Never Resist Temptation (22 page)

Every one of those damn petticoats had its own tapes.

“I can't untie them,” he said helplessly. “You'll have to do it. My fingers won't work.”

She raised her head at a quizzical angle. “You are most definitely dismissed.” Her lips, the color of new wine but doubly intoxicating, curved in an invitation he had to accept.

“You are rehired,” she said, emerging a little breathless from a long, deep kiss. “Despite your shortcomings you have some useful skills.”

His answer came in little more than a croak. “I am gratified to have pleased my lady.”

And since that particular service had proved acceptable, he cradled her head in trembling hands and repeated it, drawing from her lips and mouth the scent and taste peculiar to her, both sweet and spicy with a faint continuo of vanilla.

Being Jacobin, she didn't remain passive but met his kiss thrust for thrust and drew him closer until the pressure of her peaked nipples against his chest threatened his scanty control. So he drew back, released her, and fell to his knees.

“I have a task to complete,” he muttered.

Dispensing with dexterity he seized the waistbands of her petticoats and tore them apart, one, two, three, swept each fine muslin layer impatiently to the floor, parted the chestnut curls revealed, and pushed his tongue through them to find her hot, wet, and swollen. Too soon, it took only a few strokes, she uttered a little cry of delight and exploded in his mouth. He wound his arms about her hips and held her tight to him, his cheek against her stomach, filled with a sensation that felt like joy.

“
Mon Dieu!
Anthony,” she said in a strangled voice. “That was wonderful.”

“A good servant,” he said, looking up to find her eyes round with bliss and a smile that set his heart pounding. “A good servant always endeavors to give satisfaction.”

Jacobin rumpled his hair and bent down impulsively to kiss his forehead. “I think you deserve an increase in wages.”

Still dazed by her climax, she wasn't sure how she found the words to continue their teasing make-believe but she wanted maintain it. She was learning that Anthony liked to play games in bed, and discovered that suited her very well. But she also sensed this particular charade had a deeper meaning. In playing the servant he renounced their previous relationship. And she thought that in kneeling at her feet and bowing to her wishes he expressed his contrition by his actions, as earlier he'd done in words.

“What is my lady's desire now?” he asked.

“A good servant anticipates his mistress's desires,” she replied with a provocative look.

“I believe my lady wishes…” He hesitated, then rose to his feet. “…to be flat on her back.” He snatched her into his arms and tossed her onto the bed, where she landed with a shriek and a bounce.

“Stop!” He made to join her, and she could hardly speak for laughing. “It isn't polite for a servant to wear clothes when his mistress is naked.”

“My deepest apologies, madame. The matter will be attended to at once.” Apparently he'd recovered his manual dexterity, for it took a matter of seconds for him to shed his pantaloons and undergarments, leaving him deliciously exposed. “I can't take care of my lady when she's so far away.”

She beckoned expansively from her nest of pillows. “Approach then, lackey.”

Suddenly she was tired of the game. She wanted him in her arms, not at her feet. When more than six feet of masculine muscle, sinew, and skin stretched out beside her, she rolled over to seize him. “Anthony,” she cried and didn't want to weep with joy so she kissed him instead.

The linen sheets were cool, crisp, and rose-scented. He was warm and firm with a scent she couldn't have named or described but knew was his alone. She held on tight and took him with her as she returned onto her back, opened her thighs, and wound her legs about his.

And this time it was easy. He slid into her, slick and hard, filling her with joy and a sense of completion she hadn't known she lacked. His endearments gasped in her ear, barely comprehensible but nonetheless sweet, enhanced her pleasure. She experienced a tremendous sense of power. She had rendered this dominating, controlled man incoherent. And of course he'd reduced her to the same state. Her thoughts scattered and she was aware only of mounting excitement as she met his rhythmic thrusts, higher and higher until she again melted into rapture. While hot waves of delight rippled through every inch of her body, he delivered one more almost tormented cry, wrenched out of her and spent himself, then collapsed, his face buried in her shoulder.

Breath gasping in unison, they lay thus for many minutes until she felt her boneless body and shattered mind reassemble.

“That was splendid,” she murmured, stretching like a cat as he rolled off her and met her eye with sated gaze. She ran an approving hand over the taut muscles of his stomach. “Can we do it again?”

He removed her hand and held it. “Later. First we need to work out how to keep you from being arrested for murder.”

 

“That Bow Street runner will be back,” Anthony said, lying comfortably against a heap of pillows. He tried to ignore Jacobin's hip nestling against his own and concentrate on keeping that hip, and the rest of
her, out of jail. “We need to find definite proof against Bellamy.”

“How could Bellamy have put the poison in the Bavarian cream?”

“A good question. Tell me how it got from the prince's kitchen to Candover's.”

The question obviously troubled her. “The servants from Candover's and other houses bring dishes to the kitchen door after a big dinner and we fill them.”

