Lady of Shame (18 page)

Claire’s cheeks went pink. André wanted to hit the duke over the head to make him realise the Frenchie he was talking about was standing behind him. He glanced at Lumsden, who gave him a blank stare in return. Of course. What else could he do? They were servants.

‘Monsieur André plans to open his own restaurant and a hotel,’ Claire said.

André wanted to kiss her for rushing to his defence. But really she shouldn’t be saying anything.

Carstairs stared at her in surprise. ‘Aren’t there enough hotels and restaurants already?’

‘I gather this one will be particularly fine,’ she replied calmly. ‘You will want to keep it in mind next time you travel to London.’

Carstairs was too busy with his venison to reply. The venison was cooked to perfection and the burgundy mushroom sauce was André’s own recipe. The man’s obvious enjoyment should please him. It didn’t.

He gestured to the footman to clear the table. Before Carstairs could blink, his plate was picked up and the platters were on their way out of the door.

André caught Claire’s startled expression and winked. She shook her head at him, but he could have sworn there was a smile lingering at the corner of her mouth.

The next course arrived and was served as before. In pride of place came the jugged hare, the guest of honour’s favourite dish. André would have preferred to put Carstairs in the jug and let the hare run free.

But the meal was almost done. The torture of watching Claire woo this man with his food would soon end and he wouldn’t have to go through it again.

‘I hear you have a grandson, Your Grace?’ Mr Carstairs said. ‘I gather he arrived out of the blue.’ There was an odd note in his voice.

‘A very pleasant surprise too,’ Claire said defensively, as if she, too, had caught something unpleasant in his manner.

‘Not for Lord Giles, I’ll be bound,’ Carstairs said, looking at Reverend Seagrove. ‘Thought he had it all wrapped up nice and tight, I’ll warrant. Must have been a bitter blow.’

The reverend coughed into his napkin. ‘A bone,’ he said red-faced.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ His Grace said. ‘Giles would give his right arm for his brother’s return. His heir is the next best thing.’

Reverend Seagrove sent him a look of gratitude while Claire blinked, obviously surprised by the duke’s forceful manner.

‘Well, that may be what
you
say, Your Grace,’ Carstairs continued, tucking into his hare. ‘But it ain’t what they are saying down at the Rothermere Arms.’

‘What who are saying?’ the duke said with emphasis.

Carstairs must have realised he’d gone a mite too far, because his eyes widened in innocence, but there was still that sly sort of twist to his lips. And Claire was looking so horrified, André had the strong urge to knock the man’s teeth down his throat.

‘The locals, Your Grace,’ Carstairs said. He leaned back in his chair. ‘Gossip says Lord Giles is trying everything to prove the boy ain’t his nephew.’

Reverend Seagrove put down his napkin. ‘It’s a damnable lie.’ He coloured. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Holte, but I cannot sit here and listen to the maligning of my future son-in-law. Next you will be saying my daughter put him up to it.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Claire said. ‘Really, the question is moot. Jamie has an heir. Lord Giles will no doubt assist in training the boy to his position in life and then return to his career in the army. If I am not mistaken, it was what he wanted above all things. Let us not concern ourselves with what the gossips say.’

Reverend Seagrove smiled at her. ‘Indeed. You are correct, Mrs Holte.’

‘Well, why isn’t he here, then?’ Carstairs asked. ‘I heard as how he’d gone off in a pet.’

‘Heard from whom?’ Mr Seagrove asked.

‘That new chap of Sir Nathan’s. Met him on the road the other day. Webster. A military chap with red hair.’

Webster. What an earth did he know of anything? The man was becoming a positive menace.

Claire’s shoulders were stiff with outrage. It seemed she was well able to manage without his help. ‘Lord Giles is accompanying Lady Phaedra on an important matter of business,’ Claire said.

‘I’m feeling tired,’ His Grace announced. He looked exhausted, grey-skinned and breathing hard. He struggled to his feet. ‘I think I’ll retire.’

André felt desperately sorry for the old man. He had taken the death of his heir very hard, but had been on the mend, according to Smithins. This verbal sparring with Carstairs seemed to have set him back on his heels.

The ever vigilant Lumsden leapt forward to offer the duke his support.

