Never Resist Temptation

by Miranda Neville

  “How long has she been with you, my lord?”

  The earl waved a languid hand. “Really, I can’t be sure. Three or four weeks, perhaps. You may check with my secretary in London.”

  Hawkins didn’t need to. One of his fellow runners had interviewed Storrington’s secretary, and Hawkins had seen his notes. Jane Castle had arrived at Storrington Hall the day Jacob Léon disappeared. “How did you discover this young woman?” he asked.

  “I don’t recall now how her name came to my attention, but we were in correspondence with her for several weeks before she took up her position. It’s not easy to find a first-rate pastry cook.”

  It was interesting, Hawkins thought, that the earl chose to volunteer that morsel of intelligence. His other answers had been as brief and uninformative as possible.

  “If you don’t mind, my lord, I would like to interview the woman.”

  “I see no reason for that. Clearly Miss Castle is not the person you’re looking for and I won’t have my servants subjected to harassment. You can take my word for it that she had nothing—could have had nothing—to do with the attack on Lord Candover. The very idea is an insult to my household.”

  “I can assure you, my lord, that the Bow Street runners are not in the habit of harassing witnesses. It would set my mind at rest if I could speak to Miss Castle myself.”

  Storrington gave him a very nasty look. “Are you impugning my honor, Hawkins?”

  Hawkins knew when to retreat. The aristocracy were touchy when it came to their so-called honor, he knew. But there was more than one way to skin a cat. He’d leave his arrogant Lordship for now, but his investigation into Jane Castle wasn’t over, not by a long chalk.

  Anthony hadn’t realized he had such a flair for deception. The hours of practicing a deadpan expression for sessions at the piquet table had helped. He’d done it now: lied blatantly to an officer of the law investigating the attempted murder of a peer.

  And all to shield a young woman who refused to speak to him and claimed to be in love with someone else. But when it came down to it, he couldn’t let Jacobin be hauled off in chains. He wanted to protect her. He owed it to her.

  He rang the bell. She’d better damn well speak to him now.

  He couldn’t believe how pleased he was to see her when she stamped into the library in response to his summons. She glared at him, the cleft chin thrust forward pugnaciously. He’d never found a woman so maddening, so intriguing, so irresistible. He had the oddest desire to laugh. And to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until he extinguished all thoughts of that disgustingly good-looking Frenchman.

  A core of insecurity held him back. She’d enumerated in painful detail the reasons she preferred the other man, and objectively he saw they were correct. Clèves was, first of all, an extraordinarily handsome man—and a tall one. Jacobin had never shown any indication of being impressed by his own wealth and position; instead, from their first conversation she’d done nothing but flout Anthony’s social superiority. And when she said Clèves, a mere cook, was the greater gentleman, Anthony had to face the humiliating knowledge that she was right. His treatment of her had fallen short of the highest standards of gallantry. An unwonted humility kept him from using physical persuasion to return her to his arms. Fearing rejection, he resisted the urges of jealousy and desire.

  And respected the muscles of her upper arms. The fury in her eyes suggested she wouldn’t hesitate to use them if he moved even an inch nearer.

  She dropped a deep—and ironic—curtsy. At least he knew now where that particular skill came from. “My lord.”

  He’d risen courteously when she entered the room. Now he gestured her to a chair. “Sit down, Jacobin. And I think the ‘my lord’ might go, under the circumstances.”

  “That wouldn’t be correct, my lord,” she answered stiffly, remaining where she stood. “I am still your servant.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re Jacobin de Chastelux, a member of both French and English noble families. We’ve also been lovers.” In his frustration he spoke more harshly than he’d intended. “Call me Anthony,” he continued more gently. “We’re both in the devil of a pickle so we might as well drop the formality.”

  “I think not, my lord. There’s no pickle. We should just forget that evening.” She clenched her shoulders in a shudder of distaste.

  “We’ll talk about that later. The problem I’m discussing now is the minor matter of a Bow Street runner who is looking for a female cook, previously known as Jacob Léon.”

