Never Resist Temptation (18 page)

“I had a half conjured plan to parade you around London as my
chère amie.
I thought having his niece as my mistress would embarrass your uncle, especially if I let it be known to the gossips how I'd won you.” He sighed. “It wasn't a well-thought-out plan. Once I met you I doubt I'd even have carried it out.”

“What was the other half of the bet, the amount you staked against me?” she asked.

“Twenty thousand pounds.”

“So much! Perhaps I should be flattered.” She gave an ironic little laugh. “I cost you a pretty penny when I ran off. Shall I apologize?”

“There's no need. Candover paid me the twenty thousand.”

Jacobin gave a little jog of excitement. “And we know just where he got it! It all makes sense now. He needed the money quickly, so he went to Bellamy.”

“It seems a reasonable conclusion. I was surprised he was able to lay his hands on such a large sum quickly. According to my information he was very short of the ready.”

Her forehead wrinkled with suspicion. “How do you come to know so much about my uncle and his finances? I thought he was a friend of yours. And you said you accepted his bet because you were furious. What made you so angry?”

Jacobin could tell he didn't want to answer. “He said something about my mother,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I'm sorry. That must have been upsetting.” Now that she knew about Anthony's childhood she understood his sensitivity on the subject. “My uncle has a way of finding a sore spot and prodding it.”

He turned his back on her and paced over to the window, staring out at the bleak winter landscape. “Candover was never my friend. Quite the opposite. I only cultivated him so that I could lure him into losing his fortune to me. I want to ruin him.”

She couldn't see his face but could sense the sadness mixed with suppressed rage in his voice. She walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I can only applaud the sentiment, but why? I know what he did to me, but I can't imagine he had the power to injure you.”

“Yet injure me he did, and my family.” His hand reached behind him and took hers in a convulsive clasp. He spoke softly so she had to strain to hear him. “He was my mother's lover.”

That was the very last thing she would have guessed. “Impossible,” she cried. “No one could do
that
with such a disgusting pig.”

He angled his head and looked down at her wryly. “Hard to believe, isn't it. Though I have heard Candover wasn't unattractive before he took to eating too much pastry.”

Inwardly she applauded his ability to make a small
joke at an emotionally intense moment. “Why do you think such a thing? How do you know?”

He looked away and continued, his voice reflecting inner strain. “My father told me on his deathbed. She and Candover fell in love in Paris, when I was five years old. She was running away to join him when she drowned in a storm.”

Jacobin digested this information, squaring it with everything she'd heard about Catherine, Countess of Storrington. She still found it incredible, although a forbidden love affair in Paris would explain the countess's unhappiness afterward.

“She was never the same after they came back from Paris. It was as though she left us then. Her elopement and death merely completed the process. Candover destroyed my father's life and now I must ruin his.”

Even as he spoke of his father's blighted life, Jacobin sensed Anthony's revenge was as much for himself as it was for the older man.

“Listen to me, Anthony.” She squeezed his hand. “My uncle is a horrible man and I don't care what happens to him. But revenge won't make you feel better. It never does. In France they killed thousands of innocent people out of hatred for the aristocrats and anger at injustice, but it solved nothing. My father always said hate harms only those that feel it.”

“Did he?” he asked, glancing down at her. “Perhaps he never had a wrong to avenge.”

“My father nearly died during the Terror. Even though he sympathized with the Revolution it wasn't
good enough for Robespierre and his followers. They thought my father wasn't fervent enough in his views. And they mistrusted him for his birth. He was imprisoned in the Conciergerie, waiting for Madame Guillotine, when Robespierre fell and he was released.”

“How terrifying for you and your mother.” The story seemed to have penetrated his preoccupation with Candover's sins.

“For my mother, yes. I was only an infant. But the point is, my father put it behind him. He never resented those who had spoken against him, though he had to encounter some of them in the years that followed. He worked to achieve justice through peaceful means, to bring people together. And he never changed his mind, even though Bonaparte broke his heart when he seized power for himself.”

“I'm not trying to change the course of a nation, only to right one injustice. It may be small in the greater scheme of things, but it's there nonetheless. The law can do nothing to punish Candover for my mother's death, so it's up to me.”

How sad, Jacobin thought, to see a man who had so much to offer waste his energy on meaningless vengeance.

Hoping at least that human connection—no, affection—might alleviate the bleakness that infected his soul, she continued to hold his hand. They stood quietly for some minutes, then he moved and embraced her from behind, drawing her against his warm, solid frame.

And she realized that his mind—or at least part of his anatomy—had shifted to more earthy matters. How curious to think of
that
at such a moment. It was the furthest thing from her mind.

He nibbled at her ear, and quivers ran down her neck. Well, maybe not the furthest.

“Jacobin,” he whispered. His hands were now on her shoulders, and his thumbs gently massaged her nape and shoulder blades beneath the plain neck of her stuff gown. The quivers continued, tightening her breasts and generating heat like a warm pool between her thighs.

“Jacobin.” Her name had never sounded better than murmured in those dark, warm chocolate tones. “Come to me again. Meet me at the Queen's House tonight. It will be good.”

She didn't doubt the truth of
that
statement, but something held her back from giving in to her own desire. She shook her head.

“Don't say no, please.” Mesmerizing fingers were joined by warm lips, raising goose bumps over every inch of her body.

“I can't,” she managed to mutter, and pulled away before his nearness could be her undoing. “No.”

“Very well. I must accept your refusal, but you can change your mind at any time, and I'll be waiting.” He pointed out of the window. “Do you see that urn on the terrace? If you want me, tie something—a handkerchief—to the handle. I'll be watching for it. I can see it from my bedchamber too. As soon as I see the signal I'll meet you at the Queen's House.”

“A signal, yes, I see,” she blurted out. “I must go.”

