Authors: Ann Lethbridge
Lady of Shame
‘You’re in danger of dishonouring the family name for good!’
Lady Claire must put pride above prattle if she is to shake
off the not-so-respectable reputation of her youth. Swapping rebellion for
reserve, she returns to her imposing childhood home, Castonbury Park, seeking
her family’s help. Penniless Claire needs a sensible husband…and fast!
But when the dark gaze of head chef Monsieur André catches
her unwanted eye, he’s as deliciously tempting as the food he prepares. Claire
knows he’s
most
unsuitable…even if the chemistry
between them is magnetic. Risking her reputation for André would be shameful—but
losing him could be even worse!
Survival of the fittest is fine, so long as you’re the one on top…but the family that has everything is about to lose it all…
The Montagues have found themselves at the centre of the
ton
’s rumour mill, with lords and ladies alike claiming the family is not what it used to be.
The mysterious death of the heir to the Dukedom, and the arrival of an unknown woman claiming he fathered her son, is only the tip of the iceberg in a family where scandal upstairs
and
downstairs threatens the very foundations of their once powerful and revered dynasty...
August 2012
THE WICKED LORD MONTAGUE
—Carole Mortimer
September 2012
THE HOUSEMAID’S SCANDALOUS SECRET
—Helen Dickson
October 2012
THE LADY WHO BROKE THE RULES
—Marguerite Kaye
November 2012
LADY OF SHAME
—Ann Lethbridge
December 2012
THE ILLEGITIMATE MONTAGUE
—Sarah Mallory
January 2013
UNBEFITTING A LADY
—Bronwyn Scott
February 2013
REDEMPTION OF A FALLEN WOMAN
—Joanna Fulford
March 2013
A STRANGER AT CASTONBURY
—Amanda McCabe
Duke of Rothermere
Castonbury Park
Claire,
Sister, you are normally so sensible and the one I have come to rely on. But I must be honest with you. With the family shrouded in disgrace and scandal, and the news of Jamie still uncertain, any more unwanted attention may prove to be harmful. I had hoped better of you, but I will put what has happened down to an unfortunate phase. I trust you will use your time wisely in the future, to build up the respect you once had and at all costs avoid any more gossip. It is only because I love you that I feel the need to be so candid.
Your brother
I would like to dedicate this book to my critique group, Mary, Maureen, Molly and Sinead. We had so much fun brainstorming ideas around this book and I really think they deserve a great deal of credit. I also want to thank the Beau Monde chapter of RWA for providing such a fabulous course on cooking and kitchens in the Regency, in particular Delilah Marvelle, our wonderful and saucy—in both senses of the words—teacher, as well as all the fabulous people at Mills & Boon who allowed this project to come to fruition.
Chapter One
W
hen Claire was a child, the house at Castonbury Park had seemed as cold as the stones in its walls. Today, as she paused halfway down the combed gravel drive, the stairs sweeping around each side of the columned portico welcomed her like open arms. The facade, with its swagged decorations and artistically placed statues, gleamed pale yellow in the weak January sunlight and promised sanctuary within its solemn splendour.
Home.
It looked so solid. So impregnable. So safe. Shivering against the north wind gusting down from the Peaks, Claire allowed herself to believe she had made the right choice. If not, she didn’t know what she would do. Where she would go next.
At her side, gripping her hand, her daughter, Jane, stared at the house. Seven years old and already her grey eyes were wise and world-weary. ‘This is where you grew up? It is huge.’
‘Yes,’ Claire said, resuming the long trudge to the front door. ‘This is where I lived when I was your age. Do not wander off, while you are here. It is a large place and it is easy to get lost.’
‘I won’t, Mama.’
Gravel crunched under their feet and the clean sharp smell of incipient snow filled Claire’s nostrils. She trod firmly. Confidently. Or at least she hoped her inner fears did not show.
