Lady of Shame (11 page)

‘Possibly. Or Canada.’

It sounded terribly far away. And there was absolutely no reason for her to feel a sense of disappointment, but she found she did not want to talk about him leaving. ‘I don’t suppose you found out who doctored the fish?’

His lips pressed together. He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

No doubt when he did that person would be very sorry indeed.

He drew the gig up at the front door, jumped down and held up his arms for Jane. Claire shook her awake. ‘We are home, child.’

Jane blinked sleepily at the house. ‘This isn’t home. Our home is in Rochester.’

‘Not any more, sweet,’ Claire said, reaching up to lift her down. Soon they would have a house, a place where they could settle permanently. A place Jane could call home for the rest of her life.

‘Allow me,’ Monsieur André said. He lifted the child down with impressive ease, carried her to the front door and handed her off to a footman. ‘Mademoiselle Jane suffered quite a shock on her way home—carry her up to her chamber,’ he commanded. The footman shot him a dark look, but did as requested.

The footman was wise. The man exuded danger and not only because he held Jacobin views about the rights of men. There was an indefinable quality about him that made others bow to his will that would have seemed quite ordinary for a nobleman, but seemed quite at odds with his situation as a chef.

And now she owed him a debt of gratitude for his help today. The question was how to repay it. Somehow she did not think he would be pleased by an offer of money. Not that she had any.

She didn’t look back, but she did hear the front door close and felt a strange sense of loss.

* * *

The footmen milled around the kitchen, dropping off dirty dishes and reloading their silver trays with steaming tureens and platters. They lined up ready to ascend the stairs. As he had for the first course, André went ahead of them and stood at the dining room door with his spoons at the ready.

Before he allowed any of them to pass, he tasted each dish again. He would not allow anything to go wrong this time.

Everything was fine until the beef stew. At first, he could not believe his palate. He had to be imagining it. He took a fresh spoon and tasted again.

The unmistakable flavour of peppermint filled his mouth. Overpowering. Dreadful.

He glared at the footman in livery, Joe Coyle, the one who muttered against him because he was French. ‘You.’ His voice was more growl than words. He threw down the spoon.

‘Bastard. What’s the matter with you?’ Joe tried to push past into the dining room.

André snatched the tray out of his hand and pressed it onto one of the men on his way out, lifting the tureen off the tray as he did so.

Joe stared at him. ‘What the hell are you doing, poltroon?’

‘Cochon. Fils d’une salope.’

‘I don’t know what you said, mate, but whatever it was, you got no right talking to me like that.’

Bravado. The boy had it by the bushel full. Ire coloured André’s vision red. He grabbed the boy by his stock and pulled him out of the way of the men waiting to go in. ‘You think I am stupid? Mint. You ruin my food with mint?’

‘What are you blethering about?’

André could scarcely contain himself. ‘You like mint in your
boeuf bourguignon
? Then you shall have it.’

He thrust the bowl at him. ‘Eat.’

The dining room door opened and Claire slipped out with Lumsden hard on her heels. Her glance took in the scene and her face filled with horror. ‘What is going on?’ she whispered. ‘We can hear you from inside.’

‘I beg your pardon, Madame Holte. Try the beef stew. This
cochon
ruined it with mint.’

‘I d-didn’t,’ Joe stuttered, looking to Mr Lumsden. ‘I carried it up. I never touched it.’

Claire leaned forward and delicately sniffed the dish and then raised her gaze to meet André’s. ‘It definitely smells like peppermint.’

André handed the dish to one of the footmen who was lingering watching the show. ‘Hold this.’

He turned to Joe, grabbed his lapels and shook him. ‘It was perfect before you got your hands on it.’ He could scarcely contain his rage, not so much for himself but because this cretin, this fool who liked to play tricks on his fellows, had almost ruined Claire’s dinner. Again. ‘How dare you? How dare you ruin my food? How dare you shame Castonbury with your prejudiced antics?’

The boy cringed. ‘I never.’

A touch to his shoulder had him swinging around, fists clenched, expecting one of the others to try to help his friend.

He drew up short when he realised it was Claire. She looked anxious. ‘This is neither the time nor the place.’ She glanced at the butler. ‘Please find somewhere for Joe to remain under lock and key until we get to the bottom of this.’

