Never Resist Temptation (3 page)

“And did your parents approve of guillotining aristocrats?”

Her gloved hands were clenched into fists. The firm jaw, which he'd once thought masculine but now gave her face character, was thrust forward. Pale winter afternoon light filtered through the carriage window and illuminated a small but distinct indentation—more than a dimple, perhaps a shallow cleft—in her chin.

“No!” She turned full face to him. She glowed with passion. “
Absolument non!
My father was a man of peace. He approved of the principles of the Revolution but he never wished for anyone to die.”

“Liberty, equality, and fraternity,” Anthony said ironically.

“And what's wrong with that?” Jane asked fiercely. “Can you tell me what is wrong with such principles?”

“Not a thing, save that they are impossible to achieve. You only have to look at the career of Napoleon Bonaparte to see where your revolutionary ideals got you.”

She sighed. “I can't argue with that. My father always mistrusted Bonaparte. He died soon after his coronation as emperor, and it's my belief that it was the final death of the Revolution that killed him.” The fire had faded from her eyes, leaving a look of great sadness.

“I'm sorry,” he said again. “You must miss him very much.” He was beginning to wonder about her father. What kind of Englishman settled in France, and apparently remained there, even when the countries were at war?

“Your father was a man of education?” he probed.

“He was well educated for his station in life.” Miss Castle's tone was unconfiding and her features had set into a guarded neutrality. But he noticed again that her hands were clenched hard enough to cause her pain. He found himself more and more curious about her.

“Were you also well educated? Did you expect something better in life than to enter service as a cook?”

“I am quite content with my situation,” she replied evasively. “I am devoted to my craft. In fact, if you don't mind, my lord, I would like to take this opportunity to ask you about your requirements. What are your favorite dishes?”

Anthony would rather be talking about her background. It hadn't occurred to him when posing as a lover of sweets that he would actually be expected to show knowledge of the subject.

“I'm not very good with names,” he demurred. “Especially French names. I was never very good at French.” This last fact at least was true. He had his own reasons to despise all things French, including the language, and he'd deliberately neglected that part of his schooling.

“What do you like to eat for breakfast?” she asked.

He shrugged. “The usual things, I suppose. Beef, ham, eggs sometimes. Toast.” He brightened up. “Toast. I like bread.”

Jane looked puzzled. “I was not aware that baking bread would be one of my duties.”

Anthony had very little idea of the division of labor below stairs. His butler and housekeeper saw to those
details. Come to think of it, he was completely ignorant of the duties of a pastry cook.

“Why don't you tell me some of the things you make best and I'll tell you if I like them,” he improvised.

Miss Castle looked at him a little oddly, but appeared to give his idea some consideration.

“Do you enjoy Nesselrode pudding? It's one of His Highness the Prince Regent's favorite dishes.”

“Remind me what's in it.” It was doubtless some vilely rich concoction if Prinny adored it.

“Chestnuts, cream, eggs, raisins, maraschino brandy.”

Gad, he thought, it sounded disgusting. He must come up with a pudding he liked.

“Gooseberry fool. I've always enjoyed that.” He had too. In the nursery.

“Very English,” commented his high-priced Paris-trained
pâtissière
. “Hardly something you'd need to hire me to make.”

He racked his brains. He'd never had much of a sweet tooth and now he couldn't for the life of him remember a single pudding, even one he
didn't
like. He closed his eyes for a moment and envisaged a sumptuous buffet at a banquet.

Aha
. What the devil were those things called?

He opened his eyes in triumph. “You know what I really like, Miss Castle? Those little puffy things. Can you make puffy things?”

