“So my parents met Candover that day,” Anthony interjected. It was the first concrete confirmation that his mother and Candover had met in Paris.
“Yes. I seem to recall that Candover was one of Catherine’s court. I doubt she found him impressive.”
Anthony smiled grimly. Despite sixty years observing society, Lord Hugo wasn’t infallible.
“It’s an odd thing,” Lord Hugo continued, clinging to his previous train of thought, “but I was thinking about Auguste just the other day. Lieven was here and told me he’d seen a cook at the Pavilion who was the very image of de Chastelux. Said that cleft chin was unmistakable.”
Chapter 15
Small Chocolate Cakes
When cold fill with pastry cream, mixed with two ounces of chocolate, prepared with vanilla. Then put three ounces of fine sugar, with three ounces of chocolate, and half of the white of an egg in a small tureen. Stir this for some minutes with a silver spoon, and then cover the tops and sides of the cakes with it, leveling it at the same time with the blade of a knife.
Antonin Carême
She’s a beauty. Looks like her father. He was the handsomest man in France.
At the time Anthony hadn’t paid much attention to the words Candover used to persuade him to accept the wager. He hadn’t been interested in Candover’s niece, or her appearance. He’d been consumed by his own vengeful rage.
Lord Hugo’s courtly accents formed a low hum in the background of his tumultuous thoughts. “Lieven wondered if he could have been a by-blow, though I don’t remember that Auguste was much of a womanizer. Too obsessed with politics. But Lieven said this boy could have been Auguste returned to life.”
Anthony felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
Surely it was too much of a coincidence. But perhaps not. Given Candover’s employment of a French pastry cook and his niece’s affair with the cook, it made sense that the niece would end up working for Carême. Hadn’t she said she’d been taught by a pupil of the famous Frenchman? No doubt that detail of her story was true.
Anthony never afterward remembered how he dredged up the good manners to take leave of Lord Hugo. He could only hope he’d said everything proper. Neither was he aware of the short journey home. He sped into the library; pulled his file of information on Candover from a desk drawer; shuffled through the papers detailing Candover’s personal and financial affairs. Here it was.
Felicity Candover, married in Paris in 1786 to Auguste de Chastelux, who died in 1804. Felicity died in England in 1805. One daughter, born 1793, Jacobin Léonie de Chastelux.
Jacob Léon. Jane Castle.
She wasn’t called Jane. He was glad. She’d never seemed like a Jane to him. Jacobin suited her much better: uncommon, even a little exotic, an old English name with intriguing overtones of French revolutionary fervor. He had no difficulty thinking of her as Jacobin. The name settled into his consciousness.
No wonder she’d run away from the Brighton Pavilion. If the runners discovered her relationship to Candover they’d be after her like a pack of hungry wolves. His brain shied away from the fact that they might be justified in doing so.
It was she he’d won in that infamous piquet game. Unconsciously ashamed of the impulse that had made him accept Candover’s terms, he’d scarcely considered the young woman who’d been used as a gaming piece. Now he faced the cold heartlessness of the wager and tried to imagine Jacobin’s feelings when she learned her person had been offered as a stake, to be turned over as the sexual plaything of a stranger.
You can do whatever you like with her. Have her as your mistress. Anthony remembered Candover’s callous words. He wasn’t surprised Jacobin had flown the coop. The woman he’d come to know had too much spirit to accede to such treatment. He was glad for her sake that she had the French cook to escape with. He wondered what had happened to the man, her lover; why he’d left her.
If he had Jacobin in his bed he wouldn’t willingly abandon her. The kisses they’d shared told him she’d be a mistress of uncommon passion.
A surge of triumph made his head buzz and his body itch with anticipation. She wasn’t an untouchable member of the servant class. She wasn’t a respectable unmarried lady. There was nothing to stop him having her.
“Lady Kitty has always been so thoughtful, always remembers me at Christmas.”