  That got to her. Jacobin’s hand went to her mouth and her expressive eyes widened in alarm. “Are you sure? I heard they were still looking for a man.”

  “Hm, your precious Frenchman brought news, I see. I’m afraid this man Hawkins is one step ahead of the gossip. He seems to know that Léon was a woman in disguise.”

  “I must leave at once.” Jacobin looked around her wildly, as though prepared to jump out of the nearest window.

  “It’s all right,” he said gently, and moved closer to her. “I fobbed him off. You’re safe, at least for the present.”

  “You did?” She stared up at him with a pinched look, all animation drained from her face. “How?”

  “I made up a story about you having come from Scotland and sent him off with a flea in his ear when he tried to argue with me.” He chuckled. “I couldn’t let him see you, as he wished. I have no doubt he has an accurate description of Jacob Léon. I came over the very haughty aristocrat, I assure you.”

  “That, I can believe!” Her eyes kindled for a moment, and the return of her natural vivacity pleased him. He hated to see her so downcast and frightened. “I suppose he’ll be back,” she continued, then gasped, as a thought came to her.

  “My God! You’ll be in terrible trouble! You lied for me and they’re bound to find out.”

  It felt good to see the loathing disappear from her face. Her concern for him coiled around Anthony’s heart like a flame licking dry wood. Longing to enfold her in his embrace and hold her safe, he dared only envelop one of her hands in both of his. And felt gratified when she didn’t snatch it away.

  “I promised I’d help you. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

  She wasn’t comforted. “Truly, I never meant to get anyone else in trouble. Supposing they catch me. They might hang you too.”

  “I don’t think it’ll come to that,” he said. “It’s damn hard to convict a peer. I’d have to be tried in the House of Lords, and those fellows look after their own.”

  “Really? I know nothing of English justice,” she said in astonishment. “It wasn’t like that in France.”

  “Even there they’ve stopped rushing their aristocrats to the guillotine.” He didn’t add that while he might not fear for his neck, the thought of the scandal, should he be found harboring a wanted criminal, made the traditional English gentleman in him cringe.

  “Come,” he said bracingly. “We’ll just have to find the real villain.”

  Her face lit up. “I have news of Bellamy! What you suspected was correct. He indulged in an indiscretion in France when he was a young man.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Jean-Luc told me.”

  “So that was your precious Jean-Luc you were embracing behind the shrubbery.” He knew he sounded petty. This wasn’t the moment to return to their personal disagreements, but he couldn’t contain his jealousy.

  Jacobin didn’t seem to notice his vexation. She had a way of becoming completely involved in the concern of the moment and was almost bouncing with excitement. “Jean-Luc knows all about these types who prefer men. He heard from his friends about Mr. Bellamy. So you see, we must have been right. My uncle was blackmailing him and Bellamy tried to kill him to keep him quiet.”

  Not sharing her single-minded fixation on the immediate present, Anthony didn’t miss the implication of her statement. No wonder the Frenchman hadn’t become her lover when they’d run off together. He felt like ordering c
hampagne.

  He happily contemplated an early return to Jacobin’s favor, and her bed, if only she would listen to his explanation of his other transgressions. And this time he’d make sure she had no cause ever to leave him again.

  “I asked my secretary to find out—discreetly—anything he could about Bellamy’s relations with Candover, and his movements around the time of the poisoning.” He now felt the urgency of the task, a powerful desire to clear her name and dispel the threat to her. “I’ll give him a day or two to report, and if I don’t hear anything I’ll go to London myself.”

  For a moment Jacobin felt like hugging him. Then she remembered she still had good reason to be angry. She freed her hand, which had been unconsciously returning his clasp, and stepped back. She could think more clearly without his proximity.

  “Jean-Luc thought Edgar might be responsible for poisoning my uncle,” she offered.

  “Edgar Candover, the heir? Who acts as your uncle’s steward?”