“Who?”

“The cooks.”

“Is there any way of telling who filled which dish? Perhaps one of the cooks was bribed.”

“I know who filled it.”

“Who?” Anthony had a bad feeling about this.

She covered her face with her hands and spoke through a crack between her fingers. “I did,” she replied in a small voice.

“Good God! Jacobin!” He sat up with a jerk and looked down at her in horror. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. I recognized the coat of arms on the china.”

“For God's sake don't tell anyone. We have to pray no one else noticed.” He sighed. “Then what? Which of Candover's servants would have taken it?”

“My uncle keeps a very small establishment in Brighton, except in the summer. It was probably his valet.”

“Is he bribable? Could Bellamy have paid him to doctor the pudding?”

“It doesn't seem likely. Morgan has been with my uncle for years. He always seemed loyal. He and Edgar's man were the only servants who weren't my friends. The only ones I wouldn't trust.”

“Now I think of it, the tale going around was that the valet saved Candover by his prompt actions. Nonetheless, I'll have my secretary see what he can discover.” He lay down again and embraced her protectively. He wanted nothing more in the world than to dispel her look of despondence, to make her so safe and happy she'd never leave him.

“Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't let them take you away. I have some influence, with the prince and others.” A chill thought struck him. “Not as much as I had, I'm afraid, not once Candover spreads the tale of our card game.”

“Will they truly care so much about that?” she asked.

“Gentlemen are supposed to be punctilious when it comes to games of chance.” He couldn't even begin to explain to her how badly he'd behaved, as far as his peers were concerned.

She looked distraught. “I'm sorry you had to do that for me.”

Gazing at her, he shook his head. “No. Well, yes. For you. But not just for you. For me too. You were right, Jacobin. Avenging myself on Candover was a waste of time. It wouldn't have solved anything. Not that I don't still hate the bastard, but there are more important things in life to worry about.” Like the woman beside
him in bed, for instance. Especially her. He'd never let her go.

He felt a reawakening of interest.

“I feel much better,” he remarked.

“I'm glad. I feel very good too.” Her head was tilted to one side, and she looked at him with a suggestive gleam in her eye.

“Lovemaking will do that to you. In fact, it probably has a lot to do with my current good health.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “
Vraiment?
”

“Yes, really, Mademoiselle Mischief. It's been a long time for me.”

“Since when?”

“Since my father died. I haven't been in the mood. Until I met you. Until the first time I set eyes on you.”

“You thought I was a boy when we first met.”

“Yes.” He grinned. “That was a problem.”

Jacobin was delighted. Perhaps he cared for her, though she dared not hope his feelings equaled her own. Still, she thought optimistically, she would work on that. She reached down and found a certain part of him expressed interest in a second bout.

“Hm,” she said, imbuing her tone with invitation. “After so long you have much to make up for.”

It was some time before either was capable of coherent speech.

“By the way,” he whispered a while later, “sometimes fantasies can become reality. I'd be only too happy to indulge yours, with a happier conclusion, of course. And I'd like to do the same to you.”

She examined the idea of him tying
her
to the bed and found it not displeasing. Somewhere along the way, she realized, she'd begun to trust this man, as well as to love him.

Less alone than she'd felt since the terrible year when she'd lost both her parents, she curled up beside him like a kitten, and drifted into sleep with a smile in her heart.

In the morning she woke up and found him gone.

W
hoever put the Queen's House in order, removing the Holland covers, putting fresh linens on the bed, dusting and polishing every surface till it gleamed, had failed to wind either of the handsome clocks. Jacobin had no idea what time it was. She looked out of the window to check the position of the sun and found it was snowing. No wonder she felt cold.

Really, she thought, as she dressed in her own shabby garments, he might have lit the fire before leaving. Then recalled that wasn't one of his skills.

Never mind. He had other, more important talents. Her muscles were a little stiff, there was some tenderness between her legs, and she felt wonderful. And starving. Breakfast in bed would have been nice.

She skipped downstairs and found her cloak, bracing herself against a blast of frigid air when she stepped outside. The snow had thickened and a light mantle of white clothed the path away from the hamlet. Even the prospect of asking Mrs. Simpson for breakfast didn't dampen her spirits. She had no illusions that the events
of last night—or at least their general tenor—wouldn't be common knowledge in the servants' hall. She could expect all sorts of insolent glances and suggestive remarks.

But this morning she found it impossible to care. She and Anthony would arrange something. He wouldn't be needing her services as a cook anymore, now the match with Candover was over. Perhaps she'd take up his offer of a house on the estate and they could spend hours in bed together.

What that would mean in the long term, she refused to consider. She wouldn't look beyond the immediate concern of her growling stomach. Even Candover couldn't have eaten everything served last night. And if the servants had demolished the lot—she'd noticed their scorn for her didn't extend to rejecting the fruits of her labor—she'd whip up something new. Almond tartlets sounded good.

