Lady of Shame Read online

  ‘Exactly my point. And she’ll come around too, when I have something to offer.’

  ‘There are enough women in London that I don’t need to settle on one.’

  Jeremy gave him a long look. ‘Ah, but a wife, now that’s different. And a family. If you like her child, think how you will feel about your own.’

  His own children. With a woman like Claire. She would protect her child with her life. But she was a rare woman. He’d never imagined himself married. He’d always lived for himself, at first for survival and then for his goals.

  ‘I don’t want a wife. I don’t need one.’ In the past the thought of marriage had made him feel ill, yet somehow he could imagine a life with Claire.

  No. Casual relationships. That was all he had ever wanted. He would never settle on just one woman. Never become too attached. Women were fickle. They abandoned you when you needed them most. His heart stilled as a vision of his mother’s face swam in his mind’s eye. Her beauty. Her gay little smile before she galloped away. Damnation, why would the past haunt him now, when he’d scarcely given it a thought for years?

  He’d seen it with his mother and he’d seen it happen to friends. Better to enjoy and move on before things got painful.

  It was not his concern that Claire was shouldering this burden alone and in such an unacceptable way.

  There was nothing he could do for her. Not even if he claimed his birthright. The title was worth nothing. And besides, he would never do that. Not for anyone.

  Their arrival at the drawing room door put paid to his uncomfortable thoughts.

  When her voice bid them enter, his gut clenched. He wasn’t sure if it was because he thought she would not like the news of his departure, or because she might be indifferent. Or because he knew he was being cowardly using the presence of his friend to prevent any personal discussion.

  He ushered Jeremy in. She wore a soft dove-grey gown that matched her eyes, which widened at the sight of Jeremy. Such a modest gown that only hinted at the swell of her breasts where lace lay against her creamy skin. He didn’t need to see their form to recall their shape or their weight in his palms, or the feel of her satiny skin. All those memories were seared into his soul.

  Her cheeks flushed as if she guessed at his thoughts, but her gaze moved on to his companion, a question in her eyes.

  ‘This is Chef Jeremy, Madame Holte,’ André said swiftly. ‘He is replacing me for the last two weeks of my contract.’

  She swallowed her gasp of surprise, but her shock was there on her face, along with dismay and hurt. Why had he expected anything different? He should never have seduced her. He’d let her think there could be more, even though he’d tried to warn her.

  He watched her pull herself together, bravely adjust to what his words meant, with a sick feeling in his gut. He kept his face impassive. For her sake. For his own.

  ‘Leaving?’ She took a little breath, shook her head slightly. She looked first at Jeremy, then at him. ‘And dinner tonight?’

  ‘Chef Jeremy will assist me. We will find out who is spoiling the food before I leave.’ It was the best he had to offer. To make sure all would go smoothly for her. ‘I have an idea. If you would permit?’

  She rose to her feet and drifted to the window, looking out. Her shoulders rose and fell as she fought for the calmness he admired so much. Finally she turned to face them. ‘Tell me your idea.’

  She’d come to terms with his news. He could still see the hurt in her eyes, and some stupid part of him was glad that she cared enough to feel hurt. While another part was furious he’d let it get so far out of hand. But whatever he was feeling, what he was doing was right.

  Jeremy held out the paper they had worked on together. ‘We will serve the meal à la Russe.’

  ‘The way they do in Russia,’ André added. ‘It controls the food coming to the table. I saw it when I was with Napoleon.’

  ‘And we did it at the Pultney in 1814 for the tsar’s party,’ Jeremy added. ‘Let me explain.’

  * * *

  Claire looked paler than usual. The soft candlelight shone gold in her hair, but tension lurked in her jaw and around her mouth. She was suffering. And it was all his fault.

  Hell, he wasn’t exactly enjoying watching her entertain this Carstairs, a man of ruddy complexion, fair hair and a suave tongue. A man she might marry. There was something too smooth about him. Too charming. Hands curling into fists as he stood beside the sideboard, he wished he’d let Jeremy serve in the dining room and remained in the kitchen. Except that Lumsden would never have accepted Jeremy’s presence in his domain. He was barely accepting of André.