What in heaven does the man want with a French pastry cook?
Jacobin wondered, as it became obvious that Lord Storrington, far from being a “connoisseur”
of continental
pâtisserie
, was a total ignoramus on the subject. She'd think he was engaging her for quite a different position if he hadn't tried to hire her before he knew she was a woman. She wasn't unaware that, were his intentions dishonorable, he might have preferred her as a man. But though he'd conducted himself perfectly correctly since removing her jacket, she'd intercepted a glance or two that went beyond what was appropriate for a nobleman toward a cook. Confined as her life had been at Hurst, she hadn't reached the age of twenty-three without learning to spot male appreciation. This particular gentleman didn't prefer boys.

She didn't know exactly what he wanted from her, but she seriously doubted it was dessert. Much against her better judgment she found his admiration…stirring.

Little puffy things indeed. She'd give him little puffy things. She'd whip up a batch as soon as she got settled into her new pastry room and find out whether he'd actually eat them.

Despite the perils of her situation, she couldn't help enjoying their conversation. She found herself liking this rather dour man when he'd become flustered under her interrogation about his confectionary tastes. She got a glimpse of the man under the exterior shell of the unflappable nobleman, arrogantly confident of his own power. When he'd discovered her sex he'd shown just a glimmer of a smile, one she'd like to see repeated.

“
Ah, les petites choses bouffies
,” she said airily, daring to tease him a little. “One of the greatest challenges of the
pâtissier
's art. Not every cook possesses
the necessary finesse. They require the utmost lightness of hand. But fortunately for yourself, my lord, you have hired the right person. I can promise you little puffy things like you've never tasted before,”

Her employer gave her a hard look. “You misspeak. Did no one ever explain to you, Miss Castle, that one of the first requisites of a successful life in service is to address your master with respect.”

Jacobin threw back her head and summoned the expression of blazing creativity she had observed in the eyes of Germaine de Staël when her father had taken her to the novelist's Paris salon.

“Ah! Monsieur,” she exclaimed in a pronounced French accent. “It is you who misspeak. I am no servant. I am an
artiste
!”

For a moment she thought she'd gone too far, that she'd jeopardized her position, her future, possibly her very life.

Then his features relaxed and the Earl of Storrington laughed.

L
ord Candover's butler accepted the presence of a Bow Street runner in his master's Brighton house without surprise. Given what Tom Hawkins had already learned about the nature of Candover's mode of living, the servant was probably used to irregular occurrences.

“I'd like to speak to Lord Candover,” Hawkins said, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his scarlet waistcoat.

“His Lordship is not receiving. You had better speak to Mr. Edgar.” The butler led the runner into small reception room.

“Mr. Hawkins, sir,” he announced.

“Ah, the runner, no doubt,” said the occupant of the room. “I am Edgar Candover, Lord Candover's cousin.”

“Thomas Hawkins, at your service. I am investigating Lord Candover's attempted murder at the request of His Highness the Prince Regent.”

Edgar Candover was a slight man of below average height. His features were undistinguished, and the only impression he gave was one of colorless anonym
ity. Even his age was uncertain, though he couldn't be above thirty. He could have been any gentleman anywhere. Yet as Hawkins examined him, he noted that the man had aspirations to dandyism, his clothing plain but well cut and of superior quality. A chased-silver fob watch hung from his waistcoat.

“It's a terrible thing,” Candover said, wringing his hands. “I can't believe anyone would wish to murder my cousin. I feel sure it's all a terrible mistake.”

“The physician was certain that the symptoms were of aconite poisoning, not an ingredient usually found in food.”

“No indeed,” Candover replied. “Thank heavens his valet was at hand.”

“Saved his life, so I hear.”

“My cousin ate a single spoonful of the affected dish and was taken ill immediately. His valet acted quickly and called a physician.”

“I'll have more questions for you later, but first I'd like to speak to Lord Candover, as soon as possible.”

Candover's eyes filled with concern. “I don't think it would be wise today, Mr. Hawkins. He's very weak. Tomorrow perhaps. In the meantime I will be happy to assist you.”

Hawkins asked the obvious question, expecting the indignation that it always aroused. “Who stands to gain from Lord Candover's death? Who inherits the title and estate?”

