“Non! Jamais!” she cried, breaking into her native French as tended to happen when her emotions were kindled. “C’est infâme, vil. Vous n’êtes qu’un macquereau immonde.”
Her uncle hated her speaking French, though he understood the language well enough.
“Call me a dirty pimp, by all means,” he sneered. “Knowing such names merely proves what you deserve. You’re no better than a whore so you might as well be one.”
“I am of age,” she said carefully, reverting to English. “You can’t make me do it. You can throw me out of your house but you can’t control my actions. I’d rather starve than agree to such a disgusting arrangement.” Beneath a veneer of calm, panic churned. Without a penny to her name and deprived of even her uncle’s un-loving protection, her future was precarious.
Candover rose to his feet. His body was grotesquely swollen despite the corsets that strove to confine his massive belly. He lumbered toward her and took her arm in a painful grip.
“You could leave here and go to hell your own way—if you could escape me. No, my dear niece”—his sneer intensified—“I promised you to Storrington and I’m a man of my word. A gentleman never reneges on a wager.”
Jacobin spat in his face. “Some gentleman! My father was a gentleman. You are a filthy pig,” she hissed.
Tightening his hold on her arm, he raised his other hand and slapped her face, hard. “Give me—or your new master—any trouble and I’ll sell you to a bordello. At least I’d get a few hundred pounds for you and be rid of your accursed presence to boot.”
Her uncle’s eyes were filled with a kind of madness beyond anger and inebriation. Jacobin wanted to cry out her hurt, to ask why Candover found his closest living relative a curse, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower.
Nursing her stinging cheek, she managed to retort through a rising tide of terror, “You can’t force me. There’s no slavery in England.”
“See this bell rope?” he said, reaching for the tapestry pull. “One ring and my valet will come. He knows you’ve been—difficult—and is prepared to tie you up and escort you to my carriage. After that you will be driven to London and delivered to Lord Storrington—unless you would prefer the other place I mentioned.”
Her choice was bleak: a liaison with Storrington—doubtless another dissipated member of the regent’s set—or forced prostitution of an even more terrifying kind.
“Why?” she demanded in a whisper, unable to maintain her defiance. “Why would you do this to your sister’s child? My mother loved you.”
Tramping aimlessly through the park at Storrington, Jacobin sobbed out her loneliness and grief. She was so tired of being strong. She wanted to be home in France. She wanted her parents back.
Candover’s face had reflected only hatred as he reached for the brandy glass that was never far away, even at that hour of the morning.
“You are his child,” he had said.
Why had Candover loathed her father? Auguste de Chastelux had been a hard man to hate. Handsome and brilliant, Auguste had possessed a rare charm that drew everyone he encountered. Her mother Felicity had loved him devotedly and he had been the center of Jacobin’s life for her first eleven years.
She realized now that her father’s love for her mother had never equaled Felicity’s for him. On some level Jacobin had always known that Auguste’s deepest devotion was for her, his only child. Yet Auguste had been a kind and attentive husband, and Jacobin did not believe he’d been unfaithful. It couldn’t have been neglect or cruelty toward his wife that made his brother-in-law hate him.
Besides, nothing she knew of her uncle led her to suspect he’d mind if his sister was mistreated. Really, she thought savagely, given what an unpleasant man he was, she wasn’t surprised someone wished to kill him. But not her. However much she loathed and resented her uncle, she was her father’s child, and Auguste had deplored violence.
As her sobs subsided, she thrust Candover from her mind. Her fit of tears had made her feel better, calmer. Her natural optimism reasserted itself as she took stock of her surroundings. Even in November the grounds at Storrington were beautiful. The path she followed took her up a gentle rise through an extensive stand of rhododendrons. As she emerged on the other side the landscape opened up to reveal a valley with a small lake. At one end the lake was fed by a swift stream, and a rustic watermill took advantage of the race. A decorative stone bridge crossed the stream leading to the far side of the water. And at the other end stood a two-story building of plaster and timber in a French country style.
The scene was strangely familiar, yet Jacobin had never been here before. She stood and gazed at the buildings for several minutes, something plucking at her memory. Then she gave a gasp of recognition. It wasn’t quite the same but very similar. Just on a smaller scale. She’d heard the place endlessly described by her mother and seen drawings of it. She’d even visited it once. It was almost as though her yearning for her native land had been answered.
“L’hameau de la reine,” she said out loud. “The queen’s hamlet.”
“Quite so,” said a deep voice behind her, causing her to start. “Queen Marie Antoinette’s folly, the model village where she played at shepherdess while her subjects starved.”
Storrington must have come up behind her while she stared at this little piece of France in the middle of Sussex. He stood beside her, quite at ease, dressed in casual country attire of buckskin breeches under a warm, knee-length coat. He went hatless, so the fashionable disorder of his hair had been exacerbated by the attentions of the wind. His eyes, appearing more blue than gray in the subdued autumnal landscape, shone from a face glowing with exercise. Her heart gave a little jump as they exchanged glances, then she looked away. But it wasn’t in her nature to be demure or to let a falsehood go unchallenged.