  And besides, he had promised Claire he would be the one to make sure nothing went wrong this evening.

  For once, His Grace was present at dinner. On any other occasion, André would have been pleased. Tonight not so much. Not when they were trying something so very different.

  So far the duke hadn’t seemed to notice anything and was sipping at his mushroom and leek soup with relish.

  ‘Well, Carstairs,’ His Grace said after a few mouthfuls, ‘what news from Town? What are the latest on-dits?’

  Carstairs beamed. ‘They say Princess Charlotte is once more engaged in the happy pastime of trying to produce an heir.’

  Claire glanced at her brother, who seemed oblivious to the racy turn of the conversation. She glanced at André and he saw that she was stifling a giggle. He raised a reproving brow, and kept his face blank.

  Reverend Seagrove, who had come alone, cleared his throat. ‘I am sure we will all be very glad of an heir to the throne. The regent and his brothers are terrible fellows. I hadn’t liked the idea of a foreign prince, but this Leopold chap seems sensible.’

  ‘I heard he had the princess firmly under his thumb. And she looks the better for it,’ Carstairs said.

  His Grace lowered his brows. ‘And the disturbances in the countryside?’

  It was something every great landowner should be concerned about, André thought morosely. If they didn’t find a way to employ all these starving people, Britain might well find itself following in France’s footsteps. Bitterness burned in the back of his throat. No one would be safe if that happened. Not women. Not children. As he knew from firsthand. His gaze once more sought Claire’s face and a surge of protectiveness gripped him.

  If things went bad, he would come to her aid. Married or not. Men like this Carstairs, soft men who had everything handed to them on a platter, had no idea how to deal with the mob once they went on the rampage.

  ‘There is talk of spies and infiltrators. But I cannot tell how true it is. My main reason for being in Town was to attend a lecture on fossils at the British Institute.’

  Fossils, when there were such important matters at hand. André felt his lip curl and pulled himself together. The conversation was nothing to do with him. The duke had finished his soup and it was time to bring the next course. André signalled to the footmen to start clearing the plates.

  ‘You are a scientist, Mr Carstairs?’ Claire asked.

  ‘I dabble a bit,’ Carstairs said. He frowned as the footman whipped his plate away. ‘I say, is dinner over?’

  Claire smiled sweetly. ‘We are following the new fashion,’ she said. ‘Service à la Russe.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ Carstairs said grumpily. ‘I wanted more soup.’

  The duke frowned and looked at Claire.

  ‘It is the service used by the Russian imperial family,’ she said. ‘I thought we might try it. I hear it is all the rage in London. The next course will be along immediately.’

  The next course was the meat and fish course. André watched its arrival with an eagle eye. Some of the platters were placed on the table for the guests to help themselves. The footmen offered the others down each side of the table and then to His Grace at the head and to Claire at the foot of the table. The duke looked confused. ‘Are we supposed to all eat the same thing at the same time?’

  ‘That is
the idea,’ Claire said with an encouraging smile.

  ‘How odd. I always said these Russians were a barbaric lot.’

  André frowned, losing track of the conversation as he counted the dishes, the ones on the table and the ones being served by the footmen. Something was missing.

  Claire was also looking around. She glanced over her shoulder at the door as if she was expecting another dish. When she caught André’s eye, she gave him a speaking look and then glanced at Carstairs.

  The jugged hare. It had not arrived. This was the course during which they had agreed it would make its appearance. Early in the proceedings. As a safeguard. Had Jeremy forgotten it, or had something happened?

  He bowed, though no one noticed beside Claire, and slipped from the room.

  A grim-faced Jeremy was waiting just outside the door. ‘We have your culprit,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’ André tensed, fearing it would be Joe Coyle and the lad would be turned off at once.

  ‘The scullery maid, Becca.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I can’t get a word out of the stupid woman—she is bawling her eyes out.’

  ‘Send her to her room and lock her in. We will deal with her later. You have sent for the replacement?’

  ‘Aye, it should arrive from the Dower House kitchen at any moment.’