Edgar Candover seemed undisturbed. “Although not a close relation, I am the heir to the barony. My cousin
never married and he only had a sister, who died some years ago. The estate is unentailed and I have no idea who is named in his will. I assume it is myself, but he has never told me so.”

“Is the fortune a large one?”

“I have been acting as His Lordship's steward for nine years. The estate is in reasonable health, though my uncle has lavish tastes. If you would prefer to receive details from someone other than myself I can refer you to my cousin's solicitor in Guildford.”

So apparently Edgar Candover was the one to benefit most from Candover's death, Hawkins thought. He didn't seem worried about his situation, though Hawkins wouldn't accept that alone as a sign of innocence.

“Are you familiar with a young French cook by name Jacob Léon?” he asked, observing Candover closely for any reaction.

Candover shook his head. “Should I be?”

“He was employed as a pastry cook at the Pavilion and disappeared from Brighton yesterday. No one has seen him since the news of your cousin's poisoning spread through the servants' quarters.” Leon's location was of crucial concern to Hawkins. None of the kitchen staff appeared to know where he came from. He had been hired directly by the head cook, Carême, who was in the grip of a fever and unable to answer any questions.

“Why would a French cook in the employ of the Prince Regent wish to kill my cousin?” Candover asked, sounding bewildered.

“That's what we'd all like to know, isn't it, Mr. Candover.”

 

Leaving the Bow Street runner to interview Lord Candover's valet, Edgar went upstairs to his cousin's bedchamber.

Lord Candover sprawled whalelike in his huge bed, propped up by a mountain of pillows so that he could, against doctor's orders, drink brandy in comfort. His valet had commented to the butler that it was most likely the pickled state of his stomach that enabled him to survive the poison.

“What's the news, my boy?” he asked Edgar, sounding surprisingly cheerful. “Do they know yet who tried to do me in?”

“As your heir I'm the prime suspect,” Edgar replied.

“Nonsense, nonsense, you'd never think of such a thing, even if you had the means. What an absurd suggestion. But I heard the rumor that a cook is missing from the Pavilion, the same one who completed Carême's work for the dinner. Pity, I was hoping to hire the boy, but I suppose I shouldn't if he's a poisoner.”

“I wish you wouldn't jest about such things, cousin.”

“You're too scrupulous, Edgar. Why should he want to kill me, anyway? Perhaps he'll appear again and I can get him to work for me. I miss Jean-Luc.” Candover sighed, reflecting on his lost
pâtissier
. “Come to think of it, that rose cream reminded me of Jean-Luc. It was prepared just the way he used to. My favorite dish.”

He sipped some more brandy. “What was his name?”

“Who?” Edgar asked.

“The cook. The one that ran away.” Candover reached over and selected a tartlet from a plate on the bedside table. Not even a brush with death could dull his passion for pastries. He examined it critically. Since Jean-Luc's departure he constantly complained about the quality of the sweets produced in his kitchen.

“Jacob Léon.”

“Funny that,” Candover mused. “You don't think it could have been Jacobin, do you? The similarity in name, you know. That bitch would love to kill me.”

“You're imagining things,” Edgar said soothingly. “How could Jacobin get a job as a cook at the Pavilion and keep it? She doesn't have the training. She's in Paris with Jean-Luc, and Jean-Luc is working for the Duc de Clermont-Ferrand.”

“Damn his eyes, and damn hers too,” the older man growled, spitting a shower of crumbs onto his barrel of a chest. “And refill my glass.”

Edgar left Candover to the enjoyment of his brandy, his pastry, and his spleen. He needed to find Jacobin. Fast.

J
acobin's doubts about her new job were confirmed when she saw her working quarters, or rather lack of such. The kitchens at Storrington Hall were spacious, well equipped, and fully staffed. There was no vacancy for a specialist in
pâtisserie
, because no such position had ever existed.