She fled before she could succumb to the lure of his arms.

Shutting the library door behind her, she stopped and took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the wall.

She was tempted to forgive him. She wanted to forgive him. She'd preached forgiveness, the lesson learned from her beloved father. She'd urged him to set aside his resentment, yet she wasn't ready to do the same. True, he'd apologized for his deception, but did he really mean it? As Jean-Luc had pointed out, men would do and say anything when motivated by lust. Women too, perhaps. She wasn't at all sure her own instinct to pardon Anthony wasn't driven by a wish to surrender to the bliss of his embrace.

And how could she entrust herself to a man obsessed with revenge, a passion that left a throbbing bruise on men's spirits and could drive them to terrible deeds?

Another understanding tugged at her now she was free of Anthony's distracting presence: that he too had an excellent motive for Candover's murder.

 

Edgar Candover mulled over the fact that his coat had turned up in Chauncey Bellamy's garden and wondered what it meant. He'd extracted the location from the Bow Street runner in exchange for some information about Jacobin. Nothing important, but enough to keep Hawkins happy. He didn't want the man dashing off and arresting Jacobin for attempted murder.

He knew quite a lot about Chauncey Bellamy, since the man had lost twenty thousand pounds to his cousin at a most convenient moment. Rather too convenient to Edgar's mind. He didn't entirely believe in that card game. Something in Lord Candover's eyes when he triumphantly produced the draft to make good his loss to Storrington had raised Edgar's suspicions. He was certain his cousin had been lying.

Bellamy made a very nice suspect for the role of Candover's poisoner. Edgar pondered what he might do with the information.

“Good evening, cousin,” Edgar said, entering the library. “What brings you to Hurst so suddenly?” Candover's arrival was unexpected. Normally he quit Hampshire for London as soon as there was a nip in the air, and rarely returned before the end of the spring season. “I fear you won't be very comfortable here.” With Candover's estate stressed by extravagance and ill-luck at the tables, he could no longer afford to maintain two full establishments. Most of the household had been fixed in London for two months.

“I'm only here for a night,” Lord Candover replied. “I'm off to Storrington tomorrow.”

“Please, cousin, not Storrington,” Edgar begged. “The estate can't afford another loss like the last one.”

“Don't worry Edgar. I promised I wouldn't play with the earl again. Not that I don't believe I could win.” He held up a hand to fend off Edgar's protest. “I'm not going there for cards but for food.” He chuckled happily. “Storrington's managed to find a cook who's a
genius with desserts. The reports I heard after a dinner he gave in London last week! This woman makes Jean-Luc look like an amateur.”

Good God
, Edgar thought
. That's where she is
. He knew Storrington had lately acquired a female pastry cook, but when his man had made the inquiry he was looking for a male, and Storrington's servants had refused to tell him anything more.

He was going to have to take a hand in this himself. He was very good at gaining the confidence of servants; they found his manner unthreatening. Hadn't his uncle's housemaid in London told him that Jacobin had been to visit the kitchen? Edgar had given her a sob story about his affection for his missing cousin, and she'd promised to let him know if the staff heard word from her. The girl hadn't known where Jacobin was living, but she'd directed him to that ball at the Argyll Rooms.

He needed to get down to Storrington soon. Hawkins wasn't a stupid man and would no doubt locate a female cook within a matter of days. Edgar had to find her first.

 

Over the next twenty-four hours Anthony managed to look out of the window at the urn several times. Perhaps a dozen or so. Not more, surely. It was remarkable how often business took him to the library. He hardly had to look for excuses. And of course he had to go to his own rooms, with their view of the terrace, to change his dress for dinner. And to sleep, sadly alone. He refrained from getting up in the middle of the night to
look. It was too dark to see anyway (he needed to do something about that). Besides, the urn would still be there tomorrow, unless by some chance a garden ornament thief decided to visit Sussex in December.

No such felon descended on Storrington; morning found the urn in its place, regrettably unfestooned with material of any description.

The arrival of the post offered a distraction. As Anthony had expected, Candover was unable to resist the lure of sweets. He would arrive the next day.

Jacobin must be told about the arrival of the guest, not only because she would be expected to prepare dainties for her odious uncle, but to warn her to keep out of sight.

Anthony felt a certain reluctance to approach Jacobin, whose reaction to the news was unlikely to be positive. And he'd told her things he couldn't have imagined confiding to anyone, with the exception of James. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, he shied away from further discussion of his most private concerns. He'd rather hoped their next meeting would involve her falling into his arms with a bed close at hand and other things than conversation on their minds.

Faced with the prospect of an unpleasant encounter and little hope of anything else, he put off sending for her, dithering around for an hour or so until he saw her familiar gray-clad figure striding into the park.

 

She sensed rather than saw him coming up behind her and increased her pace. It wasn't that she didn't
want to see Anthony. Rather she wanted to see him too much.

His long legs soon caught her. “Jacobin.”

“My lord,” she said, still walking.

“Not back to that.” He sighed. “Could you slow down, please?”

“It's cold. I need to move fast to be warm. If you wish for my company you'll have to keep up.”

“I've missed you,” he said.

She'd missed him too. She had started to miss him almost as soon as she'd left him in the library and continued to miss him since. She wished he'd leave her alone so she could get on with missing him and not be tempted to do something about it. The mere sound of his voice made her far too happy.

“You saw me yesterday.” Her lips twitched with the urge to smile.

“Yes, I did, but I'd hoped to see you again sooner. My garden urn is distressingly naked.”

By a miracle. She'd had to restrain herself several times, including once in the middle of the night, from dashing down and tying a ribbon to the handle.

“It has occurred to me, my lord,” she said, on the theory that attack was the best defense against her own weakness, “that your hatred of my uncle gives you a strong motive for his murder.”