Never Resist Temptation

by Miranda Neville

  Instinct told her to leave his malicious presence, but there was one question she needed answered if she was to understand the disastrous path she’d been forced to take.

  “Why? What did my father do to make you hate him?”

  For a moment she detected something like pain shake his fleshy countenance and dull his piggy eyes, then his expression returned to its usual malevolence.

  “He stole something from me.”

  “My father never stole anything in his entire life,” she retorted. “He was a good man, the best of men. And even if he did, what has that to do with me?”

  “Every time I look at you,” Candover said with a bitter sneer, “I see him, right down to that damnable cleft chin. Auguste always got what he wanted because of his looks. He had nothing. No money, no power. But people loved him—women loved him—because he was beautiful. I had everything to offer but my face wasn’t good enough.”

  “You are a ridiculous buffoon!” She might have felt pity for his twisted view of humanity, but she was too angry. “My father had far more to offer than his appearance. He was brilliant, witty, and above all he was a good man. I don’t pretend to know what you’re talking about, but I can tell you one thing. If you had one iota of my father’s kindness, if you had shown even a hint of compassion to a lonely orphan, I would have loved you. And if you treat everyone else the way you treated me, no wonder everyone hates you. There is nothing—nothing—about you to love.”

  Candover’s eyes popped as though his head was about to explode. “That’s not true! Edgar loves me. He’s like a son to me.”

  “Edgar knows which side his bread is buttered.”

  She feared she’d gone too far, that he would hit her. She took a deep breath and tried to calm her racing heart. Satisfying as it was to rail at Candover, she mustn’t forget her own immediate danger. He might not yet have connected her with the missing Pavilion cook, but he could do so at any time. Her uncle would love to turn her over to the runners for trying to murder him.

  Hands on hips, she stood and looked at him with muted defiance. His own emotions seemed to have subsided, too. He stared back inscrutably.

  “Does Storrington enjoy your favors too?” he asked suddenly. “If he knows who you are, then he’s been doubly paid, by God.”

  “I go under the name of Jane Castle,” she said evasively. She prayed he wouldn’t make the connection with Jacob Léon.

  He seemed more concerned with the earl’s actions. “Storrington made me crawl.” He brooded, seeming to forget her presence. “I had to beg for extra time to meet my obligation. I put up with the humiliation because of the memory of his mother but I haven’t forgotten his insolence. It’s time to make him pay.”

  How wonderful! She was now caught in the middle of a grudge match between two men, each bent on vengeance.

  “If you want to eat tonight,” she said coolly, “I must return to the kitchen.”

  Candover’s expression took on the particular focus that only sweet foods could generate. “What’s on the menu?” he asked.

  Jacobin thought she might as well indulge his request, given the farcical turn the encounter had taken. “Gâteau de Compiègne, with cherries and angelica; small vol-au-vents filled with whipped cream à la violette; darioles; a selection of small pastries; chocolate custard; beignets à la dauphine, and talmouses cheesecakes as a warm remove.”

  Candover nodded approvingly as she enumerated the dishes. “You know my tastes, Jacobin. Perhaps I’ll take you back, after all.”

  Shaken by the encounter, Jacobin retired to her room to gather her scant possessions in preparation for flight. She found the chamber warm; a cheerful fire burned in the small hearth, imparting light as well as heat.

  Damn Anthony! He must have ordered it. Simpson the butler would never have lifted a finger for her comfort. Why did he have to do this now?

  He was making it hard for her to leave. She collapsed onto the bed and lay flat on her back. The anger that had propelled her through the day faded and she felt only cold misery. But just as the tendrils of warmth from the fire soothed her exhausted body, recollections of Anthony’s many kindnesses to her invaded her unwilling brain.

  In most ways the noble Earl of Storrington had been far from callous in his treatment of her. Beginning with his assistance to an unknown boy beset by bullies, he’d been—well, noble. He’d given her a job when her circumstances were dubious, to say the least. True, he had an ulterior motive there, but she wasn’t the only pastry cook in England. He might have found one with less capacity to cause trouble. And he’d helped her: helped her escape from the Bellamys’ garden and used his resources to protect her from the charges of attempted murder. And what he did when he touched her turned her bones to syrup.