Jacobin was settled by a blazing fire in Nurse Bell’s cozy little cottage. The old woman was the very picture of what Jacobin imagined an English nurse to be: white-haired and apple-cheeked, with a sweet smile and just a touch of acid on her tongue. A woman who wouldn’t have taken any nonsense from her charges.
She poured Jacobin a cup of tea and handed her the plate of chocolate cakes. With nothing to do in the Storrington Hall kitchen as long as its master was absent, Jacobin had remembered Lady Kitty’s commission and tracked down her old nurse with the promised treats. It gave her something to do besides worry about the Bow Street runners, wonder about Chauncey Bellamy, and try not to think about her employer and his disturbing kisses.
“I’m sure she calls on you too,” Jacobin said, “when she is visiting her brother.”
Nurse Bell pursed her lips. “Which isn’t often. Not often enough to my way of thinking. Lady Kitty and Lord Storrs—His Lordship I should say now—were never close.”
“How odd,” Jacobin remarked. “Lady Kitty seems such a charming woman. How could anyone dislike her?”
“It goes back to when they were children and their mother’s illness. Do you know about that?”
“I know she died in an accident, that’s all. Was she unwell for a long time?”
“It was a strange illness. His Lordship was five when Lady Kitty was born. Their poor mother, she’d lost two in pregnancy in between and had a difficult time.”
“It’s a sad thing.” Jacobin nodded wisely. “My mother too lost a child. I was the only one that lived.”
“After Lady Kitty’s birth Her Ladyship was a little down—I wasn’t here then but so I was told. His Lordship, the old lord,” the nurse continued, “took his wife to Paris to cheer her up. But it wasn’t a success. When she came home she went into a deep melancholy and never recovered.”
“When I first met Lord Storrington he told me he’d lost his mother when he was five. I was surprised to learn she’d lived much longer.”
“Poor little boy, he didn’t know what to make of it. Suddenly his mother had no time for him whilst before, I hear, she doted on him, lavished him with love and attention.”
“And Lady Kitty was just an infant,” Jacobin prompted. “He must have connected his mother’s withdrawal with her arrival.”
The older woman nodded. “Something else happened too, the reason I came to Storrington. Nurse Taylor was in charge of the nursery then. Then one day, just after she came back from France, Her Ladyship turned her off, just like that. No reason that I ever heard to believe Taylor wasn’t a good nurse. So the poor boy lost his nurse just when his mother was behaving so strangely. I never met such a bewildered child as I found when I came to take up the post.”
“I’m sure you were a loving nurse too.”
“I did my best but he was hard to console. Didn’t want to have anything to do with me at first.” She sighed. “I was busy with the baby and couldn’t give him all my attention. It’ll always be on my conscience that I didn’t do enough for him, when he’d been abandoned by his mother and his nurse, both.”
“So he always resented Lady Kitty?”
“I’m afraid so. Not that he was unkind to her, mind you. He was always a good boy. But he never warmed up to her like a brother should.”
“Perhaps he didn’t like her because she was a girl,” Jacobin suggested. “Me, I don’t know much about brothers, or sisters either, but I’ve heard little boys don’t think much of females.”
“That comes later,” replied Nurse Bell with a hint of an impish grin. “And I daresay you’re right and that was part of it. He doted on Master James as soon as h
e came along and the brothers have always been close.” She smiled more broadly. “Master James was always a charmer. Lady Kitty loved him too, and his father.”
“And all this time their mother was—how did you put it?—melancholy?”
“Always! Another seven or eight years it was before she died and never a happy day, hardly a smile on her face. His Lordship tried everything to cheer her, buying her gifts, building that farmhouse in the grounds just like the French queen had, but she scarcely noticed it. Just sat in her rooms, day after day, staring out of the window.”
“And she paid no attention to her children?”
