Never Resist Temptation (8 page)

James didn't know about the recurring dream, which Anthony had never confided to a living soul. And he couldn't remember their mother. Although always a supportive brother, he didn't share the urgent need to settle the score with their mother's seducer.

Further discussion was cut off by the entrance of the butler announcing Lady Kitty Thornley, followed by the energetic entrance of the lady herself.

“James!” she cried happily as her brothers struggled to their feet to greet her. “I haven't seen you this age!”

“I managed to escape for two weeks at Melton, but the miserable weather drove me back to the dubious delights of guarding Carlton House.”

“I'm glad you'll be here for Anthony's dinner party. I've got too many girls.” She looked about her and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Really, there's nowhere to sit in this room. Foley, we'll take tea in the blue room.”

The brothers reluctantly abandoned the manly comforts of wood paneling, leather furniture, books, and strong spirits for the more refined confines of the drawing room. Once ensconced behind the tea tray with her male relations perched decorously on a pair of blue silk-upholstered bergères, Kitty beamed happily. Her irritated elder brother was about to make a caustic comment about managing females and uncomfortable furniture when he was distracted by the mention of a well-known name.

“I've just come from Countess Lieven's,” Kitty said, “and she has news about the Brighton poisoning.”

Anthony leaned forward. “Of Candover?” he asked.

“Yes, of Candover. Who else?” Kitty turned to James. “You may not have heard, since you just returned to town, but a week ago Lord Candover was poisoned in Brighton, with aconite in a Bavarian cream served at the Pavilion. Can you imagine the scandal? Lieven says Prinny is quite beside himself.”

“Is he dead?” James asked, pretending ignorance of the event. “Candover, I mean, not Prinny. I'd have heard if he'd kicked the bucket.”

Treating such levity with the disdain it deserved, Kitty continued with her story. “Candover is expected to make a full recovery, but the really interesting thing is that it seems the poisoner was actually employed as a cook in the prince's kitchen. Can you believe it? The whole royal family might have been murdered!”

“That seems unlikely,” Anthony interjected sardonically, “given that most of them aren't on speaking, let alone dining, terms with Prinny.”

Kitty refused to be sidetracked. “This young cook, a protégé of Carême himself, disappeared without trace the next day. A Frenchman, you know. Countess Lieven says Bow Street suspect Bonapartist involvement.”

James delivered a discreet sidelong glance of concern at his brother. For the first time it occurred to Anthony that by harboring Jane Castle he might be getting himself into trouble. Yet he still couldn't believe her guilty of the crime. And to suggest she might be in league with sympathizers of the exiled Bonaparte was absurd. She herself had expressed her loathing for the tyrant, hadn't she? Rather than feeling suspicious of his mysterious
cook, his sentiments were quite protective. The realization hit him forcibly: should Candover's attacker not be discovered, Jane Castle's position was parlous.

Kitty interrupted his thoughts. “I suppose I'd better see this new cook of yours about the menu for Wednesday. Unless you have anyone to add, I believe our final number will be twenty.”

Anthony wrenched his mind back to concrete matters. Not that he gave a damn who was coming to the party. The sole purpose of the occasion was as a vehicle to demonstrate Jane Castle's talents as a confectioner.

“I have invited six young unmarried ladies for you to meet,” Kitty continued. Having almost forgotten that he was supposed to be seeking a bride, Anthony was unprepared for James's startled whistle.

“Young ladies?” he jeered. “Don't tell me you're entering the marriage market, Tony?”

“I have to do it sometime,” replied his brother defensively. “And Kitty has
kindly
agreed to present a few candidates to me.” This with a baleful glance at his sister, who looked unbearably smug.

“Six perfectly eligible young ladies,” Kitty continued triumphantly, “despite the fact that London is almost empty. The Misses Baring, Lady Sophia Wortley, Miss Mannering, and—oh yes—the Bellamys. They have a daughter and a niece they will be presenting this spring.”

“Debutantes, Kitty? I said not too young.” Anything to deflate Kitty's annoying complacency.

“Not debutantes, Anthony, with the exception of
Miss Bellamy. The niece is a few years older and making her bow late.”

James had a different objection. “The Bellamys!” he exclaimed in disgust. “Chauncey Bellamy is the biggest prig in London and Lady Caroline the biggest prude. I can't think, Kitty, why anyone would want to sit down to eat with them, let alone marry one of them.”

Anthony had a reason for not joining, as he normally would, James's twitting of their sister. He cast his brother a minatory frown. “They are, after all, almost our next-door neighbors in London. And I daresay the girls are charming.”

Kitty looked a little surprised at his acquiescence. “I'm glad to find you so open-minded,” she said with approval. “May I pour you more tea before I meet your new cook? I may as well go down to the kitchen and speak to Mrs. Smith at the same time.”

Once Kitty had left the room, with Anthony's reminder to “make sure the menu was as fancy as possible,” James reiterated his disgust at having to sit down to dine with the tedious Bellamys.

