

  Anthony tried to envision Bellamy wandering into error, but his imagination wasn’t up to the task.

  “Did you ever come across Candover there?” he asked, on the chance that he might get something useful from one final line of inquiry.

  The effect was immediate. Bellamy’s face turned puce and wore an expression of extreme distaste, mixed with something stronger. Rage? Fear?

  “I am acquainted with Lord Candover,” he said, “but his is not an association I would care to pursue. Without wishing to speak ill of the Prince Regent…”

  Why the hell not? Anthony thought. Everyone else does.

  “…I cannot approve of the caliber of man with whom he prefers to surround himself. And Candover is one of the very worst. A worthless gambler and drunkard.”

  Bellamy’s attitude put a damper on the normal post-prandial male congeniality. They didn’t linger long over their port before joining the ladies in the drawing room. The minute the gentlemen came in, Miss Lavinia Bellamy made a beeline for Anthony and fluttered her eyelashes.

  ’Struth, thought Anthony in horror. The girl’s setting her cap at me, and she can’t be a day over seventeen.

  “Lord Storrington!” She giggled. “My mama and Lady Kitty have come up with such a scheme. Do, pray, say you’ll agree.”

  “Lavinia!” called her mother repressively. “Such forwardness is unbecoming. Let Lady Kitty speak.”

  Though Anthony’s instinct was to depress any ideas the pretty little chit was developing—and certainly to foil any plan of Kitty’s—he found his dislike of the odious Lady Caroline took precedence. Besides, Lavinia looked quite crestfallen at her mother’s snub, so he gallantly stepped in to save her. He took Lady Caroline’s hand, bowed over it, and gave her his most charming smile.

  “I’m sure any scheme that you and Kitty could come up with would be quite delightful,” he lied. “I am agog to discover what joys you have in store for us.”

  Lady Caroline’s thin lips stretched into a narrow smile.

  “Lady Kitty has persuaded me,” she said, “much a
gainst my better judgment, to join her at the public ball at the Argyll Rooms tomorrow night with you and Captain Storrs as our protectors.”

  He’d certainly walked into that pit with eyes open.

  “How very broadminded of you, Lady Caroline. Not every mother cares to expose her daughters in such an environment.” That, he hoped, would put a stop to that. Although it wasn’t unheard of for well-bred girls to attend such events, it wasn’t the Bellamys’ usual cup of tea. From the woman’s dyspeptic expression he could see that the charge of broadmindedness had hit home. For a few seconds the issue lay in the balance, but came down firmly on the side of snatching an earl for her daughter.

  “With London so thin of company, my girls haven’t even had the chance to dance at an informal ball. Lady Kitty has persuaded me that it will give them the opportunity to gain confidence dancing in public.”

  Anthony made one last attempt to save himself. “Such admirable condescension! Such liberality to be ready to occupy the same dance floor as one’s servants!” If that didn’t do it, nothing would.

  It didn’t.

  “I know that your presence, and that of their father and Captain Storrs, will guard the young ladies from any impertinences by members of the lower orders.”

  Anthony had nothing left to do but accept his fate and resign himself to an evening dancing attendance on a pair of children in a public ballroom. At least it could hardly be as tiresome as his own party.

  The guests apparently agreed with his assessment of the entertainment and took their leave at an embarrassingly early hour. And Kitty, the witch, left with all the others instead of waiting decently so that her brother could tell her what he thought of her meddling. Even James pleaded a late engagement, leaving Anthony alone with his own thoughts.

  In one way at least the dinner had succeeded beyond expectations. Jane Castle had performed superbly and the desserts caused a sensation. The centerpiece of a fantastic basket filled with egg-shaped meringues had elicited gasps of admiration from his guests, as had a tower of crispy pastry stuffed with cream. He himself had consumed a couple of those puffy things and raised his glass in a silent toast to the cook.

  He had no doubt that word of his brilliant new cook would spread around the ton like news of an indiscretion at Almack’s. Candover would be wild to taste her offerings. If nothing else lured him to the piquet table with Anthony, the prospect of gaining Jane Castle’s services would.

  The thought of using the lovely cook as a stake in a card game caused him a momentary pang of unease. She was alone in the world and in trouble, suspected of murder and a fugitive from the law. It occurred to him that she showed remarkable courage and deserved his protection. His mind drifted to the circumstances of another young woman. He preferred not to think about Candover’s niece, about why she’d fled. Had elopement with Candover’s cook really been her choice, or had she been desperate to avoid him? He’d never have harmed her, but she couldn’t know that. His conscience stabbed him. He was responsible in part for a young lady being adrift in a harsh world. He hoped she was safe.

  His misgivings were soothed by the reflection that Jane Castle’s position was quite different. Her services as a cook would be at stake, not her sexual favors. Cooking was her profession. What did it matter whom she served?

  Besides, he had no intention of losing. No, indeed. Candover would once again succumb to Anthony’s superior skill and lose a fortune he couldn’t afford.

  But, damn it, where did he raise the twenty thousand last time?

  The image of Jane Castle’s beautiful face lingered in his mind. He really ought to thank her for her efforts tonight. He stopped himself in the act of reaching for the bellpull to summon her. At this hour she was probably abed. Tomorrow would be much more suitable. Or better yet a message by way of the butler. Staying away from such an attractive female servant was the only sensible thing to do.