“She never pretended to be a shepherdess, my lord. That was a canard invented by the queen’s enemies.”
“As a daughter of the Revolution,” he said, “I would expect you to be eager to believe anything ill of the French royal family.”
Jacobin shook her head. “I hope my opinions would never blind me to the truth. And in this case you are quite mistaken. I have nothing against the poor queen. And my mother admired her greatly.”
“Mine too,” the earl said, sounding surprised. “In fact I was named after her.”
“Is your name Marie-Antoine, then?”
“Certainly not,” Storrington replied. “I am English, and Englishmen are not named Mary. My father would have had a palpitation at the very notion. My Christian name is Anthony.”
“The house here is very like la maison de la reine at the queen’s hamlet, yet somewhat smaller, I believe.”
The earl looked at her curiously. “Did you ever visit it? The original I mean, at Versailles.”
“I grew up hearing about it from my mother. It was she who told me the queen enjoyed visiting the farm and using its produce at her table, but she never did the work herself. I went there just once, as a child, when it was turned into a restaurant after the Revolution. It was rather sad, I think.”
“Was your mother in service to the queen? Is that how she came to visit the hamlet? I understand that only the privileged few were invited there.”
“My mother was with another lady who was visiting the queen,” Jacobin replied, regretting she’d said so much. It was a joy to speak of France, to recall happier days. And it didn’t hurt that a very attractive man was listening to her with rapt concentration and regarding her with a fascinated gaze. Her attention-starved soul blossomed in the sun of Lord Storrington’s interest. She fought an urge to confide in him, to share her troubles with a sympathetic ear.
Sympathetic! There must be windmills in her head to forget, even for a minute, his own role in her plight. It was vital she not give away her identity and reveal her connection to Candover. She shouldn’t have let herself be carried away and speak so much of her mother.
“How do
you come to have the Queen of France’s village in this English park?” she asked.
A flicker of sadness passed over Storrington’s face. For a moment he appeared vulnerable and very human.
“My mother loved France.” His voice was smooth, and Jacobin wondered if she’d imagined his distress. “As I said before, she admired the queen. The mill was already here and my father built the Queen’s House to please her. To try and make her happy.”
“And did it?” she inquired, not daring to ask why the late Lady Storrington should have been unhappy.
“No. She died not very long afterward.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but the expression on his face was forlorn.
“You miss your mother, don’t you? Tell me about her,” she said gently.
Once again his willingness to confide in her surprised Anthony. She was still dressed in the drabbest of gray gowns, but she had a face that couldn’t look gray under any circumstances and possessed an exotic cast that spoke of her French blood: wide, brandy-brown eyes with thick dark lashes; flawless skin two shades darker than the typical English complexion; a perfectly straight and symmetrical nose; plump, curving lips; the small but determined chin decorated with that intriguing cleft. Chestnut brown curls that fluttered in the wind topped it all off.
He was attracted to her, of course, which was why he had, against his better judgment, pursued her through the park. And there was something more. Something about his newest employee elicited his trust.
“My mother was the most delightful person in the world. When I was very young she’d fetch me from the nursery and we’d go on picnics. She took me bathing in the lake here and played hide-and-seek. She’d tell me stories, and she would laugh and laugh.” He felt his heart squeeze tight with mingled pain and pleasure at the recollection of those lost halcyon days.
“What happened?” she whispered, standing close to him. Her eyes were huge and glowed with sympathy. He could drown in their chocolate depths.
“I don’t know,” he said bleakly. “My father took her to France after my sister was born, and when they returned she was different. I don’t think she ever smiled again.” He turned away from her and stared unseeing at the hamlet. He could feel the weight of incipient tears behind his eyes. Instinctively his shoulders hunched and his head dropped to hide his grief.
Damn it, where had this sudden weakness come from? He was never sentimental. He faced life as he found it and did what needed to be done.
“It was a long time ago,” he said, stiffening his spine. He wanted to reject Jane Castle’s compassion. He didn’t need it. “There’s no point dwelling on it.”
Forcing his emotions into the deep recesses of his mind where they belonged, he made his voice as un-yielding as his stance. “I was going to summon you later to discuss a house party I am planning. We might as well do that now. I want my guests to enjoy the best confections you can produce.”
She gave him a look that, he feared, meant she wasn’t fooled by his change of subject and knew exactly how affected he had been. But she didn’t say anything. How could she? She was only a servant, after all.
“Certainly, my lord,” she answered agreeably. “What dishes would you like me to make?” The wicked glint in her eye told him she wasn’t letting him off entirely. She was well aware he had no idea how to answer that particular question.
He waved his hand dismissively. “I leave that for you to decide, Miss Castle. Earn your princely salary and impress my guests.”
She tilted her head proudly. “I assure you, my lord, I can impress anyone.”
He had the urge to ruffle her composure, to repay her for the turmoil in his heart caused by speaking of his mother.
“One of the guests will be a particular connoisseur of your art, a lover of confectionary on a par with the Prince Regent,” he said. “Lord Candover.”
He watched closely for her reaction and wasn’t disappointed. She blanched.
Chapter 6
“Anthony,” croaked the dying man, reaching out feebly to his son.
