Lady of Shame Read online

  ‘I read of Lord Edward’s demise in the papers after Waterloo. It must have been a dreadful blow after poor Lord Jamie such a short time before.’ She shook her head knowing how she would feel if anything happened to Jane. ‘Perhaps I should not have come unannounced.’ How could she have thought to impose when he was suffering such sorrow? ‘I will go.’

  In that moment, she felt like a traveller who had walked miles only to be faced with a cliff she couldn’t possibly climb and had to retrace her steps and start all over again. Yet there had been no other path to take that she had been able to see. If she left now, she would never find the courage to come back. And she had so hoped she and Jane could stay, that they could finally have somewhere they could really call home after so many years of moving from place to place.

  Mrs Stratton glanced down at the small valise and back at Claire.

  What must the housekeeper think of her turning up here after all these years without any notice? Pride forced her spine straight. ‘I thought to seek my brother’s advice on a matter of importance while I was visiting in the district. I would have written requesting an audience had I realised he was indisposed.’

  ‘I know His Grace will wish to be informed of your arrival,’ Mrs Stratton said gently. ‘Later. I will ask Smithins to let him know you are here. In the meantime, may I show you to the parlour?’

  Confused, Claire could do no more than smile and nod. She followed the housekeeper through the kitchen, with its gleaming pots and huge open fire. The chef looked up from a pot over the stove, his dark gaze meeting hers with an intensity that sent trickles of heat through her blood.

  Unnerved by her strange reaction, she looked away and hurried after the housekeeper, along the servants’ corridor to the columned entrance hall and up the stairs into the family wing.

  As they walked, Claire’s heartbeat returned to a more moderate rate and she was able to take in the familiar sights of her old home. Hope once more began to build. She ruthlessly tamped it down. The duke might yet toss her out of his house.

  And if he did, somehow she would manage.

  The small parlour was light and airy and faced south to get the afternoon sun. The blue paint on the walls contrasted delightfully with the heavy white and gilt ceiling mouldings. Landscapes and the occasional portrait decorated the walls, and tables were littered with Greek and Roman artefacts collected by her father as a young man on his grand tour.

  She sat down on the gold-and-blue-striped sofa beside the hearth and Jane wriggled up beside her. ‘Do you think they will bring us something to eat soon?’

  ‘We can hope.’ She cupped her daughter’s face in her palm and gave her cheek a pat. The child was worth any amount of humiliation, if humiliation was what she had in store. For all she knew, Rothermere might still hold a grudge for her disobedience. Their ages were too far apart for closeness and he had always seemed more like an uncle than a brother.

  The door opened. The butler, old Mr Lumsden Claire was pleased to see, ushered in Joe the footman carrying a silver tray. Lumsden proceeded to set a small table in front of her and the footman placed the tray on it.

  The tray held the ducal silver service and crested china plates displaying the daintiest sandwiches and most artistically prepared sweetmeats Claire could ever remember seeing.

  Her stomach clenched with visceral pleasure at the sight of the food. Jane eyed the plates like a starving wolf, or rather a starving child. Which she was.

  ‘Will that be all, madam?’ Lumsden asked. His voice was carefully blank. In that blankness was a wealth of disapproval.

  Her appetite fled. The butler would remember her fall from favour, of course, as no doubt Mrs Stratton had. He would know she was returning cap in hand and that left a bitter taste in her mouth that did not go with dainty sandwiches and spun sugar arrayed in a fountain of colour.

  ‘Thank you, that is quite sufficient,’ she said calmly.

  The butler bowed and left.

  A coiled spring could not have been tenser than her daughter as she stared at the food on the tray. ‘Are we really allowed to eat those?’ She pointed at the sweetmeats. ‘They look too pretty.’

  Claire wanted to cry. ‘Yes. They are for us. Take what you want.’ She handed her one of the small frilly edged plates. ‘Would you like tea or milk?’

  ‘Milk, please.’ Jane’s hand hovered over the sweetmeats.

  ‘Try some sandwiches first.’

  Disappointment filled the child’s face. Claire couldn’t bear it. ‘Take whatever you want.’