  André clapped his friend on the back. ‘Then we will take it with the next course.’

  Jeremy nodded and went puffing off back to the kitchen. André returned to his place in the dining room. The course was well under way and, as before, the duke had set down his knife and fork. The man was eating more, but not a great deal more.

  André would give the others a little more time, in order for the jugged hare to arrive, but not much, for the duke was looking around for something else and he had already sampled everything from this course.

  He felt Claire’s gaze watching him. Wondering what was happening. Wondering about the dish that had not arrived. But there was nothing he could do or say. Not in front of the guests. He shot her a flicker of a smile and hoped she took from it that everything was under control. Hoped that she trusted him to make sure all went well this time.

  Her tiny nod of acknowledgement was all that he needed. In spite of everything, it seemed that she trusted him in this. He could only watch in admiration as she played the perfect hostess, pointing out dishes that might have been missed by her guests, encouraging each guest to participate in the conversation by gentle questions. She was a lady. This was where she belonged.

  He could not give her this life. He was right to leave.

  Yet his skin crawled and his fingers tingled every time he looked at the florid Carstairs.

  ‘Your Grace sets a sumptuous table,’ Mr Carstairs said with obvious relish as he helped himself to a vol au vent of salt fish.

  ‘So I should hope,’ His Grace said. ‘Too bad the man won’t stay, but you know what it is with these Frenchies. High strung, the lot of ’em.’

  Claire’s cheeks went pink. André wanted to hit the duke over the head to make him realise the Frenchie he was talking about was standing behind him. He glanced at Lumsden, who gave him a blank stare in return. Of course. What else could he do? They were servants.

  ‘Monsieur André plans to open his own restaurant and a hotel,’ Claire said.

  André wanted to kiss her for rushing to his defence. But really she shouldn’t be saying anything.

  Carstairs stared at her in surprise. ‘Aren’t there enough hotels and restaurants already?’

  ‘I gather this one will be particularly fine,’ she replied calmly. ‘You will want to keep it in mind next time you travel to London.’

  Carstairs was too busy with his venison to reply. The venison was cooked to perfection and the burgundy mushroom sauce was André’s own recipe. The man’s obvious enjoyment should please him. It didn’t.

  He gestured to the footman to clear the table. Before Carstairs could blink, his plate was picked up and the platters were on their way out of the door.

  André caught Claire’s startled expression and winked. She shook her head at him, but he could have sworn there was a smile lingering at the corner of her mouth.

  The next course arrived and was served as before. In pride of place came the jugged hare, the guest of honour’s favourite dish. André would have preferred to put Carstairs in the jug and let the hare run free.

  But the meal was almost done. The torture of watching Claire woo this man with his food would soon end and he wouldn’t have to go through it again.

  ‘I hear you have a grandson, Your Grace?’ Mr Carstairs said. ‘I gather he arrived out of the blue.’ There was an odd note in his voice.

  ‘A very pleasant surprise too,’ Claire said defensively, as if she, too, had caught something unpleasant in his manner.

  ‘Not for Lord Giles, I’ll be bound,’ Carstairs said, looking at Reverend Seagrove. ‘Thought he had it all wrapped up nice and tight, I’ll warrant. Must have been a bitter blow.’

  The reverend coughed into his napkin. ‘A bone,’ he said red-faced.

  ‘Nothing of the sort,’ His Grace said. ‘Giles would give his right arm for his brother’s return. His heir is the next best thing.’

  Reverend Seagrove sent him a look of gratitude while Claire blinked, obviously surprised by the duke’s forceful manner.

  ‘Well, that may be what you say, Your Grace,’ Carstairs continued, tucking into his hare. ‘But it ain’t what they are saying down at the Rothermere Arms.’

  ‘What who are saying?’ the duke said with emphasis.

  Carstairs must have realised he’d gone a mite too far, because his eyes widened in innocence, but there was still that sly sort of twist to his lips. And Claire was looking so horrified, André had the strong urge to knock the man’s teeth down his throat.

