Lady of Shame Read online

  It was hard to imagine this large powerful man feeling helpless. Awkward under his intense scrutiny, she glanced down at her feet, shoving the straw around with her toe. ‘I thought you were going to murder him.’

  ‘We were sparring. In gloves.’

  ‘Sparring didn’t save you from cuts and bruises the other day.’ Her voice sounded defiant rather than calmly logical. The man was putting her in the wrong when she knew very well she was in the right. Or she had thought she was. She sighed. ‘I’m sorry. Clearly I panicked. I saw how angry you were last night—I thought the worst.’

  He turned away from her, gripping a post that supported the roof. ‘I was angry last night.’ He gave a hard laugh as if he didn’t quite believe he was saying the words. ‘For you. I knew the importance you placed on that dinner after the previous debacle.’

  The way he said debacle was like the brush of velvet against her skin, soft, seductive. She shivered.

  The man was made for seduction, his voice, his body. Oh, dear heavens, she had seen far too much of his body. But the sensations were caused by more than that. It was his passion for life she admired. ‘It meant a great deal to you too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  His voice sounded dispassionate, but she sensed a far deeper emotion. Something dark and savage kept on a firm leash. Something that had nothing to do with anger at all and everything to do with her. Something that awakened longings she must repress. They had betrayed her in the past. Only before, with George, she’d been a girl. Innocent. Those feelings had been negligible compared to the deep stirrings this man aroused. She swallowed.

  She should walk away. Now. While she still had her mind intact. While she still had the strength.

  Her feet refused to move. She had clearly impugned his honour. She had learned to expect the worst in man. George had taught her well. And his cronies. But she was wrong to judge all men by his standards. Particularly this one.

  Now where had that come from? At any rate, she could not walk away and leave things as they were. With his honour insulted.

  He released the strut and, with his back still to her, tied his cravat, buttoned his coat, then turned to face her, his face impassive. His eyes as cold as a winter night.

  A suit of armour could not make him more impregnable. A pang squeezed at her heart. Loneliness. Why did she have to long for closeness with this man?

  He bowed with the grace of a courtier. ‘I admired your calm last night. Your logic. I decided on this as a suitable course of action. There was no anger involved. I beg your pardon, madame. It will not happen again.’

  Just as the kiss would not happen again. The memory of that kiss thrummed through her body like a chord struck on a harp, the note lingering in the air long after the strings were plucked.

  As he made his way past her, she reached out and caught at his sleeve.

  He froze, looking at her hand. ‘Claire?’ The word was little more than a breath. It grazed her cheek like a sigh. Tingles raced across her skin, tightened her breast. She was so out of her depth with these feelings. These sensations. This man.

  ‘I apologise for mistrusting your intentions.’

  The dark gaze lifted to her face. Surprise. Gladness reflected in his eyes. ‘Apology accepted.’ He lifted her hand from his sleeve, turned it palm up and rubbed it gently with his thumb.

  She’d run out without her gloves and the heat of his skin seared hers like a brand. Air seemed in short supply as he held her hand in his large one.

  He frowned, brought her hand up to the light and looked more closely.

  ‘These hands have seen hardship,’ he said softly. ‘It is not something one expects on a woman of rank.’

  Shame rushed through her as she realised what he must see. Work-roughened calluses. Scars. Pride came to her rescue. She’d done her best for herself and for Jane this past year and this was the result. She closed her fingers.

  But his other hand gently pried them open, once more exposing her palm. ‘I admire a woman who is prepared to work for what she wants,’ he whispered. ‘I should have warned you.’

  He bent his head and his lips kissed the centre of her palm. A warm brush of satin lips.

  Curls of heat spiralled deep in her belly. She gasped.

  Heat. Longing. All the things she should not feel rushed through her. Swamping her will. Weakness invaded her bones, her limbs, her centre. And when he raised his dark head, when his gaze met hers, she stood looking at him. Unable to move. Unable to speak.