  In the balance on the other side were his deception and exploitation of her in pursuit of an obsessive drive for vengeance. Major sins, to be sure, but not unforgivable if he would only draw back from the darkness that engulfed his soul. Instinct told her that she could bring him back to sunlight and joy.

  An idea sprouted in her mind and took root. She tried to ignore it, but the seedling found fertile ground and grew until it forced itself on her consciousness. In truth she wanted to forgive him, but only if he gave her good reason. If he deserved it. She tried to be calm, to dampen her impetuosity, and to act, for once, rationally and with forethought.

  Though the dinner hour was fast approaching and she must return to the kitchen, she made no effort to pack. Instead she extracted something from her chest of drawers, put on her cloak, and made her way cautiously downstairs and out by a side door.

  She wouldn’t abandon the man she loved to the cold comfort of revenge. She’d offer him one more chance to take another path.

  Simpson was taking advantage of a few minutes’ peace to enjoy a pipe in the garden, when he heard a noise near the house. It shouldn’t be the master or his guest; they were changing for dinner. Peering through an azalea bush he saw a female figure illuminated by the light of an outdoor lantern. It was his master’s fancy French cook. And fancy something else too, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  Whatever airs the woman gave herself, he was still butler here and in charge. She had no business on the terrace, and he looked forward to giving the hussy what for.

  But by the time he’d made his way up the stone steps and across the upper lawn she’d disappeared. He examined the area, in case she’d hidden somewhere nearby, and something caught his eye, something pinkish attached to the handle of a stone urn and fluttering in the breeze.

  It looked like a lady’s garter. Mrs. Simpson was right. The creature was no better than a common slut. He had no doubt of the message the slip of satin was meant to convey, or of its intended recipient. It was no coincidence that His Lordship had ordered the terrace was to be kept lit at all times.

  Simpson knew someone who’d be very interested in this piece of intelligence. And would pay for it too.

  Chapter 21

  The first two bottles of Anthony’s best Clos de Bèze Chambertin slipped down Candover’s throat as though it were water, but without noticeable effect on the peer’s sobriety. The man had an extraordinary capacity for alcohol; Anthony had several more bottles decanted and ready for him. Candover seemed reserved, not fully engaged in his idle gossip about the Prince Regent’s set.

  Not until the beignets made their appearance as a sweet entremet to the first course did Candover show more than polite interest in the lavish meal. He consumed several of the fried pastries and let out a satisfied sigh.

  “As good as I’ve ever tasted, Storrington,” he said, his complexion heightened to a dull puce. “Your cook has an exquisite touch with the brioche.” He stuffed another into his mouth, leaving a trace of powdered sugar on his chin.

  “I was fortunate to find Miss Castle,” Anthony replied, beckoning Simpson to bring in the next course.

  He found a certain fascination in examining his guest’s appearance, seeking any resemblance to hi
s niece. It was hard to believe that Jacobin, lithe, colorful, and glowing with health and energy, was closely related to the epicure sitting beside him at one end of the long mahogany table. Candover’s bulk, scarcely condensed by corseting, spilled over his chair. A roll of flesh squeezed out from the top of his high shirt points and merged with his layers of chin. If there was a cleft there it had long since been smothered in flab.

  But Jacobin’s chin came from her father, he recalled. He wondered what she was thinking as she worked her magic to lure Candover to destruction. Whether she would ever forgive him.

  “Your house is magnificent.” Candover was becoming more expansive as he addressed himself to roast goose and cucumbers in béchamel. His eager eyes investigated the other half-dozen dishes being laid out by the footmen. He partook lightly of the savory offerings. “I’ve always been curious to see it, since I became acquainted with your parents in Paris. I always hoped your late father would extend me an invitation.”

  Anthony stiffened. For a moment he discerned a challenge in Candover’s tone, as though the man were goading him.

