Lady of Shame Page 8

  If she was honest, she would admit her anger stemmed not from insult, but from the way his words echoed her own doubts.

  Not to mention the longings she had for more than mere conversation with this man. Those longings had led her astray once. From here on she was determined they would be ignored.

  ‘I do not say this out of impertinence, madame. I say it as a well-wisher. I fear the duke might not be the best man to offer you advice.’

  ‘You would criticise His Grace?’

  He gazed at her for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I see you are determined on this course. Then may I offer a suggestion?’ His deep voice seemed to sooth her ire.

  ‘I have the feeling you will, whatever I say.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘As you say, madame. It is a fault I have found difficult to break.’

  It was a strong man who could admit to having faults. George never had and his had been egregious. ‘Let me hear your idea.’

  ‘In addition to the favourite dish, provide something more sensual to the palate.’

  The words stirred her blood in the wickedest of ways. A trickle of heat ran through her veins. Her chest had trouble rising and falling to accommodate a breath. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Leave it to me.’

  He sounded sincere. Just as sincere in this as he had sounded in his criticism. And besides, it was only food. The key was the duke’s support and all that would mean for a suitor. Power drew men the way nectar drew the bees.

  Monsieur André must know his business. Why not leave such matters in his capable hands? Strong hands with long fingers, she had noted when he was working in the kitchen. Hands scarred by hard work. Like her own.

  They had reached the path where it divided, one direction heading to the stables and the servants’ pavilion, the other to the family’s quarters.

  A cat stalked across the courtyard and stopped to groom its fur. Jane was on it before she could say anything.

  Monsieur André watched the child for a moment, then looked down at Claire, his eyes once more intense and dark, yet there was warmth there too, the kind of warmth a man might have for a woman, along with speculation.

  He was no doubt wondering what had brought her home to wed a man of her family’s choosing when she had chosen for herself before. Or perhaps he thought he knew. After all, the servants knew the scandal, knew she’d been ostracised for her choice. Perhaps he was wondering how she could humble herself to obey with such meekness. But as she had learned these past few years, pride came at a heavy price.

  And as he stood there looking down at her, something shifted between them. A shimmering thing that warmed her through. Breathing became a chore, as if the air had become liquid. Her weighted limbs refused to move as she stared back at him and saw the seductive heat in his eyes. Their hot darkness drew her in and her body leaned towards him as if it would partake of more of that heat.

  Desire. She knew its name and she knew its dangers. Yet the impulse remained. The pressing urge to rise on her toes and press her mouth to those beautifully moulded lips and feel his strong arms go about her. There was something about his strength, his acknowledged ability to fight, that drew her weaker self.

  She dragged her gaze from his face, let it skitter away over the distant fields, the bare trees, the grey sky. A breath of sense filled her lungs and she managed a smile. ‘I bid you good day, Monsieur André. Come, Jane.’

  Jane reached out to pet the cat and it darted away. She skipped back to Claire. ‘I will see you tomorrow, Monsieur André,’ she called out.

  ‘You will be busy tomorrow,’ Claire said as they entered the house. She had been neglecting her daughter’s lessons. Giving her too much free time to wander. ‘Tomorrow you can resume pianoforte lessons.’

  ‘I hate the pianoforte.’

  Everyone had to do things they hated. Pianoforte was the least of them.

  * * *

  The past few years had been no more generous to Mr Frederick Dyer than they had been to Claire. Nine years had added silver to what was left of his rapidly receding hairline and deep grooves to his thin cheeks. Dour was the word that popped into her mind. Perhaps even grim.

  ‘We had heard the duke had a French chef,’ Mrs Dyer, his mother, said, her hair also silver beneath her cap. She had been a widow for many years. ‘This soup is certainly most delicious.’ She dipped her spoon again.

  Pleased, Claire smiled at her.

  ‘Monsieur André has excelled himself,’ Reverend Seagrove said, smiling and nodding at the widow.

  ‘I will pass along your compliments,’ Claire said.

  ‘I am only sorry the duke is not here,’ Mr Dyer said. ‘He’s a difficult man to see.’

  ‘I agree with you there, Mr Dyer,’ Lady Hatherton said in her soft voice.

  Mr Dyer shot her a glance. There was admiration in that glance and Claire wondered again if inviting the young widow had been a terrible miscalculation. Not that she’d had a choice. Crispin had insisted. And then cried off at the very last moment.

  ‘The duke had every intention of joining us this evening, but found himself indisposed,’ Claire said.

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ Miss Seagrove asked in her kind manner.

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ Claire said.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Mrs Dyer said. ‘It is an age since I had conversation with His Grace.’

  ‘Not half as sorry as me,’ Dyer said. ‘I wanted to talk to him about the mill.’

  So that was why he was so grumpy about the missing duke. ‘Surely Mr Everett would be a better person for such discussions. Or Lord Giles upon his return.’

  ‘I have found Mr Everett most accommodating and helpful,’ Lady Hatherton said gently.

  Another one of those glances from Mr Dyer. ‘Aye, mayhap. But ’tis the duke who put that man in the mill, and the duke who should take responsibility for getting him out.’

  Reverend Seagrove pursed his lips. ‘I assume old Blekin has been causing trouble again. I will have words with him if you wish.’

  ‘Gentlemen, surely we are not going to discuss business at the dinner table?’ Mrs Dyer cried with a rather critical glance at Claire for not keeping order.