  His gaze searched her face. Seeing what? Loneliness? Desire? More likely, he saw the trepidation that made her heart beat fast and tremors run through her body. It had to be fear. If it was anything else, this feeling of butterflies and trembles deep in her bones, she was in no end of trouble.

  Silence surrounded them, cool air, the mist of their breath mingling above their heads as they gazed at each other, while the touch of his lips remained seared on her skin.

  He was just so undeniably lovely. And surprisingly kind. Sweet. Something warm swelled in her heart. Impulsively, she rose up on her tiptoes, one hand inside his pressing into her ribs, the other grasping his shoulder, and kissed his parted lips.

  His breath hitched. And then he was holding her, kissing her back, his lips soft and pliant beneath hers, his tongue exploring her mouth. The trembles became shivers of pleasure. A hand at her back pulled her close and his chest pressed against her sensitive breasts. She could feel his desire hard against her belly. Melting warmth trickled upwards invading her limbs, and she moaned low in her throat.

  Slowly he pulled away, his dark eyes slumberous. ‘Claire.’ He spoke gently, almost hesitantly. ‘What you said in the library about things being as they are. Would you change them? If you could?’

  Would she? ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, overcome by the sensations skipping through her body.

  ‘You can choose your own path, you know. Decide how you want things to be. People do.’

  The words were as seductive as his voice. A seduction she sensed in every breath she took, felt in the ripple of longing across her skin, tugging at her heart. Leading her down a bright new path. But she had chosen once. And made a terrible mistake. She wasn’t going to make another one. Not when she had Jane to consider.

  Yet she had kissed him like a wanton.

  Cheeks flaming, she stepped back, smoothing her skirts. ‘Is that what you did? Decided you wanted to be a chef? Decided you wanted to wait on rich people?’

  ‘I will be the best chef in England.’

  Her mouth dropped open at his utter arrogance. ‘It sounds like a wonderful ambition.’ She smiled, but her lips felt stiff and her voice brittle. She felt a brush of resentment that he had his life all planned out, when hers remained so unsure and at the mercy of someone else. ‘If determination is a necessary ingredient, I am sure you will be successful.’

  His lips twisted wryly, as if she’d said something humorous. ‘Thank you. But what about you? What do you really want? Marriage to some elderly country squire?’

  How dare he judge her? ‘Yes. It is. Jane and I need a safe and secure life. And a good marriage will provide it.’

  His head tilted. ‘And will you be happy?’

  ‘It is not about happiness. It’s about making sure Jane has a future.’ Her voice shook.

  There was something about his expression that said he didn’t believe her. ‘Are you sure there isn’t another way to achieve the same goal, without selling yourself?’

  ‘You understand nothing about women like me. We marry to please our families, not ourselves.’

  ‘You did not always follow that rule, I think.’

  It was like being tangled in a web. No matter which way she turned, how much she struggled, there was always another strand of logic holding her down. ‘I think only of Jane. This is my choice,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Then I wish you joy in it. I look forward to our meeting tomorrow, to review our plans for the next dinner. Madame.’


  He bowed and strolled out into the fresh air, leaving her holding the field, but feeling less than triumphant.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Where is Jane?’ Claire knew her voice sounded high-pitched and anxious, but she was too worried to care.

  All three occupants of the kitchen rose to their feet—the two kitchen maids seated at the table, a pot of tea between them, and André at his desk in the corner.

  A quick scan of the kitchen told Claire her daughter was not present. Her heart gave a painful thump. The small ball of panic in her throat swelled so large she couldn’t swallow.

  Agnes bobbed a curtsey. ‘The young lady was here earlier. After lunch.’ She shot André a rather malevolent look. ‘Around the same time as them Gypsies were here, monsewer.’

  ‘Gypsies?’ Claire felt the blood rush from her head. Gypsies were notorious for stealing children.