  “Did we ever speak of the time I spent in Paris?” Candover continued. “I was there for the pleasure of marrying off my sister to an utterly worthless Frenchman. A revolutionary, he turned out to be, would you believe it? He was nearly the biter bit, y’know. Sentenced to the guillotine and rescued just in time. Pity that.”

  “That must have been a great joy for your sister,” Anthony said with a hint of reproof. From everything he’d heard, Candover’s brother-in-law, Jacobin’s father, was a likable, even admirable man. Jacobin’s words about her father and his forgiveness of his enemies nagged at his brain. He tried to contemplate forgiving Candover, who was now filling his plate from the sweet dishes.

  “Ah! Crème française au chocolat. Chocolate is such an underrated food. It deserves to be used for far more than drinking.” Candover’s face became ecstatic as he spooned cake, custard, and candied fruit into his mouth. “Magnificent!” He grew redder; perspiration beaded on his pale forehead; he swayed a little in his seat as he ate, as though drunk on sweets.

  Anthony began to worry that Candover might not remain conscious for long. He made no move to replenish his guest’s empty wineglass.

  “Paris,” Candover said, suddenly alert again. “We were speaking of Paris. And your mother. I believe we were speaking of Catherine. I think I’ve told you before, Storrington, how beautiful Catherine was. Everyone was in love with her.”

  Did the man have a death wish? Anthony wondered, clenching his hands together to prevent them fastening around Candover’s elephantine neck. But he’d never given the man any reason to suspect he knew of his affair with his mother. He quelled his anger and turned the subject to trivialities. His time would come.

  Candover became more jovial as he sampled each of Jacobin’s creations. He was full of praise for the desserts and dropped leaden hints about meeting the cook. “You have a most valuable servant, Storrington. She should be congratulated in person.”

  Anthony parried the suggestion. “I wouldn’t wish to disturb the kitchen now. There’s more to come with the remove.”

  “The artistic temperament.” Candover nodded knowingly. “Cooks are like artists, you know. Each has an individual touch with pastry.” He popped a morsel between his lips. “Your woman’s touch reminds me of my late pâtissier, Jean-Luc. He was a genius. As brilliant in his way as Carême. I suppose you wouldn’t let your woman—Castle I think you said her name was—come to me?”

  The hook was baited but Anthony jerked it aside. “Hardly,” he said. “As you rightly say, a good pastry cook is hard to find.”

  “Yet you take only modest advantage of her talents.” Candover stared at Anthony’s lightly laden plate.

  Anthony nibbled at a vol-au-vent that tasted rather unpleasantly of violets. He preferred his flowers in vases. “Quality matters more than quantity, surely?” he asked, glancing at Candover’s girth, which he would swear had gained several inches since the start of dinner. “Besides, a good cook is such a boon to one’s guests. I’m sorry you weren’t present at my recent dinner in London but I collect you were still recovering from your unfortunate illness.” He smiled. “I doubt if I’d have the pleasure of your company now had Miss Castle’s fame not spread.”

  Now was the moment to propose a hand of piquet. The gusto with which Candover was devouring pastries suggested that even a hint of using the cook as a stake would lure the man from his self-imposed abstinence from cards. But with the smell of victory in his senses, Anthony couldn’t find the words. His mind’s eye kept seeing Jacobin’s devastated face.

  “I suppose you’ll want to play cards after dinner,” Candover said.

  Anthony hadn’t had to say it after all.

  “I wondered if you’d wish for a chance to recoup your losses,” he replied, but with curious reluctance.

  Candover grunted. “Did you say there was another course?”

  Half an hour later even Candover was sated. He leaned back, his vast stomach distended and causing Anthony a moment’s anxiety for the continued health of the matched set of Hepplewhite dining chairs.

  “Splendid painting over there,” the old glutton said. “Though a trifle gruesome for a dining room, perhaps.” He was pointing, not at the famous Storrs Raphael that hung over the mantelpiece, but at a smaller Dutch painting on the wall facing him. Of the many works of art in the Storrington collection, it wasn’t the one most likely to draw the attention of visitors, though it had always caused the current earl a certain amusement. It showed an elderly graybeard beset by demons and virtuously resisting the blandishments of a voluptuous seductress: The Temptation of St. Anthony.