She was protecting the lad. From him. From his temper. Sickness flooded his mouth. He stepped back. ‘I think that would be wise. We do not wish to give him another chance to tamper with the food.’ He glanced over at the dish. ‘I will bring more. Or I will, if what is left in the pot is not also ruined. Once more it is the dish you particularly requested.’

‘I see that.’ She sounded so calm, so collected, while he wanted to murder someone. Her coolness quieted his anger. Melted his rage.

It was the second time her calm voice and quiet manner had taken the edge off his temper. Reason swiftly returned as she smiled at him. He stared at her in awe.

‘I think it would be a good idea if Mr Lumsden brought up the replacement,’ she said. ‘Please go with him, Monsieur André. Now I must return to my guests.’

He watched her walk away, shoulders straight, the erotic sway of her hips in the silken gown a siren’s call. No longer angry, she inflamed him in a different way.

‘Lock him in the cellar,’ Lumsden said to one of the other men.

‘The wine cellar?’ Joe said with a shadow of his normally cocky manner. He was afraid. André could see the fear in his eyes. Because he was guilty and he knew it.

‘The root cellar,’ Lumsden said.

‘I never done nothing, Mr Lumsden,’ Joe said, pleading.

‘Anything,’ Lumsden said. ‘I do not have time to deal with this, Joe.’ He cast a look of dislike at André. ‘I have a dinner to serve. I will speak with you both later.’

* * *

‘The duke’s chef has excelled himself,’ Samuelson said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his stomach.

‘I am glad you approve, Sir Nathan,’ Claire said softly, thankful that there had been more beef stew and that all of the other of the dishes had remained unadulterated, which did not bode well for Joe.

‘Mrs Holte chose the menus,’ Reverend Seagrove said. ‘And a wonderful array of dishes it was.’

Claire doubted Mr Seagrove had eaten so well in years. ‘I let myself be guided by Monsieur André.’

‘A wise women lets herself be guided by a knowledgeable man,’ Sir Nathan said with a smile that seemed almost a leer.

Claire wished she could like this man better. He was the sort of man who would protect what he had. If only he did not see women as chattels, not quite the equal of his property or his horses. But it might not be such a bad thing, having a man who would not quail before a fight.

He was one man she felt confident could stand up to Ernie Pratt and his henchmen. André was another, she realised. He wouldn’t be the slightest bit intimidated.

Surely it would not come to that? The only man who might attempt a challenge had no idea of her real identity. He would never find her here. The moment she was married, she and Jane would be safe, because she would have paid off her late husband’s debts.

‘I hear your stud has gone from strength to strength, Sir Nathan,’ Claire said, having done her homework. ‘Do you plan to enter the Derby, this year?’

‘Always do, Mrs Holte. I anticipate doing very well. Very well indeed.’

‘I had heard your Green Dragon had come down lame,’ Reverend Seagrove said.

‘Aye. That fool horse master of mine ran him too hard last time out.’ His face took on a grim expression. ‘He won’t make that mistake again.’

That sounded terribly like a threat.

‘Will you come to the races, Mrs Holte?’ Samuelson asked. ‘I would be happy to have you as my guest.’

There it was, the kind of invitation she had been hoping for. Only it did not lift her spirits at all. Two hours in Samuelson’s company and she felt battered. By his opinions. And by his personality. There was no doubting his power.

She might not have minded him so much if the glances he sent her way were for her as a woman, but it was incontrovertibly clear that it was her name that held his interest.

She smiled sweetly. ‘I would love to be your guest.’

Samuelson turned to the dowager marchioness. ‘And what about you, my lady. Would you like to join us?’

Two widows to choose from. Claire gritted her teeth and kept smiling.

‘I don’t know,’ Lady Hatherton was saying in her light little voice, but her lips were smiling and Sir Nathan licked his. The man clearly intended to keep all his options open.

‘You’ll have a grand time, won’t she, Seagrove?’

‘I have to admit,’ the Reverend Seagrove said, ‘there is no more magnificent sight than the Derby.’

‘Especially if you’ve a guinea or two on the outcome, eh, Seagrove?’

‘I think it is Lady Phaedra you should be asking about the Derby,’ Lily said with a smile.

Samuelson reared back. ‘Ask a woman?’

‘I believe it is Lady Phaedra’s fondest wish to win the Derby. She is an excellent judge of horseflesh, according to my fiancé.’