It would have been so much better if they could have driven up to the door in a post chaise. More appropriate to her station. But they had no coin for such luxuries and, as Claire had learned these past eight years, what could not be cured must be endured. Instead they had taken the stage from London to Buxton and then accepted a ride in a farmer’s cart to Castonbury village. They had walked the rest of the way. To her surprise, the gatekeeper had let them pass on foot without question.
Were they always so lax about visitors? Did they let just anyone pass? She glanced over her shoulder. No one following. Nor would there be. Ernie Pratt knew only the assumed name George had invented after his brush with the law. She hoped.
Footsteps rustled behind them. Her heart leapt to her throat. She spun around, pushing Jane behind her.
No one. There was no one there. Just leaves blowing across the park, tumbling across the gravel.
‘What is it?’ Jane asked.
‘Nothing,’ Claire said, relief filling her. ‘Nothing at all.’
Yet still she picked up her pace. Hurrying towards the front door and safety.
A quick swallow did nothing to ease the dryness in her throat as she looked up at stone Corinthian columns towering three stories above. A declaration of the Duke of Rothermere’s wealth and status. And his power.
Once she had resented that power, now it felt like a lifeline.
They passed beneath the arches hiding the ground floor rustic stonework and marched up to the black painted front door gleaming with brass fittings. The everyday door. Only for very special events did visitors climb the stairs to the grand entrance above.
The lion’s head door knocker glared at her in disapproval. Her heart thundered. No. She was not fearful. Definitely not. Just filled with the anticipation of seeing her brother after so many years. She lifted the ring in the great jaws and let the knocker fall with a bang that echoed in the entrance hall beyond.
No going back now. She was committed. For Jane’s sake. She smiled down at her daughter, who pressed tight up against her hip.
The door opened. A young footman in red-and-gold livery looked down his nose at them. ‘’Tis at the wrong door, you are. Don’t you people know nothing? Servants’ entrance is round the back of the west pavilion.’ He pointed to the left. ‘That there large block at the end.’
He slammed the door in their faces.
Shocked speechless, she recoiled. Her heart gave a horrid little dip. The footman thought her a servant. She glanced down at herself and Jane. They were respectably, if shabbily, dressed; her widow’s weeds had seen better days, and her skirts were dusty, wrinkled from their travels.
The doubts about their welcome attacked her anew. The seed of hope nurtured in her chest all the way from London shrivelled, sapping the strength that had sustained her once she had made up her mind to bury her pride and ask for help.
Should she knock again and risk a more violent rejection? What if none of the family were home? No one to endorse her claim?
‘Why did he close the door?’ Jane asked, her voice weary.
Why indeed. Might Crispin have left word she wasn’t to be admitted? She shivered. ‘I think he thought we were someone else.’
Jane tugged at her skirt. ‘What shall we do?’
She forced a confident smile. ‘Why, we will go around the back just as the nice man suggested.’ Perhaps there she would find a servant she knew. She retraced her steps back to the drive.
‘He wasn’t nice,’ Jane grumbled as they trudged along the walkway leading to the servants’ wing. ‘The farmer with the cart was nice. Why couldn’t we stay with him?’
‘Because he isn’t family.’
Jane looked up at the house, her face full of doubt. ‘I want to go home.’
‘This is our home.’ Claire hoped the anxiety fluttering in her stomach wasn’t apparent in her voice. She quickened her pace, heading away from the block for family and guests, feeling very much like a stranger who didn’t belong.
Another set of arches hid the kitchens and cellars and quarters for the staff. They stopped at a plain brown door. She squared her shoulders and rapped hard. This time she would not be turned away.
It opened. A waft of warmth hit her face along with a delicious scent of cooking. She swayed as it washed over her and she heard Jane sniff with appreciation.
A tall man in his mid-thirties wearing a chef’s white toque and a pristine white apron gazed at them down an aristocratic nose. At some point that haughty nose had been broken and badly set, resulting in a bump that only slightly ruined the elegant male beauty of hard angles and planes. Not English, she thought, taking in the olive cast to his complexion and jet hair.