  Anthony wondered who was tempting whom.

  The Queen’s House was cold and dark. By the light of a single candle, Jacobin drew the curtains before lighting fires, upstairs and down. The last thing she wanted was some nosy servant glimpsing a light and coming down to see who was in the deserted folly at this time of night.

  The warmth dispelled the gloom but not her anxiety.

  Would he come? Did he care enough—no, forget affection, that was too much to expect—did he want her enough to set aside revenge? It seemed an absurdly slender hope.

  She’d left the kitchen as the footmen collected the last course for delivery to the dining room. It would be at least an hour before dinner was over, very likely more if the gentlemen lingered over wine. Her uncle always lingered over wine.

  To calm her nerves she roamed the house, examining the exquisite appointments and marveling that the late Lady Storrington had shown such indifference to this jewel of a gift. What a nice man Anthony’s father must have been, to go to so much effort and expense for his wife, especially if he believed her faithless. What a foolish woman to reject such an expression of love, and neglect her own children. And all for a man like Candover.

  In the upstairs chamber she turned her back on the bed, which filled her with mingled anticipation and dread for what she hoped would happen soon, and turned her attention to a large walnut armoire with a double-domed cornice. To her surprise it was filled with clothing. She pulled out a tulle gown, still crisp though its white had faded to palest yellow. It looked to be about her size. At least this time she would be properly dressed.

  The simple chemise gown had deep ruffles around the neckline and hem, its only other adornment a gauze sash with a gold filigree pattern. She recalled her mother wearing such garments, which were brought into fashion by her beloved Marie Antoinette. Mama had long resisted the post-revolutionary fashion for raised waistlines, rejecting the new regime’s styles along with its politics.

  What an odd couple her parents had been, she reflected: her father handsome and glittering as a comet in the night sky, her rather plain mother the model of a staid Englishwoman. What was it like for Mama, she wondered, to be always overshadowed by her husband, to be stranded by political upheaval in a foreign land? Felicity must have had reserves of s
trength disguised by her prim exterior and which her daughter had never suspected. Like everyone else, Jacobin had been dazzled by Auguste’s brilliance and failed to appreciate her mother’s less exciting qualities.

  She remembered the last time she’d thought about her mother, when she was preparing for her previous meeting with Anthony in this house.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” she whispered out loud. “It’s not what you’d have wanted but it’s what I must do.”

  Speaking of which, where the hell was he? If he’d heeded the message, surely he’d be here by now. Unless he had the unmitigated gall to think her offer would still be open after a session at the tables with Candover.

  He couldn’t be so stupid.

  She lay down on the bed and waited.

  “Shall we raise the stakes?”

  They had been playing quietly for two hours. It was almost dull. The luck of the cards ran evenly with no extraordinary scores on either side. Anthony, playing with his usual mathematical precision, was ahead, but by only a few hundred pounds. Now he could sense his opponent feeling his age, his weight, and the three bottles of Burgundy and several pounds of sugar he’d consumed.

  Candover appeared to ponder the suggestion as he gathered up the cards from the last partie, which he’d won by a narrow margin.

  This was the moment, when Candover felt confident that the gods of fortune had turned in his direction. Anthony knew better: he didn’t believe in luck, only his well-honed skills, diligent study of Mr. Hoyle’s treatise on piquet, and hours of practice figuring the odds. There lay the difference between himself and his foe. Candover was a true gambler.

  It was time to move in for the kill.

  Irrelevantly Anthony found his eyes drawn to the draped windows. He realized he’d forgotten to check the urn before dinner. Not that he expected any signal from Jacobin now. Or, he had to admit sadly, ever. He could only hope she wasn’t packing her bags, having played her part so perfectly this evening. Anthony knew it was her cooking that had lured Candover to the card table. Now he must try and win without risking her. Still, he was tempted to look outside, until he remembered that it wouldn’t do any good. For whatever reason he’d elected to hold his final confrontation with Candover in one of the small sitting rooms at the front of the house, rather than entertaining his enemy in the library, his own special sanctum.