  To aid this worthy resolution he stepped outside into the garden behind the house. The weather had turned cold, and a full moon illuminated the neighboring houses, even through the smoky town haze. He shivered in his black evening coat of superfine wool, but the mild discomfort didn’t succeed in diverting his thoughts.

  Jane Castle didn’t really conduct herself like a servant. Her manner toward him, even setting aside the matter of that disturbing kiss, was more that of an equal. Those remarkable brown eyes had the habit of meeting his boldly, and the chin with its intriguing cleft was proudly assertive. Perhaps that’s why he’d found himself bowing to her in the mews a day or two earlier.

  It had been an awkward moment, their first encounter since embracing in the kitchen at Storrington. He’d meant to treat her, when he couldn’t avoid her, with cool propriety and set their association on a proper footing. But instead of a “Good day, Jane,” or even a pleasant nod such as he might afford anyone else in his service, he’d greeted her like a passing duchess in Hyde Park. And she’d responded in kind. That was no servant’s curtsy.

  He had to face the unpleasant truth that his pastry cook might not be who she purported to be. There was something irregular about Jane Castle. If that was even her name.

  Chapter 12

  Tracking down Mr. Chauncey Bellamy had been ridiculously easy. A casual inquiry in the kitchen revealed that the gentleman’s London house lay a mere two doors down on Upper Brook Street from Storrington’s. Without raising suspicion, Jacobin had managed to gather a fair amount of information about the habits of the Bellamys and their staff.

  On the night of the dinner party she was putting the finishing touches to a sensational mille-feuilles tower, gleaned from Maître Carême’s Le Pâtissier Royal, when the kitchen chatter revealed that the guests dining upstairs included the entire Bellamy family.

  It seemed like fate. Jacobin decided to strike at once when she knew they were occupied for the evening.

  She lost some time outwaiting the young Bellamy ladies in the sewing room, but even so, she calculated she would have at least two hours before the Bellamys went home. Surely there would be music, conversation, and even cards in the drawing room to occupy the company.

  Once she reached the garden without detection, it was the work of a minute to pull herself up and over the wall into the garden of the empty house next door and to repeat the climb into the Bellamy property. Waiting crouched in the shrubbery, she shivered with cold, but her information had been correct. Before long the Bellamy’s butler emerged to light up a cigar and take his evening stroll. As soon as the man reached the bottom of the garden, well away from the back door, Jacobin slipped from her hiding place and silently entered the house.

  Her heart raced with fear but also with a mad exhilaration. She stood motionless in the passage, straining her ears for the sound of any human activity. All was quiet. As she’d expected, with the family out for the evening, all the servants had retired save the butler. She walked stealthily into the hall, then examined the ground-floor rooms, one by one.

  She had no idea what she was looking for, or even if there was anything to find. Only the convenient proximity of the house had made her undertake anything so foolhardy. She forced herself to slow down, rather than rush through the house at random. Impulse having driven her this far, it was time to use her brain.

  What might she find to prove a connection between Candover and Bellamy? A portrait, perhaps. But if there was a family connection, that would be simple to discover elsewhere. Something small and incriminating. Papers. A letter. She needed to find Chauncey Bellamy’s desk.

  The house was lit, though dimly, and she quickly discovered there was nothing resembling a desk in the dining room or morning room. She’d have to go upstairs. In one sense this was good. She’d be less likely to be heard by the butler once he reentered the house. In this weather she couldn’t expect him to take a prolonged constitutional. She ascended the darkened staircase on tiptoe, cursing under her breath at a creak from one of the risers about halfway up.

  A drawing room: nothing there. A
music room: the Bellamys’ taste was for plain and unadorned furnishing—nothing but a pianoforte, a harp, and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs. Under other circumstances Jacobin might have found such barrenness dispiriting, but she could only be grateful that it made her search easier. Neither did the family appear to care much for literature; there were almost no books in the house. Good. In the novels she’d read, important papers were often secreted within the pages of books, and she wouldn’t fancy searching a library of several thousand volumes.

  One more door to open. She sent up a fervent prayer that Bellamy didn’t conduct his business in his own rooms. If she had to go up to the bedroom floor, she’d be close to the servants’ quarters and in danger of disturbing them.

  She found treasure! Or rather a library. Not a very large library, thank God. There were perhaps a few hundred books in a glass-doored breakfront bookcase. A warm fire blazed in the hearth and a tray of drinks stood on a side table. The seating was more inviting than she’d seen elsewhere in the house. She guessed this was the room used by the family when they were alone in the evening and had been prepared in case they wished to take refreshment after their evening engagement. And against one wall was a desk. Not a lady’s escritoire but a substantial masculine desk.

  In seconds she began opening drawers. The room was brightly illuminated, fortunately so since the windows gave onto the garden. The curtains looked thick, but any change in the lighting might attract the attention of the butler. She had no trouble reading thick wads of letters and bills. She skimmed through them rapidly, fighting feelings of guilt. She suppressed her scruples. If there was nothing relevant she would forget what she’d seen. If she found proof of Bellamy’s culpability in Candover’s attack, then he deserved to be spied on.