Never Resist Temptation (16 page)

“Explain!” Hands on hips, she rolled her eyes in disbelief. “You don't need to explain. You think you own me because you won me in a card game.”

Ferociously she tugged at the emerald necklace. The torn clasp scored her throat with an ugly scratch and he winced, then winced again as she flung it at him and the
stones in their precious metal setting hit him squarely in the face. Her aim had improved.

“You think I'm a
putain
—a whore—just like my uncle did,” she yelled.

The accusation stung as much as his cheek did. “I never thought any such thing,” he said, desperate to pacify her, “but your uncle told me the cook was your lover.”

“And you believed what he said,” she said on a sob. “But of course, he's your friend, your gaming partner.”

The anger and hurt in her voice penetrated the fog of shock and frustration that swirled in his brain and wrenched his heart. “Please Jacobin, forgive me. I should have told you I knew, but I meant it for the best. Truly I did. Please come back to bed. Let me explain and let me make it up to you. I can make you forget the pain.”

She emitted an incoherent howl of exasperation. “I'd sooner make love with a monster. Perhaps I already did.” She snatched up her shirt from the floor and pulled it over her head. “I can't believe I ever agreed to go to bed with you. I must have been mad. I knew what you are, you dirty, gambling whoremonger. You are worse than Candover.”

While she fumbled under the bed for her drawers and breeches, he summoned a rational argument. “Stop, listen—”

But she cut him off. “I wish Jean-Luc
was
my lover. I love Jean-Luc. He would never have hurt me like you did, you clumsy brute. With him it would have been
perfect
. He may only be a cook but he's more of a gentleman than you. And he's more handsome than you. And he's—he's—he's
taller
than you.”

That was too much. He scarcely heard her words. Only the fact that she was talking about size. “Now wait a minute—” he roared back.

“Not even for a second!” she yelled, struggling with a boot. She looked unsure whether to pull it on or beat him with it. “I won't listen to a word. I never wish to set eyes on you again as long as I live.”

Concern for her crept up his spine but he was too riled to speak gently. “You can't just leave, you little fool. Think. You could be arrested.”

She swung around to face him. “That's right,” she spat. “I have nowhere to go. And it's all your fault.”

T
om Hawkins was a frustrated man. The Bow Street runner had canvassed the household of every guest at the notorious Pavilion dinner, and extended his search to those of every gentleman known to be resident or visiting Brighton at the time. To no avail. Not one of those establishments had recently employed Jacob Léon, or a male French cook of any other name. He still awaited a reply from Paris about the whereabouts of Jean-Luc Clèves, last heard to be working for the Duc de Clermont-Ferrand.

Which left him with the mystery of Edgar Candover's coat, and how it fetched up in Chauncey Bellamy's garden.

It had taken several days for someone at Bow Street to track down the owner of the gentleman's coat that had been discovered in the garden of the Upper Brook Street house. It might have been forgotten altogether had Lady Caroline Bellamy not made such a commotion about it. There'd been no sign of a break-in at the house, neither was anything missing. But Lady Caroline insisted that the intrusion into her garden be thor
oughly investigated, and Her Ladyship's father was a duke. Persistent relations of important noblemen had ways of getting their demands met.

A junior runner without much to do was eventually sent to interview the Jermyn Street tailor whose mark the garment bore. And the young investigator had recognized the name supplied by the tailor, Edgar Candover. Or rather the name of his cousin, whose attempted murder was known to all of Bow Street. The information was passed along to Tom Hawkins.

Absent any other leads, Hawkins decided to travel down to Hampshire to interview the younger Candover again.

“Yes, that's my coat,” Candover said. “Where on earth did it turn up?”

Hawkins didn't answer. He was the one asking the questions.

“Had you mislaid it, sir?”

“I had. I'm glad to have it back.” He reached for it but Hawkins tucked it firmly under his arm.

“I'm sorry, sir. It may be evidence of a crime.”

“Good Lord!”

To Hawkins's eye Candover's expression held something beyond innocent astonishment. He probed further. “When and where did you last see the garment?” He waited in silence when Candover didn't respond to the question, then waited some more.

Candover shifted from one foot to the other, uneasy under Hawkins's questioning gaze. “It was taken from me,” he said at last.

“Stolen, sir?”

“Not stolen exactly.” Candover looked even more uncomfortable. “I don't know whether I should tell you this. It's a family matter.”

Hawkins made a soothing noise. “Don't worry, sir. We runners know how to be discreet. If the truth has no bearing on any crime it'll go no further than me. You can count on it.”

“The coat was last in the possession of my cousin Jacobin. She left this house wearing it.”