  Becca twisted her hands in her apron and looked thoroughly uncomfortable.

  André’s expression darkened. He frowned at the young kitchen maid. ‘Not Gypsies. Simply people who are hungry and travelling the roads looking for work.’ He looked at Claire. ‘We keep a kettle of soup hot for those in need. A large group came this morning and a few this afternoon, but Miss Jane was not here at that time.’

  Claire turned to Agnes. ‘When was she here? Did she say where she was going?’

  Agnes’s eyes slid away. ‘It was just after they was here. She came looking for monsewer. He’d gone down to the cellars. I was washing t’floor.’

  ‘She had her coat on,’ Becca said in a rush. ‘I didn’t know if she had just come in or…was going out.’

  Going out? The breath left her lungs in such a rush her head spun. ‘There was no outing planned for today. The weather. The snow.’ Heart pounding, she looked at André. ‘What kind people were these that came to the door, if not Gypsies? Were they locals from the village?’

  The frown on his face deepened. ‘Two of them were soldiers, from London way, I would think, a couple of weavers out of work and their women and children.’

  Men from London. ‘Did they say where they were going?’

  He shook his head. ‘Most of them are looking for work. They move from town to town.’

  ‘One of the soldiers mentioned Buxton, madam,’ Becca said, bobbing. ‘Said they’d be there late tonight if t’snow held off.’

  ‘Buxton?’ Claire felt faint. Was André right? That these were simply poor people travelling the roads or had she been discovered? She had never spoken of her past or her family to anyone. But she really feared George might have. In his cups.

  ‘Are you sure she is not in the house somewhere?’ André asked. ‘It is a very large house with a great many places a small child can hide.’

  She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. ‘I… No, I am not sure, but I have looked everywhere, including the barn. I was certain she must have come here. I will look again. Thank you.’

  Look where? Was Jane hiding somewhere as a tease? It wasn’t out of the question, but she usually came when called. She turned to leave, and then turned back to Becca, who had started to sit and now shot to her feet again.

  ‘You said Jane had her coat on. Are you sure?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes, madam. Positive.’

  Claire’s heart sank. She must have gone outside. ‘Thank you.’

  She hurried off to fetch her coat. There had been a new fall of snow overnight. If Jane had gone outside, she might be able to see her footsteps. See if she had gone with the people who had come to the kitchen. If there were children, she might have followed them. Jane missed the company of other children. She ran down the corridor.

  ‘Madame Holte.’

  André’s voice. She kept going. He caught her up in a few steps, walked beside her. ‘Madame, would she really go outside alone?’

  ‘No. I don’t know. Perhaps. Before we came here, she played outside all the time, but she was known to our neighbours. I…I was busy. But it was a small place. Safe.’ Or she had thought so until she had seen the two men in the market. She had no idea whether they had seen her or not. She’d packed up and run.

  André caught her arm.

  She looked at his hand on her sleeve, a large but elegant hand with tapering fingers. The hand of an artist. A competent hand. She looked up at his face and saw his concern. ‘Give me but a moment to fetch my coat and I will come with you.’

  ‘Oh, I could not drag you away from your work. I am sure she is not far away. Building a snowman, perhaps, or—’

  ‘Shall I ask Lumsden to send the footmen to look through the house?’

  Should she? Ask Lumsden to turn the house upside down looking for a mischievous child? Crispin would not be pleased if she set his household on its ears only to discover the child tucked away in a corner somewhere.

  ‘I will speak with Mrs Stratton,’ he said decisively. ‘She will have the house searched and you and I will look outside. I will fetch my hat and coat and meet you at the door to the stables in five minutes.’ His expression was kindly, and his smile gentle, but determined. ‘It is better to be safe than sorry, non?’

  ‘Yes.’ Knowing he was helping made her feel a whole lot better. ‘Five minutes.’

  She ran upstairs.