“It might have been better that way. But sometimes she seemed to get better and she’d come and take them from the nursery, especially Lord Storrs. She’d take him out to play in the garden, or on a picnic, and he’d be happy as a lark. But it didn’t last. Just as suddenly as she’d cheered up, she’d fall back into gloom and she’d push the boy away from her and send him back to me. I used to dread those moments because he’d be so upset. Those were the times I had trouble with him.”
“What about his father? Was he good to the children?”
“Well, you know gentlemen. They don’t concern themselves much with nursery business.”
Jacobin didn’t know. Her own father had indulged her completely. He had supervised her education himself and taken her everywhere with him. As a small child she attended the salons of revolutionary Paris, playing on the drawing floors of Mesdames Récamier and de Staël, even of Josephine Bonaparte, as the politics of the Directoire and later the Consulat were debated. She’d sat on Talleyrand’s lap and played cards with the young Beauharnais, Josephine’s children.
Life in the Storrington nursery, as portrayed by Nurse Bell, sounded like a foreign country, and a cold one.
She was coming back through the park and crossing the bridge close to the little hamlet when she saw Lord Storrington walking on the other side of the small lake. Instead of ignoring her, as she half expected, he waved.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said as they drew closer. “You never seem to be in the kitchen.”
“I have time off for exercise according to the terms of my contract,” she said coolly. “And I didn’t know I was needed. I wasn’t even aware you’d returned from London.” She dropped a belated curtsy. “My lord.”
He removed his hat and added to the disorder of his windswept coiffure by running a hand through his locks. Unexpectedly he smiled, and looked devastatingly handsome. A lurching sensation disturbed her insides.
“There’s no need to be touchy,” he said, still smiling. “I asked for you and they told me you’d left on an errand.”
“Yes, I was taking some cakes to Nurse Bell at Lady Kitty’s request.”
“That’s right, I remember.” He didn’t ask after the old woman. “I need to speak to you.”
Jacobin shrugged. “We’re speaking.”
“Not here. It’s too cold. Come into the Queen’s House.”
A nasty wind bit through her cloak in the dull late afternoon light. She was glad to follow his gesture and precede him through the rustic door of the folly. He’d removed a key from his pocket to unlock it. She wondered if he always carried it with him or whether he’d planned to enter the building, which gave no sign of recent occupation: the furnishings were covered with sheets, the surfaces dusty, and the atmosphere damp with neglect. The house was small, much smaller than the original at Versailles. The ground floor appeared to consist of not much more than one large room.
He swept away a dust sheet to reveal a gilt canopy sofa in the Louis XVI style, upholstered in pale blue satin.
“Do sit down, please,” he said, then frowned. “Maybe we should light the fire.” He looked at her in such a way that when he said we, he really meant that she, Jacobin, should attend to the matter.
If there was one thing Jacobin had learned in years in the servants’ hall, it was that sensible servants don’t do other people’s work. It was the path to neither reward nor respect. She knew her place and didn’t intend to budge from it. Cooks didn’t light fires.
She ignored his unspoken suggestion and, though he raised his eyebrows a trifle, he seemed to accept that if anyone was going to make this place warm it would have to be he. Dry wood and some crumbly-looking kindling were stacked next to the fireplace. He piled a few logs on the grate, balanced sticks of kindling on top, and set the tinder to them. Flames flared up, casting a welcome glow in the dusky room. Storrington held out his hands toward the warmth.
From her perch on the sofa Jacobin watched and waited, suppressing her grin. Poor man, it wouldn’t do to show her amusement. As the flames faded away he looked adorably puzzled, then prodded the sorry structure with a poker.
She took pity on him. It wasn’t his fault he’d been raised in a position of privilege. “Let me do it,” she said. “The kindling needs to go underneath.” Soon the dry wood was blazing and began to dispel the frigidity of the room.
“Why did you wish to speak to me?” she asked. He settled beside her on the blue sofa. She was acutely conscious of his tall frame, of the faint scent of soap or toilet water cutting through an outdoors smell, of his muscular thighs, displayed when his great coat fell open, just a few inches from her own. She found his proximity both thrilling and disturbing.