‘A woman’s place is beside her husband’s hearth,’ Samuelson said harshly. The repressive way he said it felt like a rock in the middle of Claire’s chest. She couldn’t breathe for the weight of it for a moment.

It was her duty to endure it. For the sake of Jane’s future.

‘Shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?’ she asked brightly, and rose to her feet lest her face display her worry.

The gentlemen rose with the ladies and bowed as they left for the drawing room and tea.

It had been a successful dinner. Everything had gone swimmingly well as far as her guests were concerned, but the heaviness in her chest remained.

Chapter Nine

L
ater could not come soon enough for André as he paced the length of his kitchen and back. Claire had cooled his temper outside the dining room, but now André was filled with cold rage. The boy had to be punished. His crime had not only harmed André, but it had also harmed Claire.

And that was what had aroused his temper to such an extent earlier.

When Mr Lumsden arrived he ceased his pacing. ‘A bad business this,
monsieur
,’ the older man said, shaking his grizzled head.

‘Indeed. Shall we speak with the boy now?’

‘Better to strike while the iron is hot.’

A doleful sniff came from the scullery maid, Becca.

‘What is the matter with her?’ Lumsden asked.

‘I gather she is concerned for Joe.’

Mr Lumsden harrumphed. ‘Well, come along. Let us get this over with.’ Silently they made their way down to the cellars. Coal was stored here and the duke’s wines, as well as potatoes and other supplies that preferred the cold and the dark.

Mr Lumsden withdrew a key from his pocket rather like a child withdrawing the crown from the king cakes of André’s childhood.

No sound came from the other side of the door.

Mr Lumsden unlocked it and pushed it open.

Joe charged out, knocking the old man off his feet and barrelling past André. Instinct acted quicker than thought and André caught the lad by the collar, swung him around, then, catching his shoulders, pressed him back against the wall.

‘Monsieur André,’ a female voice cried. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

Claire.

André kept Joe pinned to the wall with one arm across his chest and turned his head to watch her stride down the dim passageway.

‘Unhand him,’ she said.

Stern. Assuming the worst, of course. ‘
Non, madame
, he stays where he is. Monsieur Lumsden, are you all right?’

Lumsden emerged from the cellar, brushing himself down and muttering under his breath. He glared at Joe. ‘You’ll pay for that, my lad.’

Claire’s gaze went to each face. ‘Will someone tell me what is going on?’

‘He tried to escape,’ Lumsden said. ‘Knocking me down in the process.’ His brows lowered. ‘What do you have to say for yourself, boy?’

The lad glared back, his face sullen and full of defiance. ‘I ain’t going to prison. Not for something I never did.’

‘Oh, Joe, no one said anything about prison,’ Claire said softly. ‘But I would like to understand why you did it before I decide what should be done.’

‘I never did anything. The Frenchie did it and is trying to blame me. He’s got it in for me, he does.’ He swung a punch at André, who caught the fist in his hand and twisted the lad’s arm behind his back, pushing him face-first against the wall.

‘Liar,’ André said, his anger red behind his eyes. ‘The stew was fine when it left my kitchen. Did you meet someone on the way?’

Pressed with his face against the wall, Joe grunted out a muffled no.

‘Perhaps you should let him go,’ Claire suggested. ‘So we can talk.’ She glanced at André, clearly asking him to follow her lead.

Soothed by her voice and her calm cool logic, he eased the pressure on the boy’s back. She was right. The boy could not escape. Nor did André want to hurt him. He just wanted him to pay for his crime.

The boy leaned his back against the wall, rubbing his wrist.

‘You won’t run away, will you, Joe?’ Claire continued in a serious tone. ‘You see, Monsieur André will catch you very quickly if you do and it will be proof of your guilt.’

Joe eyed André warily. ‘You’re stronger than you look.’

‘Monsieur André is a pugilist,’ Claire said. Was that a note of admiration in her voice?

Joe’s eyes widened and something filled his expression, something that looked a bit like respect.

‘I spar,’ André said.

‘Is that how your beak got broke?’

‘My beak?’

‘He means your nose,’ Claire said. She looked as if she was trying not to laugh.

‘Let us return to the matter at hand,’ Lumsden said testily. ‘Why did you put mint in the stew?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘It would be better if you told the truth, Joe,’ Claire said gently. ‘Really it would.’

‘I’m not admitting to something I never did.’