“And why would she be wearing a gentleman's coat? That seems an unusual thing for a young lady to do.”

“My cousin is an unusual young lady.” Candover leaned in confidentially. “I'm trusting you with some information here that would embarrass the family should it get out. The truth is, Jacobin eloped with one of the servants.”

Hawkins felt the familiar prickle at the back of his neck that always accompanied an important opening in a case. He kept his voice disinterested. “Did that servant happen to be your uncle's cook, Jean-Luc Clèves?”

“Well, yes. It was.”

“A detail neither you nor your uncle felt the need to mention in our earlier conversations.”

“Why would we wish to reveal such a shameful fact? It happened months ago. I can't imagine it has any bearing on my uncle's poisoning.”

Hawkins didn't enlighten him. If Edgar Candover knew anything useful, Hawkins would get it out of
him. Then he'd get back to looking for cooks. Female cooks.

Anthony crumpled the latest impertinent missive from his cook—his
cook,
for God's sake—and hurled it at the fire. Naturally it missed and landed on the hearth. Angrily he stamped over to pick it up and rip it into shreds before consigning it to the flames, safe from the prying eyes of the butler, footmen, or housemaids. In the interests of discretion he'd used Jem Webster to carry his correspondence with Jacobin. Three times, he'd written abject apologies, begging for a meeting. Each reply was an unequivocal rebuff, though at least this last didn't contain a torrent of French insults, the meaning of which he could only guess.

It had all been a mistake, and, really, he should have known better.

This was what happened when you let a woman get under your skin. She ended up taking some little thing you'd said or done, mistrusting your motives, blow
ing it up out of all proportion and then departing in a dramatic snit.

True, some of his behavior might be open to misinterpretation—if you looked at it in a certain way—but the sensible thing was to stop, listen, give the other person an opportunity to explain.

But not Jacobin de Chastelux. She'd made up her mind and exited in high dudgeon, not without saying a few nasty things on the way out.

It was better to put the whole episode behind him, especially since thinking about how she'd looked naked and in a rage made his groin throb. He resolutely thrust aside his guilt at having debauched an innocent. According to all the rules he'd ever absorbed there was only one honorable reparation.

But marriage? He had no intention of marrying anyone, let alone Candover's niece. His stomach churned at the idea of accepting the man as a close family member. And that tender ache in the region of another organ was generated by the same disgust. It must be. His mind snapped shut against the implication that he might
wish
to wed Jacobin.

He was wasting time better spent brushing up on his Hoyle for another bout with Candover. He needed to put aside distractions and get on with the job of avenging his father.

He wrote to Lord Candover, congratulating him on his recovery and inviting him to visit Storrington and sample the confections of his new pastry chef. Enough time had passed since the dinner party for
Candover to have received word of this new culinary talent.

Two days passed, and Anthony hadn't received so much as a glimpse of Jacobin since she'd slammed the door of the Queen's House. He knew she was still in his house—he'd have been informed had she left—but he'd resisted the inclination to seek her out, perhaps encounter her by accident during her daily walk in the park.

Now, it occurred to him, it was only fair to warn her that he had invited her uncle to Storrington. Besides, he needed to discuss the menus for Candover's visit. Otherwise he had no desire to set eyes on her. None whatsoever.

“Simpson,” Anthony said when his butler responded to the summons of the bell. “Send Miss Castle to me, please. At once.”

“Miss Castle is not in the house, my lord.” The man looked rather pleased.

“Where the devil is she? Out on one of her walks, I suppose.”

“She did go out, my lord, but not alone. A Frenchman came to the kitchen door asking for her.” Simpson's voice managed to combine utter distaste for the country of France and all its inhabitants and something like glee. “They left together.”

Anthony tore through the French doors. Beyond the thick shrubbery separating the formal gardens from the park he heard voices speaking in that infernal French. He rounded the rhododendrons to find Jacobin
enfolded in the close embrace of the best-looking man he'd ever seen.

 

Jacobin flung her arms around Jean-Luc as soon as they were out of sight of the house. “I'm so happy to see you, Jean-Luc,” she cried in French, almost overcome with joy at seeing his dear, familiar face. With his classical features, slender grace, and golden blond beauty, he was still the handsomest man she'd ever met. But his blue eyes no longer set her heart racing as they had when he'd first appeared at Hurst Park. Instead she felt the comforting presence of devoted friendship. “How did you find me?”

“Ssh
, chérie
. There's no need to cry. Let me have a look at you.” He held her at arm's length and looked her up and down critically. “Still beautiful, I see, but no better dressed. Really, you need to do something about your clothes.”