As for the cook, Mrs. Simpson, she reminded Jacobin of a plumper version of her old enemy Mrs. Underwood at the Pavilion.

“I don't know what's got into His Lordship's head,” remarked the cook with an indignant sniff when presented with Jane Castle's arrival. “He's always been quite satisfied with my puddings, just like his father before him. Apple tart, fruit fools, and Christmas pudding in season. Good English fare. That's all we've ever served here.”

Jacobin sighed inwardly. It was too much to hope for the kind of friendly acceptance she'd enjoyed among her uncle's servants. Still, she had no intention of allowing the woman to bully her.

“I don't know anything about that, Mrs. Simpson,”
she said firmly. “But Lord Storrington has engaged my services as a
pâtissière
and
confectionère
. Please be good enough to show me to the pastry room.”

“Dear me, Miss Castle! We don't have any place like
that
here.” From the cook's scornful tone, Jacobin might have asked to be shown to a brothel. “There's a marble slab over there”—she indicated a corner of the kitchen—“I use for rolling out dough.”

“That's not good enough,” Jacobin replied. “I must have my own room where the temperature can be kept cold enough for pastries and jellies.”

“You'll have to ask Mr. Simpson. Now if you'll excuse me, I've dinner to get on the table in two hours, thanks to His Lordship arriving unexpected.”

“Mr. Simpson?”

“He's the butler,” the cook replied. “And my husband.”

Jacobin kept a rein on her ever volatile temper and decided a temporary retreat was in order. “I will get out of your way then, madame.”

She left the kitchen and went to inspect the rest of the offices. She found an ample ice closet and guessed that a plentiful supply of ice would be forthcoming. Storrington Hall's location—like that of the Brighton Pavilion—near the chalk downs provided perfect conditions for the storage of ice year-round. Not far from the main kitchen there was a small unused pantry that could easily be equipped as a pastry room.

Diverted by the sound of a visitor at the back door, demanding to see the head cook, Jacobin drew closer to the half-closed door of her pantry.

The steps of the under servant who'd opened the door retreated to the kitchen. After some indecipherable, but clearly irritated, speech, heavier footsteps approached the back door, and Jacobin heard Mrs. Simpson asking the visitor his business.

“I'm inquiring if there's a new pastry cook been hired on here.” The voice was one of a superior servant.

“What's that to you?” Jacobin now had reason to be grateful for Mrs. Simpson's suspicious nature.

“I'm trying to a find a cook named Jacob Léon, a young Frenchman,” the voice continued. “I've heard reports he's taken service in a household near Brighton.”

Zut
, Jacobin thought, how could they have tracked her down so quickly?

“We don't have any Frenchies here,” said Mrs. Simpson firmly. “And no male cooks neither. His Lordship's new pastry cook is an Englishwoman, just like I am.”

“What's her name?” The inquiry was relentless.

“You want to know anything else, you go to the steward. Or to His Lordship. Come back here and I'll give you what for, snooping around His Lordship's kitchens like this.”

Jacobin's confidence, on the rebound since Storrington had agreed to employ her without a lot of difficult questions, seeped away. It was bad enough to face the political quicksands of her new position without investigators dogging her footsteps. She needed to keep this job until the furor over Candover's attempted murder had subsided. Or until they found the real culprit. She hoped the authorities—for she had little doubt it must be the repre
sentative of a magistrate or of Bow Street who pursued her—were searching all over Sussex rather than having specific information linking her to Storrington.

Loath to face interrogation by the cook, as soon as the coast was clear she slipped out the back door for a walk in the grounds.

The damp winter chill, stiffened by a purposeful breeze, cut through her worn cloak and echoed the cold fear in her heart. She longed desperately for an ally. At her uncle's house she'd at least been surrounded by friendly servants. Below stairs she'd found a family. Not one capable of replacing her doting parents, whose love and attention had made her childhood an endless summer of warmth and safety. But her welcome in the servants' hall had comforted her when she was reeling with grief at the loss of both father and mother within a few months, and alleviated the cruelty and neglect dealt her by her uncle and guardian.

