Never Resist Temptation (2 page)

T
he morning after a banquet was a pleasant change from the fevered activity of the event. Some of the mountains of leftover food could be reused for the evening's meal, but there was still a healthy surplus. Starting early in the morning, servants from other Brighton households appeared at the back door with dishes to be filled. With so few members of the
ton
in Brighton in November, the demand was less than in summer, when the kitchens of fashionable households drove up prices with their lust for luxurious scraps from the royal table. Nevertheless, the cooks were kept busy apportioning out the uneaten remains.

A particular china serving dish made Jacobin grimace. She recognized the Candover crest as she filled it with the rose-flavored Bavarian cream she'd made the previous morning. She was well aware that it was one of Lord Candover's favorite puddings. Apparently his passion for the dish wasn't shared by others; it had been returned almost untouched to the ice room the previous night.

A summons to the main kitchen interrupted the lazy tenor of the day. As the confectionery staff hurried into the great chamber, the rumor traveled through the ranks that the Prince Regent was making one of his periodic visits to the magnificent domestic offices that were among the wonders of the Pavilion. The senior cooks ordered everyone to make sure they wore clean uniforms before they lined up, like soldiers in a regiment, for royal inspection. Jacobin blessed the fact that her jacket had survived the morning without a stain. There was no time to find a private spot to change.

A more pressing worry arose when she heard that His Highness was accompanied by the Russian ambassador and several other gentlemen. She pulled the floppy crown of her toque around, so it would at least partly cover her face, then slipped into the back row behind a pair of particularly tall fellows. If Candover were among the visitors he probably wouldn't notice one among dozens of similarly garbed cooks, but it didn't hurt to take precautions. Perhaps the Earl of Storrington would come too; she knew he'd also been one of the dinner guests.

The regent walked in with a thin man wearing a foreign order, presumably the ambassador, followed by about half a dozen others. Though Jacobin couldn't be certain, she didn't think Candover was among the cluster of men in the prince's entourage. Her uncle was likely still in bed, sleeping off the three bottles of claret that were his minimum daily intake. She was wondering if one of the overweight exquisites, each rivaling
their prince as dedicated trenchermen, was Storrington, when she noticed a tall man bringing up the rear.

His relative youth, good looks, and muscular form set him apart from the rest of the royal cronies, as did the restrained manner of his dress. He was plainly garbed in a dark green morning coat over a matching waistcoat, the cut of these garments as fine as that of his buff pantaloons and as impeccable as his perfectly arranged white neck linen. Light brown hair was arranged in a windswept style, but without the disorderly excess she had seen in some dandies on the strut during the fashionable hour in Hyde Park. Instead the tousled locks made a pleasant counterbalance to the severity of his clothing. From her vantage point at the far end of the kitchen she couldn't have described the color of his eyes or the details of his features, but she had no trouble recognizing him. He was her rescuer from the previous night.

She stared at him like a village idiot, oblivious for a moment of Candover, Storrington, or the Prince Regent himself.

The prince was asking for Carême. “The ambassador wishes to compliment him on the excellence of last night's dinner,” he explained to the head sauce cook, who bent almost double in his effort to acknowledge the supreme honor of such attention.

“Alas, Your Highness, Maître Carême is indisposed,” the cook explained. “He has a fever.”

“Not caused by the travails of last night, I trust?” inquired the prince graciously.

No indeed, the cook elaborated. Monsieur Carême had been in his bed since yesterday morning.

Expressing his astonishment that the dinner had been so well executed, the prince congratulated the kitchen staff on their success without the guidance of their leader.

“I am disappointed,” said the ambassador. “I hoped to convey the regards of my master, Tsar Alexander, who enjoyed Monsieur Carême's services in Paris last year. Also, I wished to thank him for the compliment of including a Russian
confit
in the presentation last night. Doubtless the charming
ermitage
was created before Monsieur Carême was taken ill.”

“True, Your Excellency, but the finishing touches were supplied in the morning by one of the confectionary staff.”

“Ah,” said the ambassador. “Perhaps in the absence of the master I may compliment his capable deputy.”

The sauce cook bowed. “Of course, Your Excellency.” He turned to Mrs. Underwood, who stood behind him. “It was Léon, I believe, who completed the
pièce montée
. Where is he?”

Looking less than enchanted, Mrs. Underwood sent out the word for Léon to appear. Jacobin hesitated to emerge from the protection of the two tall roast cooks who stood in front of her, but one of the footmen spotted her and pointed her out. She felt the curious eyes of the entire staff on her as she made her way across the cavernous chamber to the regent's group.