  The little girl filled her plate with sugarplums and sugared almonds and comfits. She popped something dusted with sugar in her mouth. She closed her eyes. ‘Oh, good,’ she said after a couple of chews and a swallow.

  Claire poured tea for herself and milk for her daughter.

  Her teacup rattled in its saucer as she picked it up. Nerves. Weariness. She sipped at the scalding brew. It was perfect. Brewed only once too. What was she thinking? Dukes didn’t need to reuse their tea leaves.

  ‘Aren’t you going to try them?’ Jane asked, pointing at the tray.

  The thought of putting food in her mouth made Claire feel ill. How could she eat when their fate hung in the balance?

  Hopefully the duke would see her today and she could have their interview over and done and know where she stood.

  A moment later the door opened. Her heart seemed to still in her chest as she steeled herself to meet the duke. But it was only the kindly Mrs Stratton, her blue eyes a bit misty, the smile on her face still tense.

  ‘His Grace cannot see you today, Mrs Holte.’

  ‘Cannot?’ Her heart felt as heavy as lead. ‘Or will not?’

  ‘Smithins says his melancholy is bad today. He rarely sees anyone at all. The vicar sometimes. Lord Giles when he must.’

  Numbness enveloped her. That was that, then. No help here. She looked at the plate of food and wondered if she could somehow slip some of the sandwiches into her reticule for later. She had enough money for one night at an inn, but not for supper.

  She’d have to find work again. Somewhere else. Not nearby. The duke’s pride would never allow that. Nor would her own. She would never let her family see the depths to which she had fallen. ‘Please present my good wishes to the duke.’ Claire rose to her feet.

  ‘Smithins said he is sure the duke would be pleased to see you on a better day.’

  Smithins, the duke’s valet, had been with her brother since before Claire was born and it was kind of him to offer hope, but there would be no coming back.

  ‘I will have your old room prepared for you,’ Mrs Stratton said. ‘And the adjoining one for Miss Jane.’

  Her heart stilled. Her spine stiffened. ‘Is this on the duke’s instruction?’

  Mrs Stratton cheekbones stained pink. ‘I can only guess at what His Grace might instruct us, Mrs Holte, but I know Lord Giles would insist.’ The woman tilted her head. ‘That is unless you have other plans?’

  They could stay. She felt suddenly weak. ‘No. No other plans. Not today.’

  ‘Dinner is at five,’ Mrs Stratton said. ‘His Grace keeps country hours.’

  A roof over her head for the night and a dinner promised. It seemed too good to be true. She just wished she could be certain of Crispin’s eventual forgiveness. That he would agree to give them a home. Only then could she feel easy in her mind. Or at least as easy as she could be until she had settled matters with Ernie Pratt.

  Chapter Two

  Two more finicky appetites to tempt. André’s hands fisted at his sides as he looked at the tray returned from the drawing room. The sandwiches were untouched and only one plate had been used even though the gaunt woman and child he’d seen in the kitchen had looked half starved. Madame Holte had eaten nothing and the child had eaten sweetmeats. The more he knew of them, the more he thought the English aristocracy were completely mad.

  Ire rose in his chest. He was tired of preparing meals for people who cared little about wha
t appeared on their plates. Food he’d prepared with his heart and soul.

  Becoming the personal chef to a duke had not been the hoped-for triumph. No grand entertainments for members of the ton. No culinary feasts.

  But there had been something else. A realisation of the subtle role food played in a life. The duke preferred the comfort of familiar dishes. Almost as if they offered a haven from the devastating changes in his life. André had sought out those dishes and prepared them in the manner of the duke’s youth. And the duke had regained his appetite, somewhat, and Lord Giles had been pleased.

  Based on that success, he would return to London at the end of the month with the promised letter of endorsement.

  In the meantime, he had a dinner to prepare and he needed to think of something to tempt a woman who looked like a small brown mouse and had turned out to be the sister of a duke. And a child. A little girl with the same sad grey eyes as her mother. What did he know of what children liked? Thoughts of his own boyhood only made him angry, so he’d locked those memories away. Still, he would like to see the child eat something to put a bit of flesh on her bones, and her mother too.