“Do you have any news of Mr. Bellamy?” she asked, clenching her knees to put some distance between them without making the movement obvious. “I believe those were his daughters you were squiring at the Argyll Rooms. Are you going to marry one of them? If so, I’m afraid you won’t want to pin a crime on their father.”
Who was to say he didn’t like them young, foolish, and uppity? She fully expected one of his haughty set-downs at this piece of impertinence. Instead she was rewarded with a smile that made her heart thump.
“Daughter and niece, actually,” he corrected. “And yes, I did manage to find out that Bellamy was in London the night of Candover’s poisoning.”
“Oh,” Jacobin said in disappointment.
“Not that it’s worth much,” Storrington continued. “It would take a more thorough investigation to see if he had a chance to make the journey to Brighton and back in the course of the day. And there are always hirelings to undertake unpleasant tasks.”
“Like murder, you mean?”
“Like murder.”
“Thank you.” Jacobin turned to him impulsively and laid a hand over his larger one, which was resting on his thigh. “Thank you for not dismissing my idea completely.”
“I might have,” Storrington admitted, “but by chance I found out something else about Bellamy. Or got a hint, at least. A hint of something so embarrassing that I can easily see him open to blackmail.”
“Mon Dieu, what?” she asked in rising excitement.
He seemed loath to continue and hemmed and hawed for a moment or two before picking his words carefully.
“Something someone said to me indicated, perhaps, that it’s just possible that Bellamy might—how can I put this?—not much care for women.”
Jacobin, ready to wriggle with frustration during this mealymouthed recitation, nodded knowingly. “A molly, yes?”
“You know about such things?” he asked in surprise.
“Of course. The night you helped me in Brighton. Those men who were attacking me—that’s what they thought I was. Who told you Bellamy was like that?”
“An acquaintance. And as I said, it was just a hint. But I will look further into both matters.”
On one level Anthony was attending to the conversation about Bellamy. On another he throbbed with awareness of her proximity.
He didn’t want to think about Lord Hugo now, and his other revelation. He didn’t want to think about Jacobin’s identity in case he revealed that he knew it. What he wanted to think about was the woman at his side. Her hand was sending waves of heat through his own to his thigh, heat that suffused his body and filled him with ideas about leading her to the
bedroom upstairs. It would be cold but he’d soon warm them up.
She gazed up at him, her eyes glowing with gratitude. “Thank you. Oh, thank you,” she repeated.
Time to make his move, now she was so pleased with him. He lowered his head and brushed his lips across hers.
“Oh,” she murmured, but she didn’t withdraw. He leaned closer, covering her slightly open mouth with his own, and breathed in soft warmth. Before he could go further she pulled back, though her hand remained on his.
“This is not proper, my lord.” But her husky voice belied the statement, or at least suggested that impropriety wasn’t troubling her overmuch.
He put his arms around her, drew her close, and kissed her thoroughly.
It was an excellent kiss. Jacobin’s kisses were like her cooking: sweet, intriguingly textured, subtly flavored. But he wanted more. He ached to touch every inch of her, to taste warm skin he knew would be as lush and silken as cream. He pushed aside her cloak and found her breast. Even through her sturdy gown he could feel it tightening, straining for his touch. He heard himself moan with desire.
Her arms were now about his neck and she was kissing him back with her warm mouth and lissome tongue. Then she stopped and drew back a couple of inches.
“I am a servant,” she whispered. “There can be nothing between us. We have to stop.”
He leaned against the back of the sofa and pulled her close. His chest heaved with exertion or excitement, and her head, resting against his upper body, reflected the movement.
“I want you,” he said. “So much. I want you as my mistress. And I think perhaps you want me too.” A nipple, pressing through God knew how many layers of cloth, was communicating with his caressing fingers.
Never Resist Temptation Page 14
