Never Resist Temptation (19 page)

Anthony seemed undisturbed by her statement. “If I'd been responsible for putting aconite in his pudding, don't you think I would have been delighted to turn you over to the runners and see you hang for my crime?”

Jacobin had come up with that argument herself. Every instinct told her that Anthony wasn't a killer.

“You don't really believe I tried to poison Candover, do you?” he asked.

“No,” she admitted. “But I do think you're a deceitful louse.”

“You are absolutely right.”

That slowed her down. She turned to look at his face as she continued to walk at a more measured pace. She read nothing there but genuine contrition. “You should have told me you knew who I was.”

“I should have. I was wrong and my excuses were worthless. I'd have done anything to win you, I wanted you so much. And I still do. I can't sleep. I look out of the window at that urn a hundred times a day. I've even invented reasons to enter the house across the terrace instead of using the front door so I can look at the wretched thing again. I can't stop thinking about you.” He ran a hand though his hair in the way he had when disturbed about something. His dishevelment made her think of rumpled sheets and him between them.

“I've never felt this way before.”

These were sweet words, blurted out without apparent forethought or a trace of design. But his obsession with Candover still disturbed her. She wanted Anthony happy and laughing, as he often was with her, not the dour, supercilious man she'd first known. She'd meant what she'd told him: she was certain that bringing about Candover's ruin wouldn't make him feel any better.
Humor and affection were what he needed to dispel the ghost of his mother.

And she doubted she'd long resist the urge to provide them. During an almost sleepless night she'd admitted to herself that she yearned to return to Anthony's bed.

The decision was made quickly.

She would. This very night. But she wouldn't tell him now. Let him continue to wonder. If, as he'd said, anticipation increased the appetite, then uncertainty must increase it doubly. Then later, while he was changing for dinner, she'd slip out to the terrace and deliver the signal. She'd feel his arms about her again, his naked flesh against hers, and they'd lose themselves in the delight of kisses and caresses and laughter and ecstasy, and he wouldn't be able to think of anything else. She'd drive the thought of her uncle from his head and make love to him until he never thought of Candover again.

He interrupted her ardent imaginings. “I have something to tell you, Jacobin. Your uncle is coming here tomorrow.”

It was like being drenched in icy water.

“You'll need to keep out of the way, but that won't be a problem. You'll be busy in the kitchen. You must cook your most lavish dishes for him.”

Anthony's trepidation about delivering the news proved justified. She stopped short beside him, and the expression on her face turned from softness to thunder. Her eyes flashed the accompanying lightning.

“You expect me to cook for that swine? To waste the fruits of my art on offal?”

“Think, Jacobin. He'll be so gorged on the fruits of your art he'll agree to play cards again and I'll ruin him. We'll both be avenged.” He hoped this appeal to her unfiner feelings would appease her.

He was disappointed.

“
Jamais!
I will never cook for that man. I'd die rather.” Her breast heaved magnificently. As always, Jacobin in a rage was a vision to be relished.

“Please, Jacobin. You see, it's your cooking he's coming here for. He heard the reports of your triumph at my London dinner.” Play on her professional pride, that was the way to persuade her.

Her eyes were wide with horror. “Now I know why you hired me. I never could understand it when you don't even like sweets.”

“That's not true,” he interjected hastily. “I love some of your sweets! Little puffy—”

She cut him off with a sweep of her arm. “Don't you dare mention
anything
that has happened between us. The truth is I was bait. A fat, wriggling worm on the end of a hook to lure Candover here and let you enact your foolish revenge. I won't do it!”

“I'm afraid I must insist. Who does it matter who you cook for, anyway? It's quite simple. You merely have to do your job, and finally the man will agree to a rematch at piquet.”

Her expression was no longer liquid with rage. It was set in frozen fury. “Finally,” she pounced. “Finally, you say. Do you mean he has been refusing to play with you?”

“Yes. He's refused all my invitations until now.”

“But he's bitten at the big, fat worm on the end of your hook. You are clever, my lord. But has it occurred to you that he may still refuse to lose his fortune to you?”

He opened his mouth but she cut him off again.

“Of course it's occurred to you. You know all about Candover. You know his stubbornness and you know his weaknesses. You know he can't resist
pâtisserie
. You know he hasn't had a pastry cook since Jean-Luc left. I'm not just bait, am I? I'm a stake. You intend to use me as a bet in another card game with Candover.”