  He did remember starving on the streets of Paris for months until he was taken up in the army. He knew what it was to be hungry. It was the reason he’d convinced His Grace to permit a pot of soup on the stove for those wandering the dales in search of work.

  He strode to the larder and looked at his plentiful supplies. The pantry always made him feel good. Nothing but the best for the duke and no expense spared. And still the old man preferred a haunch of venison and suet puddings to the delicate sauces and fricassées André longed to prepare. Puddings. Pah. If the great Carême could see him now, he would be horrified.

  He brought an armful of ingredients into the kitchen and laid them on the long plank table. As usual, he gave a swift glance around his domain. What he saw made his gut clench. Fear grabbed him by the throat. The swaying skirts of the scullery maid were inches from the flames leaping hungrily at the fat dripping from the meat.

  ‘Mademoiselle Becca,’ he barked. ‘Step back from the fire, s’il vous plaît.’

  The scullery maid squeaked and leapt back, her lank hair slipping loose from her cap.

  ‘How many times must I tell you, mademoiselle?’ André uttered fiercely, visions of other accidents raw and fresh. ‘Stand to one side of the spit or you will roast along with the pig.’ This kitchen needed modernising. He would speak to the steward again about installing a winding clock beside the hearth, then no one would risk themselves so close to the fire. It just wasn’t safe.

  ‘Sorry,’ the girl mumbled, wringing her hands. She positioned herself properly and once more turned the handle.

  He frowned. ‘Where is Charles? I assigned him this duty.’

  ‘Mr Smithins sent Charlie on an errand, chef,’ the girl said.

  Smithins, the duke’s valet, was a blasted nuisance. He seemed to think he ran the household, and had even tried throwing his weight around in André’s kitchen. Once. But young Charlie, the boot black, hated turning the spit.

  Knowing he was watching, Becca turned the spit slowly, just the way he liked and he gave her a nod of approval. She returned a shy smile. Pauvre Becca, she thirsted for approval. He gave it as often as she deserved.

  The kitchen maid, Agnes, stuck her head through the scullery door. ‘Shall I throw out this soup, then, monsewer?’

  He hated the way these English servants said monsieur. It sounded as if he had crawled from the privy. But it did no good to correct them.

  ‘How much soup is left?’

  ‘A quarter of the pot. Not so many came today.’

  ‘Then the remainder will go to the servants’ hall for dinner.’

  ‘I don’t see why we should eat the leftovers from a bunch of dirty Gypsies,’ she muttered.

  André swallowed a surge of anger at the scorn in her voice. This girl had never known what it was to go without. He kept his voice calm, but instructive. ‘The only difference between you and the Gypsies, as you call them, is you have work and they do not. N’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Nesper?’

  Becca giggled behind her hand.

  André frowned. Agnes scuttled back into the scullery and André returned to shucking the oysters.

  ‘I thought we’d prepared everything for dinner,’ Becca said, watching him, her arm turning the spit by rote.

  ‘The duke has a guest.’

  ‘His sister,’ Becca said, nodding. ‘Eloped she did. Years ago.’

  That might account for the fear he’d seen in her eyes. A prodigal sister unsure of her welcome. Fear would account for the lack of appetite too. It did not, however, account for the lifeless pallid skin or the eyes huge in her face. She clearly had not eaten well for a long time.

  If she had no appetite, she needed something to seduce her into putting food in her mouth. Not that he cared about Mrs Holte. Spoiled noblewomen didn’t interest him in the least, except as they could advance his prospects. If this one refused to eat his food, his reputation would suffer. He bit back his irritation. He would use it as a chance to put his theories about food to yet another test. No woman, noble or otherwise, would resist his food. He left the oysters to simmer and set to work braising fresh vegetables. This time the plates would not return untouched.