“You forget, James,” Anthony responded, “or maybe you never knew, that Chauncey Bellamy was in Paris.” Kitty knew nothing of their mother's love affair, their father's deathbed revelation, or of Anthony's plan for revenge. James was his brother's sole confidant, the only person he trusted.

“I don't believe for a moment that Mama could have been in love with that bag of wind!” James expostulated.

“No,” Anthony agreed, “he was only eighteen at the time, making his grand tour. But he was in Paris at the right date and he might know something. I shall be able to question him over port, and the evening won't be wasted.”

“How could the evening be wasted when you have six—excuse me,
five
since one is too young—luscious potential brides to look over?”

“For God's sake! You make me sound like a bloated Eastern potentate. I had to give Kitty a reason why I was giving this infernal dinner.”

“She means well, you know, Tony,” James said soberly. “Kitty's a good soul. I wish you could get along better with her.”

Anthony didn't. But he and James had never seen eye-to-eye on their sister.

“Are you having doubts about Candover?” James asked. “Do you think Bellamy might have some different information?”

“I have no doubts at all,” Anthony replied firmly. “But I want to have as complete a picture as possible of our parents' trip to Paris in 1786, and Bellamy may be able to sketch in a few details. I expect that if Bellamy has anything relevant to contribute, it will only confirm the connection between Mama and Candover.”

J
acobin had welcomed Storrington's summons to London, despite the danger that she might be recognized in the city. Charlie's visit had brought home the uncomfortable truth that the authorities investigating Candover's attempted murder were focusing on Jacob
Léon. Since they weren't looking for the true culprit, they weren't likely to unmask him.

Candover's poisoning was the talk of the Mayfair servants' halls. Jacobin had little trouble establishing that her uncle remained in Brighton, but was expected to return to London soon. The first place to start the investigation was her uncle's house. She needed to visit the servants there immediately, if only she could escape from the preparations for Storrington's dinner that were consuming his entire staff. If she had to work this hard all the time, the noble earl was going to get his money's worth.

She finally completed the basket of spun sugar that was to form the central
pièce montée
of the dinner.

“I'm stiff all over,” she informed the sympathetic Mrs. Smith as she drew on her drab cloak and headed for the back door. “I need to go out for a walk. Make sure no one touches that basket. It's surrounded with ice and must be handled with the utmost care or the threads of sugar will snap.”

She spoke no more than the truth. Shaping the intricate basketwork had taken the best part of a day. Her head felt numb from hours of concentration, and her shoulder and arm muscles ached from the labor, which required minute control and tedious repetition. And all this performed in an icy pantry. The lords and ladies who enjoyed the frivolous fruits of the
pâtissier
's art had no idea of the backbreaking effort that went into their creation.

Recent rain had made it damp underfoot, but watery
sunshine filtered into the mews as she made her way north. She stopped to breathe deeply. Even the grimy city air felt good after the long morning's work. A groom backed a pair of grays out onto the cobblestones and hitched them to a smart curricle. While Jacobin idly admired the royal blue paintwork, picked out with gold, and the rippling flanks of the splendidly fit horses, Lord Storrington entered the mews and greeted the servant.

Jacobin hadn't set eyes on him since their abruptly terminated scene in the Storrington Hall kitchen, and she'd missed him. She had no trouble identifying the feelings provoked by the powerful but graceful figure dressed in a multicaped driving coat and gleaming boots. Suddenly she felt short of breath. Something tightened beneath her breastbone and descended to the pit of her stomach.

Desire. It had been lurking below the surface of her consciousness since the first moment she'd seen Storrington. When she'd been floored by the Brighton bullies, outnumbered and helpless on the cold night street, he'd appeared like a guardian angel…no, that was too mild an image…like a hero, to dismiss her tormenters with an arrogant hint of his power. Hurt at her uncle's neglect crystallized into a despairing rage that he had deprived her of the right to aspire to such a man on equal terms. Instead she'd been treated as a possession, a chattel to be carelessly lost over a game of cards.

The earl saw her as nothing but a servant, to be trifled with but never taken seriously. At least as his servant he apparently had some respect for her person. What if he
knew her true identity? She'd like to think well enough of Storrington that he wouldn't take advantage of her helplessness. But she knew little of the man, and her judgment was tarnished by her attraction to him. Her fear of his reaction dispelled any slight impulse toward confession.

Perhaps sensing her gaze, Storrington turned from examining the horses and looked over his shoulder in her direction. Their eyes held for a few seconds, then he swung all the way around and bowed to her, an obeisance such as he might afford a lady of his own rank. Jacobin returned the gesture, not with a maidservant's bob, but in the correct manner taught her by her mother, as though she were being presented at a fashionable entertainment. And without her thinking about it, her curtsy was of the depth due to an equal rather than a social superior.

Then the moment passed and the earl was climbing into his equipage and Jacobin continued her journey out of the mews. For some reason the encounter raised her spirits.