Humming to herself, she rounded the rhododendrons and almost tripped over the body. The large body sprawled on its back in the pathway, an ugly wound leaching blood into the snow.

Candover. My God!

She knelt and felt for a pulse. Nothing. The flesh was cool, and she was almost certain he was dead. Her mind was numb as she gazed at her uncle's lifeless hulk. She had no fondness for the man and he had surely loathed her, yet she felt no joy in his demise. Maybe he wasn't beyond help. She gathered her scattered wits, just as footsteps approached from the direction of the house.

“Anthony!” she called out. “Help!”

A man emerged through the bush-lined walk. She'd never seen him before. He bent over and felt Candover's pulse, as she had, and swore under his breath. Then rough hands pulled her upright. She glimpsed a scarlet waistcoat beneath the man's heavy coat.

“Jacobin de Chastelux. I arrest you for the murder of Baron Candover of Hurst.”

 

Too late, drat it, and not by very much if he judged correctly. Hawkins cursed the snow that had slowed the last miles of his journey from London to Sussex. He should have left last night, as soon as he'd discovered from Storrington's secretary that wherever Jane Castle had come from, it wasn't Scotland.

At least he had the satisfaction of catching the wench red-handed. In this weather it was hard to tell how long the man had been dead, but he judged it wasn't long.

The girl tried to shake off his firm grip. “Fetch Lord Storrington,” she had the nerve to demand. As though he didn't know the earl was in it with her up to his arrogant eyebrows. Unfortunately he was going to have a hard time pinning the deed on His Lordship, even as an accessory.

“Forget it,” he said. “His Lordship's left you to face the music alone. He drove to London this morning.” Hawkins's leathers had been splashed with icy mud by a speeding carriage that must have been carrying Storrington like a bat out of hell away from the scene of the crime. “You're coming with me to the magistrate.”

Mr. John Withercombe, the local beak, was less accommodating than Hawkins would have wished. Residing two miles from Storrington Hall, he held his neighborhood magnate in considerable respect.

“Storrington's cook, you say.” He scratched his head under the old-fashioned wig, and his wrinkled face creased with concern. “I don't think I can let you take her away without consulting him. He wouldn't be pleased.”

“I found her leaning over the body,” Hawkins repeated. “And I have ample evidence this wasn't her first attempt. She should be lodged in Chichester to await trial at the next assizes. The Prince Regent himself will be most displeased at any delay in bringing her to justice.”

Obviously Lord Storrington's displeasure meant more to Withercombe than the prince's.

“I'll lock her up here,” he said stubbornly, “and if Storrington hasn't returned by tomorrow we'll think again.” It was the only concession Hawkins could wring from him.

The woman was billeted in the magistrate's lockup while the two men returned to Storrington Hall to look for the murder weapon.

 

It wasn't much of a jail, at least in the view of one who'd been brought up on stories of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. No massive stone walls; no chains; no dripping water; no jailers clanking bunches of heavy keys; no weeping aristocrats awaiting the tum
brels; no rats. The English, it appeared, didn't have the French flair for drama when it came to incarceration.

It was really quite tame. More like an ordinary room in the domestic offices of a manor house. A narrow bed stood in one corner, and a hard straight-backed chair was supplied for seating. The floor was of rough pine and the walls whitewashed. A canvas bucket in the corner completed the amenities. Jacobin hoped it would be emptied with reasonable frequency. The small window did at least have bars, but they didn't look very formidable. She fancied that with a blunt instrument she might be able to gouge them from the window frame and make her escape. There could be worse places to spend a few hours.

That was how she felt all morning, when she expected Anthony to come and rescue her at any time. She didn't for a moment believe the runner's assertion that he had fled to London without a word to her.

By mid-afternoon she was anxious, but comforted herself with a recollection of his trying to wake her. She'd buried her face in her pillow and refused to move. Sleep seemed irresistible after such an exhausting night. He must have been telling her he had business to conduct that morning.

By the time a servant delivered her a tray of plain but palatable food she was worried. And long after dark, when the single tallow candle had guttered and the absence of all noise told her Mr. Withercombe's household had retired for the night, she lost all trace of composure. She would still have welcomed Anthony's appearance at
the door of her prison, but was prepared to greet him with a bang on the head with the slop bucket.

As she shivered through the night on the hard little bed, she replayed the events of the morning and didn't like her conclusions.

Anthony had a prime motive for killing Candover: to keep him quiet about their aborted card game and save face with the London
ton
.

Anthony had traveled the same path to Candover's body that she had, but sometime earlier.

Anthony had disappeared from the scene, leaving her conveniently in place to be seized.

And she'd given Anthony the one piece of evidence that no one else knew about, the piece of the puzzle that would surely have hanged her for the Brighton poisoning: that it was she who had filled the dish from Candover's armorial service with rose Bavarian cream.