Keeping her head low in feigned humility, she managed to examine the group of gentlemen, her heart in her mouth
as she wondered what on earth she would do if her uncle was present. Her confidence rose as she failed to find him; she straightened her stance and found herself meeting the eyes of her rescuer. They were gray-blue, and their alerted expression left her in no doubt that he'd recognized her. At closer quarters she realized what she'd been too agitated to see the previous night: he was an exceedingly good-looking man. But his appearance was marred by the cold arrogance of his mien. Under his steely gaze, lacking any trace of warmth or humor, the flutter in her stomach engendered by his looks subsided to a dull resentment. What had she done to make him regard her as though she were a bothersome insect? It wasn't her fault she'd been attacked by those marauding drunks.

Having reached the visiting dignitaries, she turned her attention to the regent. Under other circumstances she would have enjoyed the opportunity to view England's ruling prince at close quarters. He was tall and imposing, bulky of course, but impressively dressed and coiffed. Anyway, she was hardly in a position to criticize his avoirdupois
,
given the substantial false belly bulging under her linen jacket. She thrust her shoulders back and tilted her chin before sweeping into an extravagant bow. She couldn't help a thrill of pride that her skills were receiving such lofty recognition.

“This is Jacob Léon,” said the sauce cook. “He came to us a few months ago. I believe he was trained in Paris.”

“My compliments on the hermitage,” said the ambassador, speaking in French. “A magnificent piece of
work, although,” he added with a smile, “palm trees are not often found in Russia.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Jacobin replied in the same language. It felt good to converse in French, and she could relax now she was sure Candover wasn't in the visiting party. “I added only a few finishing touches. Most of the praise must go to Monsieur Carême.” Thus she tactfully dismissed hours of painful work. She couldn't afford to offend Carême by having it reported she was stealing his glory.

“You are very young for such responsibility. Where did you learn your skills?”

“I was apprentice to a former colleague of Monsieur Carême,” Jacobin replied, “a cook who worked at the maître's shop in the Rue de la Paix. I have been fortunate, even at second hand, to learn some of the master's extraordinary skill.”

“Very good, very good,” interrupted the regent, sounding impatient. “Very well done, young man. Your master will be pleased with you, I have no doubt.” He turned to the head sauce cook. “I shall have my own physician attend Carême.” Then, doubtless considering his lesser servants sufficiently honored, he drew the ambassador's attention to the construction of the kitchen and the vast central steam table, capable of keeping forty platters of food hot at the same time.

Jacobin feared she had now drawn the interest of the entire staff and the envy of many. Given the intrigues and resentments that were rife in the prince's kitchens, her rise to prominence would cause more problems
than not. In her situation it would be safer to relapse into obscurity. As soon as she could, she escaped out to the kitchen court to share a tankard of ale with young Charlie and Dick Johnson. Dick was an amiable member of the confectionery staff, who didn't hold “Jacob's” Frenchness against him. Right now he was more interested in his potential windfall from the sale of the food surplus than in Jacob Léon's sudden notoriety.

“I wonder how much we'll get from this morning's work,” he mused, blowing a smoke ring from a cheroot, filched by one of the footmen from the post-dinner detritus of the dining room. “Let's hope the head cook doesn't rise from his bed and snaffle the lot.”

With Carême still indisposed, the kitchen staff was particularly cheerful that morning, for the earnings from the surplus food would be distributed to the staff according to the long-established system of entitlements. Not least among the grudges held by the Prince Regent's staff against the French chef was Carême's habit of making his own deals for the sale of food and retaining the income for himself.

“
Mon Dieu,
it doesn't seem fair,” Jacobin agreed, “if it is indeed true that his salary is two thousand guineas.
Quelle richesse!
”

Charlie's eyes looked ready to pop at the notion of such wealth. “Wot would you do with two thousand yellow boys, Jake?”

Jacobin laughed and rumpled the boy's hair. “I don't know, Charlie. Maybe drink a bottle of wine every day? The good stuff, not the filth they serve to the staff.”

“One! I'd drink two! And get meself a fine coach and 'orses and drive round all day like a nob.”

“I'd marry Alice Tomkins,” averred Dick, who was consistently ignored by the prettiest kitchen maid. “She'd be all arsey-varsey for me if I was rich. And I'd get out of here and buy me a cottage in the country.”

“Not me,” Jacobin countered. “I'd go to London and open a pastry shop, and all the fashionable households would buy from me, instead of Gunter's.”

“You could do it, Jake,” said Charlie. “Your pastries are the best in the kitchen.”