Reverend Seagrove pulled out his watch. ‘Dear me, is that the time? I promised to visit one of my parishioners this evening. She is not well. Not well at all.’

Mr Carstairs feigned surprise. ‘Was that the last course?’

‘No,’ Claire said. ‘However, I think the evening is finished, Mr Carstairs. Monsieur André, will you put a selection of fruit and pie in a basket for Mr Carstairs to take with him, please?’

‘Gladly,
madame
,’ he replied, wondering, as he saw just how upset Claire was, if he could find anything in his kitchen that would cause Mr Carstairs a very nasty belly ache the following day.

‘Say what?’ Carstairs’s eyes bulged.

‘You and I can hardly dine
tête-à-tête
, Mr Carstairs,’ Claire said with an icy smile. ‘However, I would not wish to deprive you of some of the finest delicacies this side of London.’

He snorted. ‘I’m not some beggar who needs a parcel of food to take home. Are you telling me you are throwing me out on my ear?’

André wanted to show him what being thrown out on an ear really meant. Claire shot him a warning glance. ‘Certainly not.’

Reverend Seagrove raised his eyebrows at Claire, then turned to Mr Carstairs. ‘Did you bring your carriage, Carstairs? Perhaps I could trouble you for a ride home. Save asking His Grace to turn out his coachman.’

André smothered a laugh as Claire cast the vicar an appreciative smile. ‘What a good idea, Reverend.’

‘Not at all,’ he said, his eyes twinkling at Claire.

The reverend was a good man. Unlike this
cochon
, Carstairs. André could not believe Claire would lower herself to taking a man with such a cruel tongue. He would make a most unpleasant husband.

Yet if the duke insisted, would she have a choice? He began to feel very uncomfortable inside. Frustrated that he could do nothing to help. He had no right to interfere. Yet he could not bear the thought that she would marry this man, or one like him. He clenched his fists at his sides, desperate to show nothing on his face. He was a servant. Whatever happened in this room, or in the lives of his employers, was none of his business.

He’d already made his decision in that regard. He was leaving. Leaving her to her fate.

A glowering Carstairs pushed to his feet. ‘Come along, Reverend, I’ll walk you to the door. I want to know what happened to all the money that was collected for repairs to the church roof. I’ve been hearing some troubling things about the funds.’

Reverend Seagrove’s shoulders stiffened. ‘Have you indeed? Perhaps you would like to view the church accounts?’

‘Perhaps I would,’ Carstairs said, following him out of the dining room. ‘When I have time.’

Claire sagged against the chair back and looked at André.

The footmen were milling about the place, clearing plates, picking up glasses. Lumsden also looked at André. ‘I don’t think we will be serving dinner in that manner again,
monsieur
. His Grace was most distressed when he left.’ He turned to Claire. ‘Will you take tea in the drawing room, madam?’

‘No.’ She forced a tired smile. ‘No, thank you, Lumsden. I think I will retire also.’ She pushed slowly to her feet. She did not look at André, and he tried hard not to look at her. Lumsden was no fool. André would not risk the old butler seeing what must not be seen, and yet the dispirited way she left the room was hard to ignore. If only there was something he could do to cheer her.

But what? And would she even permit it?

* * *

‘Will there be anything else, madam?’ Daisy asked.

Claire, brushing her hair, smiled. ‘No, thank you.’

The maid slipped away. Claire looked wistfully into the mirror. Carstairs was such an ass. If she hadn’t wasted her youth and what little beauty she’d been born with on a wastrel like George, she wouldn’t now be faced with the prospect of marrying someone like him.

But she’d been headstrong. Wilful. Impulsive. She could still hear Crispin’s voice in her head. He’d been strong back then. But she’d been lonely too. Afraid. What if no one would marry her mother’s daughter, even if her father was a duke? Her portion had been very small.

The mistakes were all hers. If she must now devote the rest of her life to a man for whom she had no affection, for the sake of her own daughter, she probably deserved it. She sighed. She would suffer anything for Jane’s happiness. She looked over at the connecting door, got to her feet and went into her daughter’s bedroom.

As usual all that could be seen of Jane was the top her head. She had always liked to burrow deep within the covers.

She returned to her chamber and closed the door softly. A soft rap on her door made her heart leap into her throat.

The door opened. A mouth-watering scent filled the room.

Chocolate.