  She was surprised Anthony knew so much about the family. Edgar wasn’t closely related to Lord Candover and spent most of the time in the country, never appearing at London social events. It crossed her mind to wonder how he’d come to attend the ball at the Argyll Rooms. It wasn’t Edgar’s style at all.

  “I don’t think it likely that Edgar would do such a thing,” she said. “My uncle has always been good to him. They like each other. And Edgar will inherit everything eventually. Frankly I don’t see Edgar having the backbone to kill anyone. He’s a very mild man, quite weak.”

  “I imagine the runners will have investigated him thoroughly, as the obvious suspect. Let us concentrate on Bellamy for now. The other will keep.”

  “I’m very grateful, my lord, for your help.”

  “I don’t want your gratitude, Jacobin. But I would count it a favor if you’d use my Christian name.”

  Something in his voice, the way its pitch diminished as he spoke, made her look away. Since she had entered the room her emotions had lurched from anger and defiance to concern and appreciation. Having him as an ally filled her with warm relief. Now the soft note in his voice turned her insides to caramel. Yet there was still much in his behavior to abhor, and she wasn’t ready to forgive him.

  “Very well, Anthony.” To temporize while she resolved her internal conflict, she glanced around the library. It was a very English room, lined with thousands of neatly bound books and furnished in solid oak pieces, totally unlike the gilded French splendor of the Queen’s House. She walked over to a bookcase and selected a volume at random. It was a treatise on crop rotation.

  “You have a lot of books,” she said. “Have you read this?”

  He’d followed her and now removed the book from her hands and placed it on a table. “Jacobin,” he whispered. “Please forgive me. And please let me explain.”

  She felt herself weakening. She eyed him warily but didn’t draw back. It couldn’t, she supposed, do any harm to let him say his piece. Not, she told herself sternly, that there could be an excuse for his behavior.

  “Why?” she said, stiffening her backbone and planting her hands on her hips. “Why did you pretend you didn’t know who I was?”

  “I truly meant it for the best. I didn’t want you to feel any obligation to me because of that wretched wager with your uncle. I assume you know he lost you to me at cards. That was why you ran away from Hurst.”

  “Of course I ran away! My uncle gave me a choice: you or a brothel. Naturally I chose neither. Why?” she demanded, her rage and hurt bursting from her. “Why in the name of God and all his saints did you agree to such a disgusting bet? Is that the only way you could get yourself a mistress?”

  Anthony frowned. He’d never been able to quite explain his acceptance of Candover’s scandalous stake to himself. How could he justify it?

  “Accepting the wager was wrong,” he admitted. “I knew it at the time, but I was furious with Candover. I hardly had time to determine what to do with my winnings”—he placed an ironic stress on the word and cast her an apologetic look—“before he informed me you’d eloped with his cook. But one thing you must believe: I would never have forced you, or any other woman, to do anything you didn’t want.”

  She seemed to accept his sincerity but still looked bewildered. He searched his mind for the answer to her unspoken question, one he’d been avoiding for himself for months.

  “I had a half conjured plan to parade you around London as my chère amie. I thought having his niece as my mistress would embarrass your uncle, especially if I let it be known to the gossips how I’d won you.” He sighed. “It wasn’t a well-thought-out plan. Once I met you I doubt I’d even have carried it out.”

  “What was the other half of the bet, the amount you staked against me?” she asked.

  “Twenty thousand pounds.”

  “So much! Perhaps I should be flattered.” She gave an ironic little laugh. “I cost you a pretty penny when I ran off. Shall I apologize?”

  “There’s no need. Candover paid me the twenty thousand.”

  Jacobin gave a little jog of excitement. “And we know just where he got it! It all makes sense now. He needed the money quickly, so he went to Bellamy.”

  “It seems a reasonable conclusion. I was surprised he was able to lay his hands on such a large sum quickly. According to my information he was very short of the ready.”

  Her forehead wrinkled with suspicion. “How do you come to know so much about my uncle and his finances? I thought he was a friend of yours. And you said you accepted his bet because you were furious. What made you so angry?”