She missed the trivial daily gossip of life below stairs at Hurst Park. She missed the kindly cook who had shown her how to roll out pie crust. She even missed Edgar, her dull but amiable cousin who hadn't treated her unkindly. Most of all she missed Jean-Luc.

Since Jean-Luc Clèves had taken command of Candover's kitchen when she was sixteen, he had been her closest friend. He'd reminded her of her childhood in France and taught her to cook. And he'd helped her escape from Hurst.

There was no one to help her now. She, who rarely cried, felt the prickle of tears. Ever since her father's
death she'd had to look after herself. As an eleven-year-old girl Jacobin had propped up her heartbroken mother and arranged their escape from Napoleon's France. Orphaned soon afterward, she'd suffered years of living with Candover's hatred, months in the regent's kitchens in constant fear of being unmasked, and now she was on the run because of a crime she hadn't committed. A rising sob tore at her breast, and she succumbed to waves of fear, loneliness, and a desperate anger at the injustice of her situation.

For the first time in months she consciously recalled the events that had led to her departure from her uncle Candover's house.

 

It was a rare occasion when Jacobin was summoned to her uncle's presence. In eleven years at the Candover estate she could probably count the number of times on the fingers of her two hands—and without needing the thumbs. Experience told her this encounter would be unpleasant.

She hurried upstairs from the kitchen to tidy her hair and smooth out the creases in her gown created by apron strings securely bound at the waist. At least at this hour of the morning her dress was still clean; several hours in the pastry kitchen would find it dusted with flour and smeared with butter, despite the protection of the large linen cook's apron. She'd prefer to face Candover looking like the well-bred young lady she was supposed to be, little as he honored her position.

Her mind raced over the possible cause of his displeasure. Although he was usually content to ignore her existence, he seemed to feel the periodic need to berate the niece he'd given houseroom since she was eleven years old.

In a tiny corner of her mind, Jacobin couldn't help hoping that for once he'd show her an iota of kindness, a small indication that he regarded his sister's only child with anything but loathing.

She knocked softly at the library door. Candover didn't trouble to rise when she entered at his curt command. Trying to gauge his mood, she eyed him cautiously. A darkly shadowed chin and the state of his dress told to expect nothing good. At nine-thirty on a Hampshire morning he was slumped in an armchair, still in evening clothes. That meant he'd driven from London by night and was likely still foxed. Sober he was merely cold; drunk he could be vicious.

“There you are.” He looked at her through bloodshot eyes that held a curious gleam, an expression that seemed almost triumphant. “You're to go and pack. You're leaving today.”

He was throwing her out.

“Why?” It was the only thought she could utter.

“I have found a position for you.” His slack lips curled nastily.

A position? For a moment Jacobin was glad. Glad to get away from Hurst Park and out of her uncle's power. But relief gave way to suspicion as she considered what kind of position he meant. It seemed unlikely that
anyone would hire her as a governess. Although more than capable of fulfilling the academic requirements of such a post, she was—thanks to Candover—without the feminine accomplishments that gently bred parents expected their daughters to master. Latin, Greek, and a thorough acquaintance with French intellectual thought were not useful qualifications for a young woman seeking employment.

“What kind of position?” she asked.

He gave a crack of laughter. “On your back!”

She wasn't too naïve to understand the inference.

“Lord Storrington is taking you,” Candover continued. “I had nothing left to wager, so I staked you instead. And lost.”

“He wants to marry me?” Jacobin inquired cautiously, unwilling to believe in the more obvious meaning of his words.

Candover's laughter was ugly and without humor. “Marriage? To a worthless French slut? You flatter yourself. You'll be lucky if he sets you up as his mistress instead of taking a quick tumble and throwing you into the gutter as you deserve.”