 

“Now you sit down right there and have a nice cup of tea and a piece of my lemon cake, Miss Jacobin, and tell Cookie all about it.”

Jacobin accepted the soothing beverage and even more comforting sympathy from the elderly woman who'd been the closest thing she'd had to a mother since her own died. Neither Candover nor Edgar was in residence at her uncle's London house, just a quarter of an
hour's walk from Upper Brook Street. That meant that she was safe from an encounter with their personal servants; no other member of the staff would ever betray her. Two of the maids joined them at the kitchen table. For the first time in months she felt truly at ease. She was among friends.

“I'm very well, Cookie,” she said, “and I have an excellent new position.”

“I don't like to see you in service,” Cook said with a frown. “It isn't fitting. I hope it's a respectable household with no single gentlemen.”

Jacobin had already decided not to reveal her exact whereabouts; it was better for her uncle's servants not to know, so they wouldn't be put into the position of lying to their employer. She shuddered to think what Cookie would have to say about the noble Earl of Storrington and his flirtatious younger brother.

“Very respectable, Cookie. Well run and the staff are friendly. You needn't worry about me.”

“Does Mr. Edgar know where you are?” asked Rosie, one of the housemaids.

“No,” Jacobin answered, “and please don't tell him you've seen me.”

“He's been that worried about you,” Rosie said. “Can't I at least tell him you're safe.”

“Better not,” Cookie interrupted. “You can't trust Mr. Edgar not to tell His Lordship everything.”

Jacobin smiled at the crestfallen maid. “I'm perfectly safe, Rosie, and in an excellent household. Why, I'm even managing to have a little fun in London.”

Naturally Cookie and Rosie wanted to know all about
that.

“I'm going to a public ball the day after tomorrow with one of my new friends. I'm so excited. I've never been to a dance.”

“Disgraceful!” Cookie exclaimed. “Your precious uncle should have seen to you being presented proper like a young lady should, instead of letting you hobnob with the grooms and kitchen maids.”

Jacobin smiled at her affectionately. “But then I wouldn't have had such good friends, like you, Cookie, and Rosie and Lily and Peter and everyone at Hurst. And I'd never have known Jean-Luc either and I'd have hated to miss that!”

Cookie smiled. The handsome Frenchman had always been a favorite of hers.

“Have you heard from Jean-Luc?” Jacobin asked.

“He wrote to me when he reached France, the rascal, to let me know you were safe. Lord, I do miss that piece of French sauce. His Lordship never stops complaining about my puddings.”

“That's unfair! You may not have Jean-Luc's training, but no one make meringues like you.” Jacobin reached for a slice of cake and took a bite. “Mmm…delicious. Or cakes. Uncle Candover doesn't know how lucky he is to have you.”

“He just goes on and on about this fancy French dish and that. The sooner he gets himself a new pastry cook, the better. Finally get a bit of peace around here.”

“I heard he was taken ill in Brighton,” Jacobin mentioned casually. “Rumor said he was poisoned.”

Cook sniffed. “That's what they say, though what with the amount His Lordship eats and drinks I don't see how they could tell. It's a miracle he doesn't get a stomach upset every day of the week. But whoever's in charge thinks someone tried to kill him. We've had Bow Street runners bothering the staff with a lot of impertinent questions. One of them was here again only the day before yesterday asking about Jean-Luc. Seemed to think he might have something to do with it.”

“Jean-Luc?” Jacobin asked. “He's been in France for months. Why would they suspect him?”

“Something to do with a friend of Jean-Luc's who they think might have done it. The man wanted to know why Jean-Luc left us.”

“You didn't tell him about me, did you?” Jacobin asked. She didn't want the Bow Street runner to even begin to make a connection between Jacobin de Chastelux and Jacob Léon.

“Of course I didn't and neither did anyone else. None of his business. The very idea!”

The very idea of what, Jacobin wasn't certain. But the occasional obscurity of Cookie's utterances was equaled by the steadfastness of her loyalty.

“Do you know any reason why someone might kill my uncle?” Jacobin held her breath. If anything untoward had occurred in the house, Cookie would know about it.

“Well!” Cookie leaned in with a conspiratorial
air. “There was something odd happened about three months ago.”

That didn't sound promising: too long ago. Still, any information was better than the blank page Jacobin had now. She made an encouraging noise.

Cookie, none too reluctant to gossip, lowered her voice confidentially. “I shouldn't say this, but Peter overheard His Lordship have a right donnybrook with a visitor, a Mr. Chauncey Bellamy.”

“Really?” Jacobin didn't have to feign fascination at this piece of news. Peter, the first footman, was a notorious eavesdropper and kept the household informed of goings-on upstairs where the more discreet butler might hold his tongue. “Did he know what they quarreled about?”

“Peter didn't hear that—he didn't arrive until after they started yelling at each other.”

“Who is this Bellamy?”

“Not one of His Lordship's friends. Called here once or twice over the years, but I hear he's very respectable. Peter said Mr. Bellamy was roaring angry. Threatened to thrash His Lordship.”