  Normally, once dinner preparation was finished and the food taken up to the drawing room, André would have retired to the parlour set aside for the use of the upper servants—the butler and the housekeeper and any ladies’ maids present. Or he’d go to his own room and work on his menus for the hotel he planned to open in London. Tonight he found himself inspecting cuts of meat, counting jars of marmalade and generally annoying Becca, who was up to her elbows in hot soapy water washing the pots and pans in the scullery.

  And while he counted and checked, he had one eye on the door.

  He barely noticed when Joe returned with the duke’s tray. ‘Smithins said to tell you that His Grace said the beef could have used a bit more cooking,’ Joe announced with a cheeky grin, keeping well out of André’s reach.

  ‘M’sieur Smithins can go to hell,’ André replied, as he always did.

  ‘Bloody Frenchman,’ Joe muttered under his breath, and ran off.

  The next set of dishes brought back to the kitchen were from the dining room where the mouse had sat in splendid isolation with her child.

  The tureen of soup had been broached, the soup tasted. A spoonful or two from one bowl, more from the other. But neither was drained.

  His jaw clenched hard when he saw nothing else had been touched, not the poached chicken or the pheasant pie or even the vegetables. There was something wrong with the woman. There had to be.

  Joe leaned close and inhaled. ‘Smells lovely,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll be done right proud in the servants’ hall tonight.’

  André bared his teeth. ‘You will touch none of it without my permission.’ He glanced at the dishes set ready to go up. ‘Take the last course.’

  ‘No point,’ Joe said cheerily. ‘The little one is sick. They went up to their rooms.’

  ‘Sick?’

  ‘Too many sweetmeats, my lady said.’

  Not the food. Of course not the food. His food was delicious. He stared at the untouched meal and remembered the thin face and the grey eyes filled with worry. He recalled the child whose bones looked ready to burst from her skin and wanted to hit something. The child had eaten only sugarplums and made herself ill.

  Faced with such a treat a hungry child would fill its belly to bursting. He should have sent only the plainest of food. The most easily digested morsels this afternoon. He should have known. He was an idiot.

  ‘Leave the pie,’ he instructed. ‘Take the rest to the hall with my compliments.’

  Joe glowered. ‘Too high and mighty to share that pie with the rest of us, are you?’

  André gave him a hard smile.

  The lad picked up the tray and scurried off. ‘Be back wit
h the rest of the dishes in a minute or two, Becca,’ he called over his shoulder.

  Becca kept her gaze firmly fixed on her dirty pots in the sink.

  The pie was a work of art. Pastry so flaky it melted in the mouth. The contents were cooked to perfection. His fists clenched and unclenched as he stared at it. Not because he was insulted. He knew his cooking was exceptional, but because the woman still had an empty belly after he’d sent up food fit for a queen.

  It was nothing to do with the tingle of sparks he’d felt when he’d touched the delicate skin of her throat, or the pang of disappointment when he’d learned who she was. A woman above his touch. Not at all. It was simply a desire to see his patron’s family satisfied.

  Mentally he shrugged. He’d provided the meal, what they ate was none of his business.

  Automatically, he set a tray. The knife and fork just so. A napkin. A slice of pie on a plate and a selection of vegetables. Beautiful.

  He glanced over at Becca. ‘Take the rest of the pie to Madame Stratton and M’sieur Lumsden.

  La pauvre, as he thought of her, bobbed a curtsey. For some reason the sad little creature treated him like royalty no matter how often he explained that kitchen maids didn’t curtsey to chefs. There was a time when maids and footmen had curtseyed and bowed before running to do his bidding. Before the revolution that had ripped France apart and put it back together differently. He never looked back to that time. The looking back no longer hurt, but those times had become foggy, like a dream. Or a nightmare.

  So why was he thinking about it now? Because of her. Mrs Holte. Curiosity and desire mingled with a longing he did not understand. Should not try to understand.

  He picked up the tray. No one would remark on his absence. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken his food to his own rooms to eat.

  He strode up the servants’ staircase.

  * * *

  Claire left Jane finally sleeping and returned to her own room, leaving the door between their chambers ajar. She sat in the chair by the window and stared out into the darkness. What if Rothermere refused to see her? Nausea rolled in her stomach. To have come so close to rescue would be too cruel.