“
Non! Jamais!
” she cried, breaking into her native French as tended to happen when her emotions were kindled. “
C'est infâme, vil. Vous n'êtes qu'un macquereau immonde.
”

Her uncle hated her speaking French, though he understood the language well enough.

“Call me a dirty pimp, by all means,” he sneered. “Knowing such names merely proves what you deserve.
You're no better than a whore so you might as well be one.”

“I am of age,” she said carefully, reverting to English. “You can't make me do it. You can throw me out of your house but you can't control my actions. I'd rather starve than agree to such a disgusting arrangement.” Beneath a veneer of calm, panic churned. Without a penny to her name and deprived of even her uncle's un-loving protection, her future was precarious.

Candover rose to his feet. His body was grotesquely swollen despite the corsets that strove to confine his massive belly. He lumbered toward her and took her arm in a painful grip.

“You could leave here and go to hell your own way—if you could escape me. No, my dear niece”—his sneer intensified—“I promised you to Storrington and I'm a man of my word. A gentleman never reneges on a wager.”

Jacobin spat in his face. “Some gentleman! My father was a gentleman. You are a filthy pig,” she hissed.

Tightening his hold on her arm, he raised his other hand and slapped her face, hard. “Give me—or your new master—any trouble and I'll sell you to a bordello. At least I'd get a few hundred pounds for you and be rid of your accursed presence to boot.”

Her uncle's eyes were filled with a kind of madness beyond anger and inebriation. Jacobin wanted to cry out her hurt, to ask why Candover found his closest living relative a curse, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower.

Nursing her stinging cheek, she managed to retort through a rising tide of terror, “You can't force me. There's no slavery in England.”

“See this bell rope?” he said, reaching for the tapestry pull. “One ring and my valet will come. He knows you've been—difficult—and is prepared to tie you up and escort you to my carriage. After that you will be driven to London and delivered to Lord Storrington—unless you would prefer the other place I mentioned.”

Her choice was bleak: a liaison with Storrington—doubtless another dissipated member of the regent's set—or forced prostitution of an even more terrifying kind.

“Why?” she demanded in a whisper, unable to maintain her defiance. “Why would you do this to your sister's child? My mother loved you.”

 

Tramping aimlessly through the park at Storrington, Jacobin sobbed out her loneliness and grief. She was so tired of being strong. She wanted to be home in France. She wanted her parents back.

Candover's face had reflected only hatred as he reached for the brandy glass that was never far away, even at that hour of the morning.

“You are
his
child,” he had said.

Why had Candover loathed her father? Auguste de Chastelux had been a hard man to hate. Handsome and brilliant, Auguste had possessed a rare charm that drew everyone he encountered. Her mother Felicity had loved him devotedly and he had been the center of Jacobin's life for her first eleven years.

She realized now that her father's love for her mother had never equaled Felicity's for him. On some level Jacobin had always known that Auguste's deepest devotion was for her, his only child. Yet Auguste had been a kind and attentive husband, and Jacobin did not believe he'd been unfaithful. It couldn't have been neglect or cruelty toward his wife that made his brother-in-law hate him.

Besides, nothing she knew of her uncle led her to suspect he'd mind if his sister was mistreated. Really, she thought savagely, given what an unpleasant man he was, she wasn't surprised someone wished to kill him. But not her. However much she loathed and resented her uncle, she was her father's child, and Auguste had deplored violence.

As her sobs subsided, she thrust Candover from her mind. Her fit of tears had made her feel better, calmer. Her natural optimism reasserted itself as she took stock of her surroundings. Even in November the grounds at Storrington were beautiful. The path she followed took her up a gentle rise through an extensive stand of rhododendrons. As she emerged on the other side the landscape opened up to reveal a valley with a small lake. At one end the lake was fed by a swift stream, and a rustic watermill took advantage of the race. A decorative stone bridge crossed the stream leading to the far side of the water. And at the other end stood a two-story building of plaster and timber in a French country style.