An incipient sob turned into a giggle. “Just the same as ever. How wonderful it is to see you! How long have you been in England? And how do you come to be at Storrington?”

Jean-Luc looked grave. “I came to England to find you, to make sure you were well. To find out why you're being hunted for trying to kill your uncle.”

“They're looking for
me
? Me, Jacobin?” She gasped in horror.

“No,
chérie
. They're looking for Jacob Léon. They know I recommended you to Monsieur Carême, and a letter came inquiring for me. Luckily, Monsieur le Duc
was away from Paris and his maître d'hôtel, Michel, is a close friend of mine. He told me about it and gave me leave to come to England for a few days.”

“Oh no! Jean-Luc. You jeopardized your position for me.”

“No,
chérie
. Didn't I say Michel was my
close
friend? Besides, Monsieur le Duc loves my
pâtisserie
even more than
milord
Candover. So I drove to Calais and took the packet, an abominable form of transport which should be abolished. It didn't take me long to hear about
milord
Storrington's new
pâtissière
. Your dinner party was a sensation,
chérie
, the talk of London. I'm so proud of you.”

Jacobin glowed at his praise. “It was brilliant, Jean-Luc, though I say it myself. I made the basket of eggs and the
vol-au-vent
tower, apricot tartlets, vanilla cream jelly,
gâteaux de Pitiviers
—oh yes, and profiteroles and a timbale of rice with apples and pistachios.”

“The sugar basket, eh? You were always better at working with spun sugar than me. But enough of such important topics. We need to concentrate on this little matter of murder. Do you know who would have wished to kill your uncle?”

“Besides me?” Jacobin asked. “I had good reason.”

“Yes, but I know you wouldn't have. Even if you were unbearably tempted, poison wouldn't be your method. A kitchen knife to the gut when you were enraged would be more your style. What about Edgar? He will inherit
milord
's title and estate.”

“It's possible.” Jacobin shrugged. “But I don't think so. It's the oddest thing. He asked me to marry him. I never thought he cared much for me.”

“He knows where you are?”

“No, I met him at a public ball in London. I refused to tell him.”

“That was wise. Edgar would tell Lord Candover.”

“But I have a better suspect.”

Jean-Luc whistled appreciatively when Jacobin described her investigation of Chauncey Bellamy. “This is interesting,
chérie
, most interesting. Bellamy, eh?”

Jacobin grabbed his arm. “You know something! What?”

“
Doucement, ma chère
. In the circles I move in we hear everything about certain gentlemen. And many of these types are English—because they like to come to Paris to indulge themselves. That's why in France my preference is often called
le vice anglais
. Of course, for many years the war kept them away but many, many of them are back now.”

“So Bellamy prefers the company of other men. Lord Storrington had an idea that might be so too. Has Bellamy been in Paris since the war?”

“No, it was a long time ago. I only heard by chance because some of Michel and my friends were talking about the old days one evening. An older man, valet to the Prince de Conté, remembered Bellamy when he was a very young man and said he was
fort respectable
now.”

“Yes indeed! And married to a woman even more re
spectable. He'd be desperate to keep the truth a secret. My uncle could have been blackmailing him.”

“How can you find out more about this man? Wait a minute.” Jean-Luc looked at her through narrowed eyes. “You said Lord Storrington knew something of this? Does your employer know you are involved in this matter?”

She looked away. “Yes. He said he'd help me.”

“Look at me, Jacobin.” Jean-Luc took her chin in his hand and looked at her with his keen azure gaze. “Does he know who you are?”

“Yes,” she said sullenly. “At least, he knows I used to be Jacob Léon.”

“For God's sake! He's the man that won you from your uncle. It's bad enough you had to go and work for him. Supposing he finds out who you
really
are? You shouldn't trust him. A man like that could seduce you, or worse.”

“I thought he was different,” she wailed, her face crumpling. “He seemed kind. Oh! Jean-Luc, I'm so miserable.”

He gathered her into his arms and rubbed her back. “
Pauvre chérie
,” he murmured into her hair. “You're not as grown-up as you think. But Jean-Luc is here now. We'll think of what to do. You're not alone anymore.”

She sighed into his well-tailored shoulder. It was such a relief to have the comfort of Jean-Luc's unthreatening affection. Not that she could imagine what he could do to help her. And she was reluctant to admit, even to Jean-Luc, how foolish she'd been.

“He does know who I am. He found out. He knows I'm Jacobin de Chastelux.”

“
Mon Dieu
, that's terrible! He could turn you over to the authorities. The man is a brute.”