“And how would you know that?” she asked. “None of the others let you pinch samples like I do.”

“I know,” Charlie said stubbornly. “And now His Highness knows too. Soon you'll be as famous as Mr. Carême.”

In her more optimistic moments she indeed harbored such grandiose ambitions. And when realism intruded, her goal was more modest: to have enough money to resume her own identity and live comfortably without the grueling work of being in service. With a small shop in London she could enjoy some of the pleasures of town life. Her years in the country had been damnably dull compared to her girlhood in Paris.

But two thousand guineas were unlikely to come in her direction. All the more reason to hope a few shillings from this morning's trade would supplement her wage of thirty pounds a year.

Their comfortable ruminations on wealth were interrupted by the arrival of a stranger, a servant but not
a member of the royal staff. From his clothing he appeared to be a groom rather than an indoor servant.

“I'm looking for a French cook,” the man said. “Can you tell me where to find”—he referred to a slip of paper—“Jacob Léon.”

“I am Léon,” said Jacobin in surprise. “What do you want of me?”

“I've come to offer you a job,” said the man. “My master is looking for a new pastry cook and he's heard you're a good one. Heard you can cook as well as Carême.”

Jacobin laughed. “Hardly, monsieur. Your master must have heard that I finished some of Monsieur Carême's work in his absence.”

“But you can make those fancy French pastries the nobs are mad for?” the man persisted.

“I am an excellent pastry cook,” Jacobin acknowledged proudly. “Is your master a connoisseur of such cuisine?”

The man looked uncomfortable. “I don't know about a connersewer, but he likes puddings and he needs a good cook. He told me to offer you eighty pounds a year.”

Jacobin pursed her lips and nodded appreciatively. That was a princely salary, and would let her save for her shop much faster. For the first time since escaping her uncle's house, she glimpsed a future with possibilities beyond the boundaries of her imagination. Perhaps it was a good thing Candover and Storrington had engaged in their immoral wager. Without it she'd never have left the safe but confining dead end of life as her uncle's despised dependent.

“That is generous, monsieur,” she said, visions of golden guineas dancing in her head. “Tell me, what is the name of your master who loves pastry so much?”

“Bless me, did I forget to tell you? My master is the Earl of Storrington, and I am Jem Webster, his groom.”

I
t had seemed a brilliant idea, Anthony thought as he finished breakfast in his private parlor at the Old Ship Inn. To hire Jacob Léon. Candover's weakness for sweets was well-known, and he'd been without a first-rate pastry cook since the last man eloped with the niece. If he wasn't mistaken, word that young Léon had stepped in for Carême when the master was ill would soon get around the Prince Regent's circle. He'd be besieged by offers, and Candover would be at the head of the line. If Léon was working for Anthony, his services could be used to lure Candover into another card game.

Too bad the young man had refused, but Anthony wasn't giving up yet. He'd sent Jem down to the Pavilion again this morning to sweeten his previous offer. He wondered if the young cook was aware that the Earl of Storrington was the man who'd saved him from those louts two nights ago. If he didn't know it, perhaps he should. Gratitude might persuade him to leave Carême where money had proved ineffective. Should Jem fail
again, Anthony supposed he'd better make the approach in person, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Anthony felt a visceral reluctance to have any direct contact with the young man. He hadn't forgotten the strange attraction he'd felt when he'd helped him up from the ground, and it embarrassed him. He'd recognized the face when Léon had spoken with Count Lieven, the Russian ambassador. At first he'd only seen an anonymous plump cook, thick around the middle with a protruding belly that testified to his enjoyment of his own confections. Only when he'd examined the young man more carefully had he connected the refined features and glowing dark eyes with the youth he'd rescued.

Odd, really. When he'd held the boy to save him from falling he hadn't felt at all fat.

The door opened and Webster entered the room.

“Back already, Jem?” Anthony asked. “I didn't expect you for hours. Did you manage to speak to Léon? What did he say to one hundred guineas a year?”

“I didn't see him at all, m'lord. Things are all at sixes and sevens at the palace kitchens and the news is all over town. Thought I'd better get back and tell you.”

Anthony looked at the groom with interest. Jem Webster was a stolid man, not given to high drama.

“Lord Candover's been poisoned.”

Anthony leaped to his feet. “Good God! Is he dead?”

“No, and they say he'll live. There was something in a dish he had for dinner last night but he was took
ill right away, after only a bite, and his valet called a doctor. They say he'll pull through.”

Anthony paced up and down, assessing the effect of these tidings on his plans.

“You said the palace was upset. I can see why His Highness would be concerned, but the household? Why would such news disturb the kitchens?”