  Jacobin could tell he didn’t want to answer. “He said something about my mother,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I’m sorry. That must have been upsetting.” Now that she knew about Anthony’s childhood she understood his sensitivity on the subject. “My uncle has a way of finding a sore spot and prodding it.”

  He turned his back on her and paced over to the window, staring out at the bleak winter landscape. “Candover was never my friend. Quite the opposite. I only cultivated him so that I could lure him into losing his fortune to me. I want to ruin him.”

  She couldn’t see his face but could sense the sadness mixed with suppressed rage in his voice. She walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I can only applaud the sentiment, but why? I know what he did to me, but I can’t imagine he had the power to injure you.”

  “Yet injure me he did, and my family.” His hand reached behind him and took hers in a convulsive clasp. He spoke softly so she had to strain to hear him. “He was my mother’s lover.”

  That was the very last thing she would have guessed. “Impossible,” she cried. “No one could do that with such a disgusting pig.”

  He angled his head and looked down at her wryly. “Hard to believe, isn’t it. Though I have heard Candover wasn’t unattractive before he took to eating too much pastry.”

  Inwardly she applauded his ability to make a small joke at an emotionally intense moment. “Why do you think such a thing? How do you know?”

  He looked away and continued, his voice reflecting inner strain. “My father told me on his deathbed. She and Candover fell in love in Paris, when I was five years old. She was running away to join him when she drowned in a storm.”

  Jacobin digested this information, squaring it with everything she’d heard about Catherine, Countess of Storrington. She still found it incredible, although a forbidden love affair in Paris would explain the countess’s unhappiness afterward.

  “She was never the same after they came back from Paris. It was as though she left us then. Her elopement and death merely completed the process. Candover destroyed my father’s life and now I must ruin his.”

  Even as he spoke of his father’s blighted life, Jacobin sensed Anthony’s revenge was as much for himself as it was for the older man.

  “Listen to me, Anthony.” She squeezed his hand. “My uncle is a horrible man and I don’t care what happ
ens to him. But revenge won’t make you feel better. It never does. In France they killed thousands of innocent people out of hatred for the aristocrats and anger at injustice, but it solved nothing. My father always said hate harms only those that feel it.”

  “Did he?” he asked, glancing down at her. “Perhaps he never had a wrong to avenge.”

  “My father nearly died during the Terror. Even though he sympathized with the Revolution it wasn’t good enough for Robespierre and his followers. They thought my father wasn’t fervent enough in his views. And they mistrusted him for his birth. He was imprisoned in the Conciergerie, waiting for Madame Guillotine, when Robespierre fell and he was released.”

  “How terrifying for you and your mother.” The story seemed to have penetrated his preoccupation with Candover’s sins.

  “For my mother, yes. I was only an infant. But the point is, my father put it behind him. He never resented those who had spoken against him, though he had to encounter some of them in the years that followed. He worked to achieve justice through peaceful means, to bring people together. And he never changed his mind, even though Bonaparte broke his heart when he seized power for himself.”

  “I’m not trying to change the course of a nation, only to right one injustice. It may be small in the greater scheme of things, but it’s there nonetheless. The law can do nothing to punish Candover for my mother’s death, so it’s up to me.”

  How sad, Jacobin thought, to see a man who had so much to offer waste his energy on meaningless vengeance.

  Hoping at least that human connection—no, affection—might alleviate the bleakness that infected his soul, she continued to hold his hand. They stood quietly for some minutes, then he moved and embraced her from behind, drawing her against his warm, solid frame.

  And she realized that his mind—or at least part of his anatomy—had shifted to more earthy matters. How curious to think of that at such a moment. It was the furthest thing from her mind.

  He nibbled at her ear, and quivers ran down her neck. Well, maybe not the furthest.

  “Jacobin,” he whispered. His hands were now on her shoulders, and his thumbs gently massaged her nape and shoulder blades beneath the plain neck of her stuff gown. The quivers continued, tightening her breasts and generating heat like a warm pool between her thighs.