Onyx eyes fringed with black lashes too thick and long for a man swiftly roved her person. They took in her undecorated bonnet, her black bombazine skirts and her scuffed half-boots. She had the feeling he could see all the way to her plain worn shift with that piercing dark glance.
Sympathy softened his harsh features. ‘Step inside,
madame
.’ His voice was deep and obviously foreign.
Giddy with relief, she almost fell over the threshold.
‘Careful,
madame
.’ A muscular arm, hard beneath the fabric of his coat, caught her up.
A thrill rippled through her body. A recognition of his male physical strength. Shocked, she pulled away.
He released her and stepped back as if he, too, had felt something at the contact. He gestured her forward into what must be the scullery with its dingy whitewashed walls and a large lead-lined sink.
‘Sit,’ he said. ‘At the table.’ He pulled back a bench.
Claire sank down, glad of the respite, while she gathered her wits. Jane hopped up beside her.
‘Mademoiselle Agnes,’ he called out.
‘Vite, allez.’
A young woman in a mob cap ran in from the larger room beyond. The kitchen proper, no doubt.
‘Bring soup and bread,’ he ordered.
The girl ducked her head and disappeared.
‘No, really,’ Claire managed, gathering her scattered wits. ‘I need to—’
‘It is fine,
madame
. No need to be anxious,’ he said. ‘You are hungry,
non
?’ he said, smiling at Jane.
‘Starving,’ the child replied with the honesty of youth.
‘You don’t understand,’ Claire said. ‘I need to speak to Mrs Stratton.’ She held her breath, hoping beyond hope that the housekeeper she’d known as a girl was still employed here.
‘She has no work. I am sorry,
madame
, all I am permitted is to offer you soup and send you on your way.’
Permitted? On whose orders? Heat rushed through her. So much heat, after coming in from outside. Her head spun. She tugged at the button of her coat, tried to undo the scarf around her neck. It tangled with her anxious fingers.
‘Are you ill?’ He crouched down and with strong competent hands worked at the knot. She could not help but stare at the handsome face so close to hers, so serious as he focused on the task at hand. Such a face might have modelled for an artist’s rendition of a Roman god of war. His fingers brushed the underside of her chin. Liquid fire ran through her veins. He glanced up, his eyes showing shock and awareness. His lips parted in a breathless sigh.
For one long moment it was as if nothing else existed in the world but the two of them.
Her skin tingled. Her body lit up from within.
He jerked back, his hands falling away. He swallowed. ‘It is free now.’ He rose to his feet and backed up a few steps, gesturing to the table. ‘You will feel better after you eat.’
Still shocked, she could only stare at him. How could she have responded to him in such a wanton way? Because he was handsome? Or because it was a long time since a man had shown her and Jane such kindness? In either case, it was not appropriate.
‘Soup sounds awfully good,’ Jane said wistfully.
‘No,’ Claire said, fighting to catch her breath. ‘I did not come here for food. Or work. I must speak with Mrs Stratton. Please tell her Lady Claire wishes to speak with her.’
Confusion entered his dark eyes. Followed swiftly by comprehension.
‘Mademoiselle Agnes,’ he called out. ‘At once.’
The girl popped her head back through the door. ‘I’m pouring the soup,’ she said. ‘Give a girl a minute.’
‘Never mind that. Fetch Mrs Stratton.
Immédiatement
.’
‘What? To see some vagabond?’ the girl said.
Claire stiffened.
The chef glowered. ‘Now.’
The maid tossed her head. ‘First you want soup. Now you want the housekeeper. Make up your mind, can’t you?’ She scampered off.
‘Can’t we have soup?’ Jane asked.
‘Later,’ Claire said. She wasn’t going to let anyone see them begging for food as if they really were vagabonds. They would eat in the dining room, like Montagues.
‘I apologise for the mistake.’ He grimaced. ‘We were not expecting you, I think?’