  * * *

  The tracks of the group who had come to the back door were easy to follow. They had returned down the drive heading for the lane, the imprint of their coming and going intermingled. André had proved peculiarly adept at identifying who was who. ‘There are only two children.’

  Claire stared down at the muddle of overlapping footprints. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Here. See where one walks beside a woman, the girl, and the other, a bolder stride, a little larger, the boy, marching beside his father. They were a nice family. Respectful. Appreciative of His Grace’s generosity. They would not steal a morsel of bread if their lives depended on it.’

  He sounded so certain, she believed him.

  ‘And the soldiers? One of them could have carried her.’

  He frowned, staring down at the tracks and then looking off into the distance as if seeing that small group of desperate people. ‘If they had been alone, I might have concern. There is much anger at the government about the way soldiers have been abandoned after offering their lives for their country. I have heard much talk in the town after the riots. But they had full bellies and I don’t see how taking a child would aid them.’

  ‘And no one else came to the door?’

  ‘Not since this morning.’

  Then where could she be? The lake. Claire’s heart stopped. She had promised to walk to the lake with Jane. When the weather was less threatening. Could Jane have decided to take matters into her own hands? The child had been fascinated by the lake since they arrived. She’d talked about it only this morning as they looked out of the window. Had asked if it was frozen all the way to the bottom as Claire was dressing her hair ready to go down to breakfast.

  ‘I know where she has gone.’ Her heart lifted. ‘She went to see the lake.’

  ‘Then we must hurry.’ André’s voice sounded grim.

  Claire could only feel relief. The thought of strangers on the property with access to her daughter was far more terrifying than her wandering off to look at an ornamental stretch of water.

  Together they strode across the snow-covered grass. As they walked, André scanned the ground, looking for signs of her footsteps.

  ‘There,’ Claire said. Seeing small depressions in the smooth blanket of snow.

  ‘Deer,’ André replied.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Look at it. There are two very distinct toes. Not the mark of boots. I don’t believe she came this way.’

  Then he froze, ran ahead. Crouched to look down at something on the ground. Then rose to scan the lake which spread before them, criss-crossed with tracks, some leading out to the island in the middle.

  Claire ran to catch him up. ‘What is it?’


  ‘There were children here. See. They were playing. Sliding around on the ice.’ His jaw above his muffler flickered. ‘Very dangerous. The ice is quite thin in places according to Murray when he brought ice to the ice house yesterday.’

  ‘What children? The same children who came to the house?’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t know. If so, they must have left the drive closer to the gatehouse and doubled back. It doesn’t make any sense. Hungry children don’t run off to play. They are too busy surviving.’

  He sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. But it was not something she could think about right now. ‘Jane must have seen them from the window. Run out to join them,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t see how it is possible,’ he said. ‘There would have been tracks from the house.’

  ‘You missed them.’

  His face said he did not believe that, but he shrugged. ‘The children are not here now.’

  ‘We have to discover where they went, that is all.’

  Now she had a purpose, she felt a whole lot better. She stepped out onto the ice. A crackling sound spread out from her feet.

  André grabbed her and pulled her back. ‘Not that way. Clearly, it is not safe.’

  She stared at him and at the ice, her stomach dipping. ‘Don’t tell me she could have fallen through.’ She looked around wildly, trying to see signs of where the ice had been broken.

  ‘You are not so heavy, madame, but the children are lighter. And they did not go on the ice this way. Let us circle around and find where they went on and off. Perhaps then we will discover where they have gone.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘It will be dark soon. We must hurry.’

  Something tight inside her snapped. ‘It is so wrong of Jane to worry me like this. She will spend the next three weeks hemming handkerchiefs under my eye for giving me such a fright.’

  ‘Yes, madame.’ His tone was completely neutral.

  While they tramped through the snow, Claire seethed. Didn’t she have enough to worry about without this? It was better to be angry, to imagine what one would say to one’s child, instead of fearing… No. She would not think of that. Of cracking ice and cold water.