‘Then you can pack your bags and be gone in the morning, and without a reference,’ Lumsden said. ‘You’ve been troublesome since the day you arrived.’

Joe hunched a shoulder. ‘Fine with me.’

André winced at the fear behind the bravado. It was a hard time for a lad to be out of work. He didn’t want him dismissed, just punished.

He looked at Claire, for he could not step into Lumsden’s bailiwick. He was surprised to find her looking at him.

She turned to Lumsden. ‘I do realise this is your domain, Mr Lumsden, and far be it for me to interfere, but perhaps we could give Joe another chance.’

Saints above, had she read his mind?

‘Not unless he admits his guilt,’ Lumsden said, crossing his arms over his narrow chest.

‘I didn’t do it.’ The boy’s chin thrust forward.

‘There is no proof that he did,’ Claire said.

She didn’t want the lad dismissed. It was obvious in her eyes and in the droop of her soft lower lip.

‘There might be a way to tell if he is guilty, though it will not prove his innocence,’ André said, and felt a rush of gladness that there was a way he could make Claire feel better about this whole thing.

Joe regarded him warily. ‘How?’

‘Hold out your hands.’

The boy jerked his hands behind his back.

‘Hold them out, Joe,’ Claire said.

‘I’m not letting him touch me,’ Joe said.

‘Tell me what to look for,’ Claire said, coming to stand between André and the young footman.

‘If he handled mint, he would smell of it. It would be on his skin, or in the fabric of his coat.’

‘Hold out your hands, Joe,’ Claire said crisply.

The lad thrust his fists at her face, then turned them over flat. Claire inhaled and shook her head.

‘Please take off your coat,’ she instructed gently.

He did so and, with Lumsden’s help, they established that there was not a whiff of mint on the lad.

‘Could it have dissipated already?’ Claire asked.

‘Dissi-whated?’ Joe asked.

‘Faded,’ Claire said.

André shook his head.

‘Then you know I didn’t do it.’ He glowered at André. ‘You did it. You were trying to get me into trouble. You Frenchies are all the same. Killed my brothers, your lot did.’

‘Joe,’ Claire rapped out. ‘Enough. As Monsieur André said, this does not prove you innocent, though it certainly helps. And it was Monsieur André’s idea, so you should be grateful. While we cannot punish you for a crime we cannot prove, we can punish you for your rudeness and for knocking Mr Lumsden down.’

Joe’s mouth dropped open.

André’s jaw wanted to drop too. The little brown mouse had the roar of a lion when roused, it seemed. But then he already knew she had hidden passion.

His blood warmed.

Good Gracious, how did she do it to him, when he had already decided not to let it happen again? Was her allure growing too strong for his well-honed control? If so, he should start thinking about leaving sooner than he had planned.

Claire looked at him and at Mr Lumsden. ‘I think one of the problems with Joe is too much unspent energy. Too much time standing around with nothing to do but look smart in his livery.’

There was a wicked twinkle in her eye and it seemed to be directed his way. André felt his stomach tighten with anticipation and a bit of dread as he waited to find out what she would say next.

‘Monsieur André is extremely busy in kitchen. If Mr Lumsden will agree, you can be assigned to assist him. It will do you good to learn how much work is required of a chef and how disheartening it is when someone spoils that work.’

A woman with a brain and a dollop of kindness. A rare breed indeed, in his experience. It would give André a chance to keep an eye on the lad, find out if he truly was guilty.

Lumsden hesitated, then gave a hard nod. ‘I agree.’

‘What, you’ll turn me into a kitchen maid? Or a nancy boy finickin’ around with food. Not me.’

Claire’s eyebrows went up and then lowered. Her mouth lost all vestiges of softness. ‘It is that or dismissal, Joe.’

Now that was a firmness he really had not expected.

André bared his teeth in a hard non-amused smile. ‘Expect to work hard,
mon ami
, for I will show you no quarter.’

Joe sneered. ‘How hard can peeling a few tatties be?’

Goodness, the boy was incorrigible. And Claire. She was extraordinary. If the boy really was guilty, then this was a fitting punishment.

But if Joe was speaking the truth and did not spoil the dinner, who did? And would they try again?

* * *

The following morning brought a nosegay of snowdrops from Sir Nathan along with a note hoping he would meet her at the assembly to be held in Buxton at the end of the week.

He was hooked. It didn’t mean she could land him as a bridegroom, but it did mean he was interested.