André stepped over the threshold balancing on one hand a round silver tray containing a small custard cup.

Her heart stuttered and stumbled. She had not expected him tonight, or any other. She rose to her feet. She could not go through any more of this. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Dinner was a success,
n’est-ce pas
?’

‘The food was.’ She managed a smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘Am I permitted to say that your sense of style is
magnifique
? The decorations in the dining room were stunning. It made my food seem all the more appetising.’

The compliments surprised and pleased her. She had taken special care with the table this evening and Lumsden had followed her orders to the letter. ‘I’m glad you approve.’ She
was
glad. His opinion mattered more than it should.

He glanced down at the tray. ‘You did not have dessert. I made you something special.’

‘Hot chocolate.’ She swallowed the flood of moisture to her mouth.

He shook his head. ‘Not quite. It is something new. I would value your opinion.’

More flattery. Yet his gaze was so sincere. But she wasn’t sure she could bear any more talk or discussion this evening, she was feeling too low in her spirits. Because of Carstairs. Because André was leaving, even though she had tried her best not to think about his departure. ‘It smells wonderful. Please, leave it and go.’

‘It must be eaten right away.’ He stepped into the room and set the tray on the table beside the hearth. He unwrapped a spoon from the napkin and gestured for her to sit. He flashed her a boyish smile full of appeal.

What could she do against that smile? With a frown, she sat and he moved the table in front of her and spread the napkin over her skirts. The little cup was full to overflowing.

He stepped back. ‘
Madame
, you are served.’

She shook her head. ‘You really are quite mad.’

‘This is true. Eat.’

She dipped the spoon in and the concoction collapsed around it, the chocolate scent rising up in a cloud of deliciousness. ‘Oh, my.’ She filled her spoon, tested the temperature with her tongue—not to hot, not too cold—and then filled her mouth.

Heavenly flavour burst on her tongue. ‘Mmmm,’ she managed as she savoured the pudding. ‘Sumptuous,’ she breathed when she could speak. ‘Decadent. Smooth like velvet. Light as air. And sweet as honey. Seduction on a spoon.’

He cracked a laugh and looked extremely pleased. ‘Your words make it seem better than it is. I should write them down.’

‘What do you call it?’

‘Soufflé. It will be a signature dish in my restaurant.’

‘And you made it especially for me?’

‘I did.’

Two more spoonfuls and it was gone. ‘I have never tasted anything so glorious.’

He grinned. ‘I am glad you like it.’

‘You will make a great name for yourself,’ she said softly, hoping he heard only the praise and not her sadness.

He shrugged modestly but could not hide his pleasure. Not from her.

As she licked the last taste from her spoon his eyes watched her with hunger.

A ripple of anticipation careened through her body.

He crouched beside her on his haunches, bringing his face level with hers, his dark eyes searching her face. A fingertip traced the line of her jaw. ‘Not so thin any more.’

‘Thanks to your cooking,’ she whispered.

‘I thought you a little brown mouse the first day I saw you,’ he murmured, those eyes so intense, so mesmerising, she could not move or breathe. ‘Now I know you for a tigress.’

Embarrassed, she laughed. He smiled back and her stomach flipped. He always looked handsome, but tonight he seemed younger, more vulnerable.

Something inside her, something strong and maternal, wanted to hold him, to offer comfort. But the moment was lost as he pushed to his feet. Perhaps he had sensed her intention and wanted to put her at distance.

A distance she felt as keenly as the sharp winds off the dales. It was the right thing to do, of course. She stood up, trying to keep her smile. ‘Did you come only to feed me?’ she asked, cursing the hope spreading in trickles of heat up from her centre.

He took a deep breath. ‘Two things, besides feeding you, when once more you ate very little at dinner. I wanted you to know our saboteur is discovered and will never strike again.’

‘Who is it?’

He gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘Mademoiselle Becca.’

Claire frowned. ‘Her reason?’

‘She thought to rid me of my rivals. For you.’

‘What?’ Claire gasped, recoiling. ‘She knows? About us?’

‘She knows nothing,’ he said quickly. ‘Except my attraction. My fondness for the child.’ He grimaced. ‘She is a strange
petit chou
. She feels. She does not know. I have put the idea out of her head. Now she weeps on Mrs Stratton’s shoulder.’