The apology gave her renewed hope. She offered him a smile. ‘It is my fault for coming to the scullery door.’
As he gazed at her face, his eyes darkened, his lips formed a straight line. ‘
Madame
is generous.’ He had transformed from a man who seemed warm and caring to one whose back was rigid and whose attitude was formal and distant. A huge gap opened up between them and they were now in their proper places. Or perhaps he would not think so, once he knew her story.
‘Madame Stratton will be with you shortly,’ he murmured. ‘You will excuse me, I think?’
Claire smiled her gratitude. ‘Thank you so much for your help.’
‘
De rien.
My pleasure.’ He bowed and left.
Pro forma, of course, but her thanks had been heartfelt even if her responses to his touch had been distinctly strange.
He had disappeared into the kitchen.
A strategic retreat.
Jane pressed a hand to her tummy. ‘I’m so hungry. Why did you say no to the soup? I can smell it.’
So could Claire. The scent was aromatic and utterly tempting. She was hungry too. It had been a permanent state of affairs these past few months. Recalling the very formal arrangements for family dining at Castonbury Park, she anticipated it would be hours before dinner was served. ‘We will ask for some tea and biscuits,’ she said. ‘As soon as we are invited in.’ If they were invited in.
Jane heaved a sigh, but folded her mittened hands in her lap and swung her legs back and forth.
Claire reached out and squeezed the small hands in hers. ‘It won’t be long.’ She prayed she was right.
At the sound of the tap of quick footsteps on the flags and the rustle of stiff skirts, Claire came to her feet, half fearful, half hopeful. Now she would know if she was welcome here or not.
Despite the grey now mingled with the blonde hair neatly confined within her cap and the new wrinkles raying out from the corners of her friendly blue eyes, Claire recognised the housekeeper at once.
The footman who had closed the front door in their faces only moments before peered over the housekeeper’s shoulder. ‘Saints, another one crawling out of the woodwork claiming to be a relative.’
‘Be quiet, Joe,’ Mrs Stratton said sharply. ‘Go back to your post at once.’
The footman glowered, but stomped off.
The housekeeper turned back to Claire, her kindly face showing surprise mingled with shock. No doubt she saw changes in Claire, too, but it was the shock of recognition and Claire felt a rush of relief.
‘Lady Claire. It
is
you.’ Genuine pleasure warmed the housekeeper’s voice as she dipped a curtsey. ‘And sent to the servants’ door too. I am so sorry about Joe. It is almost impossible to get good staff these days.’ This welcome was far warmer than she had ever dared hope.
‘It is Mrs Holte now,’ she said with a smile that felt stiff and awkward as her voice scraped against the hot hard lump that had formed in her throat. ‘I wasn’t sure you would remember my married name after all these years.’ If Mrs Stratton had heard it at all. The Montagues had cast her off the moment she had married. ‘It is good to see you again.’
Jane tugged on her arm.
She indicated the child. ‘Jane, this is Mrs Stratton.’ She smiled at the woman. ‘Jane is my daughter.’
Mrs Stratton dipped her head. ‘Welcome, Miss Jane. Are you hungry after your journey?’
‘Yes, if you please,’ Jane said. She glowered at Claire. ‘We almost had soup.’
Claire took her hand. ‘I would like to speak with my brother.’
‘I don’t believe His Grace is receiving today, but I will check. In the meantime, I will ask that tea be sent up to the small parlour.’ Her voice sounded a little strained. ‘I am sorry, but none of the other family members are in residence at the moment.’
Not receiving? Would this visit of hers be for nothing, after all? ‘Is His Grace unwell?’
‘He has been not been himself for a while. Worse since Lord Edward’s death, I’m afraid. He rarely sees anyone.’ She pressed her lips together as if she wanted to say more, but thought it unwise. Claire knew the feeling. How often had she stifled her words in George’s presence for fear of saying the wrong thing?