Anthony stood at his father’s bed and took the offered hand. The long fingers, so like his own in shape and size, were cool and paper-dry. They felt desperately frail in contrast to the warmth and vigor of his own.
His father was dying. The physician said it wouldn’t be much longer now. The old earl had sent the doctor, nurse, and his younger offspring out of the room, leaving him alone with his heir. The wasting disease that had sapped his vitality over the past months left him without strength, but Anthony sensed rather than felt his father tug him closer. He leaned over the bed so that the old man could look him full in the face. The dull blue eyes stared at him intensely.
“Catherine,” the earl murmured. Anthony wondered if he had been mistaken for his mother. He’d always been the image of her, a masculine version of the beauty who had dazzled London society in her heyday. He waited, saying nothing.
“Catherine,” his father repeated. “I loved her.”
Anthony knew that. His father had never recovered from her death. Ever an undemonstrative man, he had completely withdrawn into himself after the loss of his wife.
“I loved her,” the earl continued, “but she was never the same after France.”
Anguish pierced his father’s customary dry tones, and Anthony wanted to offer comfort.
“I loved Mama too, Father,” he said. “She was sad, but she still loved us.”
“No!” exclaimed the earl. “She never loved me again. He took her away from me and then he stole her. And she died.”
Anthony tried to make sense of what his father was saying. His mother had drowned. It had been an accident.
“What are you saying, Father? Mama never had another man. She was faithful to you.” Anthony couldn’t bear to think otherwise.
The earl continued. “I must tell you.” The strain of speech was evident but some great need gave him the force to tell his tale. “She fell in love with him in France, and things were never the same. Then, that night, she left me to join him. There was a storm. She died.”
Anthony’s throat clenched. Even had he found the words he couldn’t have uttered them. The knowledge of his mother’s infidelity shook him to the core. He felt his father’s pain, but even more he felt his own. She’d left him. He wanted to roar out his hurt. He’d like to kill the man who’d ruined his life.
“Who?” The single word was all he could articulate.
He was scarcely aware now of his father clutching his hand. His own rage consumed him.
“Who!” he cried, the need to know the truth releasing his vocal cords from bondage.
“The letter…” His father’s voice was now only a whisper. Anthony had to lower his ear to the dying man’s lips to hear the words. “The letter came…and she left.”
“Whose letter?” Anthony was wild for the truth. “Who was it, Father? The name! Give me the name.”
“The letter came from Candover…”
The earl rose from his supine position and thrust back the covers. He left the bed and stood up, all sign of weakness gone. He stood as tall and straight as he’d ever been and shook his fist in the air above his head.
“Avenge me,” he cried. His voice was young and vigorous. “My son, you must avenge me.”
Anthony awoke in a sweat, as he always did when he had the dream. He couldn’t count how many times it had come to him since his father’s death. It was always the same. And it was always exactly like his father’s last minutes. Until the end.
“The letter came from Candover…” had been his father’s last words. His life slipped away as spoke them.
Only in the dream did he call for revenge. Yet sometimes Anthony found it hard to credit that his father had not risen from his sickbed like that. It always seemed so vivid, so true. And his demand seemed so just.
Jacobin couldn’t get her mind off her employer.
He’d looked so bleak, dismissing his mother’s death as something that happened a long time ago, whe
n it was obvious that her loss scarred his soul to this day. She’d wanted to hold his head to her breast and stroke the improbably windswept locks; to soothe the faint lines at the juncture of the brow, lines of care and worry; and then she wanted to make him laugh and laugh as he recalled his mother doing. To make him laugh until the marks of trouble were erased and the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkled with enjoyment.
These were foolish thoughts. There couldn’t ever be anything between her and the Earl of Storrington, and she shouldn’t want there to be. She mustn’t forget that he was her enemy, a man who’d won her at a game of cards. For all she knew, if he discovered her identity he might believe he held some kind of droit de seigneur over her. She didn’t know how Candover had settled his bet with Storrington after her disappearance, or what either man would do if they realized who and where she was.
And Candover was expected at Storrington Hall. She’d have to keep out of his way. If he found her here it would be much too convenient for him to hand her over to the earl on the proverbial silver platter.
She’d like to think Storrington would refuse the offering, but a core of common sense told her not to rely on her instinct. Or on her wishes rather. She was in danger of seeing Storrington as a knight in shining armor based on nothing but a superficial attraction to his appearance and a hint of vulnerability in his personality. She didn’t really know much about him, and what she did know wasn’t encouraging: he was a gambler; he was a friend of her far-from-trustworthy uncle; and he’d hired her as a cook for an unknown reason that had nothing to do with a taste for pastry.
If she were wise she’d give Storrington a wide berth. She had no reason to trust him.
Her sleep in the small bedroom in the upper reaches of the great house was disturbed. She awoke in pitch darkness and knew there was no chance of regaining unconsciousness. She might as well begin to earn her living while the kitchen was free of the antagonistic presence of Mrs. Simpson. Since she’d be alone, she could dress for comfort. She reached for the breeches and jacket that had been her uniform at the Brighton Pavilion.
Never Resist Temptation Page 5