She should feel elated.

She didn’t. Quite the opposite. She felt like a woman with her head in a noose. It was the same feeling she’d experienced when she’d seen the list of suitable gentlemen her brother had suggested she marry years ago. So she’d run off with George instead. What a bad judge of character she had been. He’d been charming right up to the moment he discovered he wasn’t getting any money, then he’d despised her, made it clear he found her of no value. Over time she’d come to believe him.

This time she would be guided by her brother.

And besides, this marriage wasn’t for her sake. It was for Jane. To give her the future she deserved. A settled, safe home. She would have to find a way for Jane to meet Sir Nathan. Introduce the child to the idea gently. If only she could imagine Jane taking to Sir Nathan the way she had taken to André.

And if he didn’t come up to scratch, she still had one more string to her bow.

Mr Carstairs was coming for dinner next week, a little bit later than originally planned but he’d been in London on business. Crispin would approve of any one of these three men. Perhaps she would like the next one better. Perhaps she should wait and see before coming to a decision.

She picked up the paper and scanned the headlines. Another brutal murder in the rookeries in the east end of London. She shivered and could not help wonder if the same person responsible for her husband’s death was responsible for this one too.

Thankfully, his weakness for gambling and subsequent debts had led him to change his name from time to time. She was sure Pratt didn’t know their real last name. Or anything about her origins. George had kept that one promise, she was sure. She bit her lip. Almost sure.

The door flew open and one of the maids rushed in. The ungainly one from the kitchen. Becca. ‘You’ve got to come quick, mum. He’s going to kill him.’

Claire shot to her feet. ‘Who is killing who?’

‘
Monsewer
. He’s killing Joe. It is not Joe’s fault. It isn’t. It isn’t.’

Oh, dear, perhaps her idea of having the boy work in the kitchen was not such a good one, after all. She hadn’t intended for André to hurt the boy.

Then she remembered the chef’s bruises and his cut lip. Perhaps the man took pleasure in taking out his anger on others with his fists. Some men did. Her husband, for example. But only when in his cups. She’d learned to remain silent when he’d imbibed more than usual.

‘Where are they?’

‘In the carriage house. Thought he could hide what he was doing out there,’ the girl said, ‘but Agnes heard the row when she went out to empty the slops. She came to get me to watch the show. Half the footmen are out there watching too. And none of them doing a thing to help poor Joe.’

Claire grabbed her shawl and followed the girl down the servants’ steps and out to the stables. The wind was freezing and her thin slippers offered little protection from the hard-packed snow.

Entering the stable, they bypassed the stalls and went right to the back of the block where the carriages were kept. The large open space was to allow them to be turned around, but today the girl was correct; half the men from the house and all of the grooms were gathered around in a loose circle, watching something in the middle.

Claire pushed her way through. And stopped. Simultaneously aghast and fascinated.

André was naked to the waist. Her mouth dried at the beauty of the man. A statue of a god brought to life. His chest was broad and muscular, its hardness softened only by a triangle of dark crisp curls. Large well-defined muscles in his arms flexed and bunched as he circled his opponent. There were gloves on his hands. The kind pugilists wore for practice. Now his back turned towards her, a smooth expanse of olive-skinned perfection.

Droplets of sweat sheened his skin and here and there ran down the silken skin of his back. Fascinated she watched them trail all the way down to his waistband and disappear.

This man was nothing like her husband, who had been pasty white and rather soft. He looked almost brutal as he towered over the terribly scrawny Joe, who had a chest like a rabbit and boyish muscles.

‘Keep your hands up,’ André was saying to the lad.

The boy brought his gloved hands up to cover his face. André jabbed at him, so swiftly it was not much more than a blur of movement. The lad fell on his rump with a thump and the men roared with laughter.

He was hurting the boy.

‘Monsieur André,’ she said, striding into the circle. ‘Enough of this.’

Joe looked at her sheepishly, but sprang to his feet.

André swung around, his face full of shock. ‘Madame Holte?’

‘I did not intend for you to brutalise the boy, sir.’

Joe took advantage of the chef’s distraction and swung a punch at his temple.

Monsieur André staggered sideways. Some of the men sniggered. Most shouted foul.

André shot Joe a glare. ‘Remember what I told you about fighting fair. This is not a street brawl. It is a science.’

He looked back at Claire. ‘
Madame
, I suggest you return to the house.’