Put so bluntly it sounded shocking. “I hoped you wouldn't have to know. There's no chance of me losing,” he assured her.

“My uncle is one of the best piquet players in England. When he loses it's at whist with the prince and his friends. His skills at piquet have been keeping his estate from disaster for years.”

“I am better. I've spent hours studying the game. He cannot beat me.”

“Of course he can. I'm not stupid. I know the luck of the cards can be fickle and defeat even the best player. Do you intend to cheat? To fuzz the cards?”

“Certainly not,” he said indignantly. “I'd never do anything so dishonorable. And I have no need.”

“You speak to me of your precious honor,” she hissed. “Where's the honor, I'd like to know, in using a human being as a stake, as a pawn in your game, not once but twice? I say this to your honor.” She spat on the ground.

He'd never seen a woman so angry. For a moment he almost gave in, almost promised not to risk her. Loathing for Candover fought his desire for Jacobin. But the thought of renouncing his long-cherished vengeance was like a sword to the gut. He had to see the game through to the end.

He'd lose her, for sure. She'd leave him now. That's what women did when you allowed yourself to care for them. Like his mother. And his nurse. It was safer not to allow yourself to care.

Ignoring the chill that was gathering around his heart, he wrapped his soul in hatred and assuaged it with the prospect of final victory.

“Shall we discuss the menu?” he suggested.

S
he spent hours in the inadequately furnished kitchen, oblivious of the hostility of Mrs. Simpson and her staff, preparing all her uncle's favorite dishes. Except the rose Bavarian cream. She and Storrington had agreed, quite without irony, in the terse discussion that followed her capitulation, that a repetition of that particular dish might upset Candover's stomach.

As she stirred and kneaded and mixed and baked she felt as though her very essence was draining into the motions of her craft and her lifeblood was flavoring the food.

The outcome of the card game didn't concern her. Win or lose, she wouldn't be there to see it. She was leaving as soon as dinner was served.

“I need three more baking trays,” she informed Mrs. Simpson curtly. Crashing the metal
plaques
down on the marble slab, she imagined they were his head.

How could he?

Mirlitons
and
fanchonnettes
—such pretty names for featherlight pastry frivolities—went into the oven. Bang!

A noble earl. Pah! She'd known truer nobility in the servants' hall. No cook, footman, or lowly scullion would play games with another's life like those noble lords, Candover and Storrington.

She beat violet essence into cream as though it were Anthony's face under the whisk.

Where she'd end up she didn't know. Jean-Luc had given her enough money to pay for her passage to France, and it wouldn't take her long to reach the coast. But people would be looking for her. If she was arrested en route she'd land in jail.

The prospect hardly dismayed her. Nothing mattered but her broken heart.

Fool that she was, she'd fallen in love with him.
Now
she had to realize it. Now that he'd proven himself utterly unworthy of the emotion. And because she loved him she'd acceded to his request, agreed to help him lure Candover to his doom. And after she'd done this for him she'd never see him again. This time there could be no forgiveness.

By late afternoon everything was ready, except beignets and cheesecakes, which must be cooked at the last minute and served warm. She stepped out into the kitchen court for some much-needed air when a familiar voice intruded on her despairing thoughts.

“Well, well, this is a surprise.”

Her uncle! She knew he'd arrived at Storrington, but never dreamed he'd demean himself by appearing in the servants' area.

“I came to find this famous cook of Storrington's,”
he said as his beady eyes took in the significance of her cook's apron. “It appears that I have. I suppose Jean-Luc taught you the secrets of the kitchen as well as the bedroom.”

That crack had to be pure spite. Candover was surely aware of his former cook's nature.

“It's lucky he did,” she retorted. “It's given me something to do so I don't have to depend on your loving kindness.”

“What a delicious irony that you've ended with Storrington.” His face darkened. “I was shamed when you ran off, you know. I had to renege on a bet and it cost me a pretty penny.

Jacobin shrugged, determined not to show her consternation. “That was your problem not mine. I wasn't yours to wager.”

Candover's bulk towered over her, his breathing stertorous and complexion apoplectic. “What else were you good for? I kept you for years. I decided to get some use out of you.”

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-vent
s filled with whipped cream
à la vio
lette
; 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 re
sources 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.