  ‘The locals, Your Grace,’ Carstairs said. He leaned back in his chair. ‘Gossip says Lord Giles is trying everything to prove the boy ain’t his nephew.’

  Reverend Seagrove put down his napkin. ‘It’s a damnable lie.’ He coloured. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Holte, but I cannot sit here and listen to the maligning of my future son-in-law. Next you will be saying my daughter put him up to it.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Claire said. ‘Really, the question is moot. Jamie has an heir. Lord Giles will no doubt assist in training the boy to his position in life and then return to his career in the army. If I am not mistaken, it was what he wanted above all things. Let us not concern ourselves with what the gossips say.’

  Reverend Seagrove smiled at her. ‘Indeed. You are correct, Mrs Holte.’

  ‘Well, why isn’t he here, then?’ Carstairs asked. ‘I heard as how he’d gone off in a pet.’

  ‘Heard from whom?’ Mr Seagrove asked.

  ‘That new chap of Sir Nathan’s. Met him on the road the other day. Webster. A military chap with red hair.’

  Webster. What an earth did he know of anything? The man was becoming a positive menace.

  Claire’s shoulders were stiff with outrage. It seemed she was well able to manage without his help. ‘Lord Giles is accompanying Lady Phaedra on an important matter of business,’ Claire said.

  ‘I’m feeling tired,’ His Grace announced. He looked exhausted, grey-skinned and breathing hard. He struggled to his feet. ‘I think I’ll retire.’

  André felt desperately sorry for the old man. He had taken the death of his heir very hard, but had been on the mend, according to Smithins. This verbal sparring with Carstairs seemed to have set him back on his heels.

  The ever vigilant Lumsden leapt forward to offer the duke his support.

  Reverend Seagrove pulled out his watch. ‘Dear me, is that the time? I promised to visit one of my parishioners this evening. She is not well. Not well at all.’

  Mr Carstairs feigned surprise. ‘Was that the last course?’

  ‘No,’ Claire said. ‘However, I think the evening is finished, Mr Carstairs. Monsieur André, will you
put a selection of fruit and pie in a basket for Mr Carstairs to take with him, please?’

  ‘Gladly, madame,’ he replied, wondering, as he saw just how upset Claire was, if he could find anything in his kitchen that would cause Mr Carstairs a very nasty belly ache the following day.

  ‘Say what?’ Carstairs’s eyes bulged.

  ‘You and I can hardly dine tête-à-tête, Mr Carstairs,’ Claire said with an icy smile. ‘However, I would not wish to deprive you of some of the finest delicacies this side of London.’

  He snorted. ‘I’m not some beggar who needs a parcel of food to take home. Are you telling me you are throwing me out on my ear?’

  André wanted to show him what being thrown out on an ear really meant. Claire shot him a warning glance. ‘Certainly not.’

  Reverend Seagrove raised his eyebrows at Claire, then turned to Mr Carstairs. ‘Did you bring your carriage, Carstairs? Perhaps I could trouble you for a ride home. Save asking His Grace to turn out his coachman.’

  André smothered a laugh as Claire cast the vicar an appreciative smile. ‘What a good idea, Reverend.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, his eyes twinkling at Claire.

  The reverend was a good man. Unlike this cochon, Carstairs. André could not believe Claire would lower herself to taking a man with such a cruel tongue. He would make a most unpleasant husband.

  Yet if the duke insisted, would she have a choice? He began to feel very uncomfortable inside. Frustrated that he could do nothing to help. He had no right to interfere. Yet he could not bear the thought that she would marry this man, or one like him. He clenched his fists at his sides, desperate to show nothing on his face. He was a servant. Whatever happened in this room, or in the lives of his employers, was none of his business.

  He’d already made his decision in that regard. He was leaving. Leaving her to her fate.

  A glowering Carstairs pushed to his feet. ‘Come along, Reverend, I’ll walk you to the door. I want to know what happened to all the money that was collected for repairs to the church roof. I’ve been hearing some troubling things about the funds.’

  Reverend Seagrove’s shoulders stiffened. ‘Have you indeed? Perhaps you would like to view the church accounts?’