“Because the pudding came from there. It was left over from the dinner the other night. Lord Candover's cook bought it from the royal kitchen.”

 

Jacobin was close to panic. The staff was in an uproar at the rumor that Lord Candover had been poisoned by a dish purchased from the Pavilion kitchen. The regent was said to be outraged and demanding a full investigation. The local magistrate was already interviewing the senior cooks, and it wouldn't be long before he received assistance from London. The prince had sent posthaste for Bow Street runners to come and turn the kitchen staff inside out and upside down.

Her disguise would never survive concentrated scrutiny, and scrutiny she would receive as the cook who'd prepared the poisoned dessert, even if no one remembered that it was she who had actually filled Candover's dish with the rose cream. Once they identified her as a female it would be only a matter of time before they knew she was Candover's niece. His estranged niece. They'd rush her to the gallows and never bother to look further for the would-be murderer.

She wished she'd accepted Storrington's offer and left
Brighton already. Why did it have to be Storrington? How worse than ironic that her only offer of employment, her sole chance of escape, came from a man as wicked as the uncle whose house she'd fled. The prospect of placing herself in his power terrified her. But not as much as execution for attempted murder.

Given the confusion in the kitchens, it was easy to escape to her own room, where she gathered her meager worldly possessions into a bundle. She sat on the bed, took a deep breath, and considered her options.

Flight. It was the first, last and only choice available to her, and the farther the better. If she could get to France, Jean-Luc would take care of her, but she had barely enough money to pay for passage across the Channel. She didn't even know whether he was in Paris. It might take her weeks to track him down, and she'd need something to live on in the meantime. She needed a place to hide, a way of earning more money. Her quarter's salary from the royal household, due in a few weeks, would have to be abandoned.

It wouldn't be many more hours before every lawman in southeast England was searching for a young Frenchman. But they wouldn't be looking for an Englishwoman.

The bare bones of a plan began to form in her mind.

But why did it have to be Storrington?

 

Shown into the Earl of Storrington's private parlor at the Old Ship Inn, Jacobin almost fell over.

“My lord,” she said, and managed a deep bow. She hoped her voice hadn't come out in a squeak, belying her masculine attire.

Shock at discovering that Storrington was the man who'd saved her from the drunken workmen bloomed into relief that her uncle's piquet opponent wasn't the elderly roué she'd expected. Quite the contrary.

Perhaps her plan to place her female self in his employ wasn't as risky as she feared. This man had saved her from the drunken workmen, an act that required some courage and at least a modicum of altruism.

Surveying him more closely than had been possible from the back row of cooks in the royal kitchen, she judged that the earl was in his mid-thirties and no less attractive than he'd seemed before. He lounged at ease in an armchair, one elegant booted leg crossed over the other, looking at her down a finely chiseled, slightly aquiline nose. He seemed to be examining the white linen jacket and apron of her uniform.

His unsmiling gaze roused a prickly warmth in her face and a strange tightness in her bound breasts. Sternly she reminded herself that he'd gambled for the favors of a woman he'd never met, without knowing if she was willing. The shameful thought drifted through the back of her mind that with this man her fate might not have been entirely terrible.

Having finished his perusal of her clothing, he looked up, but without making eye contact. “Mr. Léon. Does your presence mean that you have changed your mind and decided to accept my offer of employment?”

“Is the position still open?” she asked.

“It is, and I shall be pleased if you accept it.” He spoke without warmth and sounded anything but gratified. The expression on his face was one of distaste, almost as though he found Jacob Léon disgusting.

“I hope I am not presuming, my lord, but I came to you because I am able to recommend another
pâtissier
who has a similar training to my own and is equally skilled.”

Storrington frowned. “I had hoped to acquire your services after your triumph at the Pavilion. Who is this other cook.”

“Rather, my lord, I should say
pâtissière
. She is my cousin.”

Jacobin thought she caught an arrested look on the earl's face, but only for a moment. His expression returned to aristocratic indifference.

“A female? Is she French too?”

“Half French, my lord. Our mothers were sisters but her father was English. She speaks much better English than I.”

Storrington raised his eyebrows. “Your own command of the language is excellent. How long have you been in this country?”

“A few years,” Jacobin replied noncommittally. “
Ma cousine
speaks without the accent.”

“You worked at Carême's shop, I gathered from your conversation with Count Lieven. Was your cousin also employed there?”

Jacobin decided not to correct his misconception.
“We had the same teacher, who was a senior cook there. Like me, Jane is competent in all aspects of the art of
pâtisserie
and confectionary. Tell me your favorite dishes and I will describe how we both make them.”

“I'm not interested in the details of your trade, only in the results.” His tone was dismissive, but she had the odd impression he was playing cat-and-mouse with her. A sharp glint in his eyes belied the indifferent drawl of his voice. He stood up suddenly, and crossed the distance between them in three strides. Once again he stared at her white linen jacket, as though he found the uniform fascinating.

“Will you see my cousin?” she asked, to distract his attention from her chest. Besides, she was eager to get down to business. “And would you offer the same salary?”

From his superior height he gazed into her eyes, and her heart raced. With anxiety about his answer, she told herself. It had nothing to do with the faint masculine scent or the warmth emanating from his muscular frame as he towered over her.

Without any softening of his steely expression, he raised his hands and calmly began to unbutton her jacket. She shivered when his fingers brushed her breasts, even through jacket, shirt, and the several layers of linen she used to flatten them. Shocked into frozen silence, she merely stared as he pushed the unbuttoned coat from her shoulders, then carefully untied the strips of cloth that held her cotton wadding “belly” in place. When she was left only in shirt and breeches, he took
a step backward and looked her up and down. She was horribly conscious that the bindings around her breasts diminished, but did not level, them.

He looked up, and for the first time she saw a gleam of humor in his eyes and the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Cousin Jane, I presume.”

 

Two hours later Anthony suspected he had taken leave of his senses. Why else would he be bowling along the road from Brighton to Storrington Hall, sharing his carriage with his newest employee, Jane Castle, a possibly murderous female pastry cook?

So dizzying had been his relief when he realized that the latest object of his attraction was not, in fact, male, he had swallowed the explanation for her charade with unwonted credulity.

It was, he supposed, a reasonable narrative.

Jane Castle had applied for work at the Pavilion disguised as a youth because the great Carême refused to hire women. She feared the investigation into the poisoning of one of the regent's friends would lead to the exposure of her sex and the loss of her job. Impulsively she had decided to accept Storrington's offer of employment, but in her own guise.

“I regret that I tried to deceive you, my lord.” She had shaken her head, and a few bright chestnut curls came loose from a ribbon tying them back. “Had I known who you were, that you were my kind rescuer, I would have trusted to your sense of justice and thrown myself on your mercy from the beginning.”

She had clasped her hands to her breasts, which managed to heave quite effectively, despite the fact that they were obviously constrained by some kind of binding, and sighed, her whole body seeming to plead for forgiveness and acceptance. Jane Castle had a dramatic streak that would have graced the stage at Drury Lane. He'd rather desperately wanted to laugh. Among other things.

Instead he'd sent her out of the room to change into feminine clothing. The urge to indulge in further examination of her underpinnings was becoming acute. He really, really wanted to remove her shirt and whatever else was underneath and discover the precise size and shape of her breasts.

And he'd decided to engage her services as pastry cook. Without references. He'd even agreed to pay Jane Castle the same outrageous salary he'd offered “Jacob Léon,” absurd since female servants always earned much less than their male counterparts. And agreed to some conditions of employment that would likely induce fits in his secretary and his steward, who usually took care of such negotiations.

And ruled that she travel in his own carriage instead of in the baggage vehicle with his valet.

He peered at her out of the corner of his eye. She sat primly across from him, dressed in a sensible cloak and bonnet over a plain gray gown, very suitable for a superior servant. She didn't look nearly as enticing as she had in breeches, but it made no difference. He vividly recalled the feel of her slight waist when he'd
prevented her from falling. And the slender but delectable curves revealed that morning when he'd removed her jacket and that ridiculous padding. He should have let her squeeze into the other carriage with the trunks. That unusual sweet scent, which he thought he'd now identified as vanilla, was wafting faintly from her side of the carriage. Being penned in a confined space with her was creating havoc with the usual orderly working of his brain.

His surreptitious glance had been intercepted. “My lord?” Huge brown eyes widened in question.

He cleared his throat. “Er, tell me about your upbringing. Were your parents in service?” He suspected not, since she spoke English perfectly in a well-bred accent with just an occasional—and attractive—Gallic roll.

“Neither of them were
pâtissier
s,” she said, not exactly answering the question. “I was apprenticed to a cook after they died.”

“When was that?”

“When I was twelve. My father first and soon afterward my mother.”

“I'm sorry,” he replied. “I lost my own mother when I was five.” And wondered why he'd said that. He rarely spoke of his mother, and never to strangers.

“In which part of France did you live?” he continued hastily.

“Always in Paris.”

“Hm, during eventful times.”

“I was born the year of the Terror.”