  Her son straightened in his chair as if the admonishment stung. ‘It is business such as this that keeps food on our table, Mother.’ Then he smiled and his face changed, became softer, less grim, even handsome in a severe way. ‘But you are right, matters such as this can await the passing of the port.’

  Claire breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment she had begun to think the man would insist on bursting in on the duke to discuss the matter of the drunken miller.

  Lumsden gestured to the footmen to clear the first courses. Monsieur André had indeed excelled himself. Even Mr Dyer’s disgruntlement at the duke’s non-appearance had mellowed since tasting the food and fine wine.

  ‘How is the little marquess?’ Miss Seagrove asked Lady Hatherton.

  ‘He is well, Miss Seagrove, thank you for asking.’

  The footmen returned with silver trays full of food for the next course. Two roasts—woodcock and fowl—held pride of place, the entremets included a lobster salad à l’Italienne and whole truffles with champagne. There was also the cream of cods’ heads specially prepared for Mr Dyer, which the chef had made look and smell thoroughly appetising. The sweet dishes consisted of a charlotte of apples with apricots and a dish of dried fruits.

  A heavenly scent filled the room. Claire’s mouth watered, despite having just eaten well of three previous courses. The handsome chef had indeed turned this meal into a seduction. To her shame, warmth trickled up from her belly. Seduced by food. Whoever heard of such a thing?

  With the servants in the room, the conversation had slipped easily into the neutral topic of the weather when Miss Seagrove said, ‘And do you think the winter will be harsh this year, Mr Dyer?’

  ‘I hope not, Miss Seagrove. After the winter of ’14 and followed by a very bad harvest, we have suffered enough, I
believe. Fortunately corn prices remain high.’

  Not fortunate for those who had no money to buy bread, as Claire had seen firsthand. Hers was not a view that would find much sympathy with the landowners at this table. After all, it was they who had passed the corn laws restricting the import of grain to keep prices high.

  ‘It seems to me that this winter is much milder than those I remember as a girl,’ she said. ‘We have had hardly any snow.’

  Lady Hatherton shivered. ‘After living in Spain, this winter seems brutal.’

  ‘But there was snow in the mountains, surely?’ Miss Seagrove asked. ‘Giles tell me that the winters in the mountains are far more severe than anything we experience in England.’

  ‘I didn’t go up in the mountains,’ the marchioness said, looking dismal.

  Claire could see that the gentle Miss Seagrove wished she had bitten her tongue.

  ‘What did you think of other parts of Spain, Lady Hatherton?’ Claire asked. ‘I understand there are some fascinating cathedrals and architecture?’

  ‘And a great many hovels too, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Mr Dyer put in.

  The servants finished their work and disappeared like wraiths.

  Lady Hatherton smiled at Mr Dyer. ‘You are right, sir. It is not an experience I would care to repeat.’

  Well, that put paid to that line of conversation. But Claire couldn’t blame the young widow. She had experienced the worst of war.

  ‘Will you carve the chicken, Mr Dyer, while Mr Seagrove divides the woodcocks?’ she asked calmly.

  Meat was carved and platters passed between the guests with much anticipation on their faces.

  ‘When will Lord Giles and Lady Phaedra return?’ Mrs Dyer asked the room generally, but with her eyes on the young bride-to-be.

  ‘Next week, I believe,’ Miss Seagrove said.

  ‘And your wedding plans move on apace?’ the widow asked.

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Miss Seagrove’s face glowed.

  ‘I look forward to it,’ Mrs Dyer said, clearly anticipating her invitation.

  Miss Seagrove took a mouthful from her fork, making it impossible for her to reply. A very smart young lady, Miss Seagrove. She would make Giles a good wife.

  Mr Dyer piled his fork with cod covered in a cream of mushroom sauce. Claire watched him from the corner of her eye, looking forward to the same reaction of pleasure and delight that had accompanied the first course. As hostess of the dinner, the credit would fall to her as well as the duke’s famous French chef.

  Dyer masticated with evident pleasure, then his face turned red, he gazed wildly around and then lifted the tablecloth and spat the contents of his mouth into its folds.

  Everyone at the table stared at him in astonishment, too polite to say anything, but clearly revolted by the sight.

  Mr Dyer’s face turned purple. He grabbed up his wine glass and gulped its contents, while fanning his hand in front of his face.

  ‘Mr Dyer,’ Claire said. ‘Are you all right? Did you swallow a fish bone?’ There should not have been any in this dish. This she had agreed with André.

  He coughed and spluttered and drank some more wine. ‘All right?’ he choked out. ‘No, I am not all right.’

  His mother patted his back. Miss Seagrove did the same thing from the other side.

  The vicar poured him a goblet of water from the pitcher on the sideboard. The man seemed ready to expire.

  Slowly the gasping and coughing subsided, though the man’s high forehead remained a deep red and beaded with sweat as he drew in one rasping breath after another.

  Could he be suffering an apoplexy?

  The Reverend Seagrove pulled the fish platter towards him. It was the only dish no one else had sampled. He spooned a small amount onto his plate and tasted it warily.

  ‘Horseradish?’ he said with a wince. ‘Or too much pepper?’

  Mr Dyer, with his bulging eyes and opening and closing mouth, looking a bit like the cod that was causing him such distress, shook his head.

  Claire blinked. ‘Are you saying there is something wrong with the food, Reverend?’ It wasn’t possible.

  He pushed the dish towards her and she dipped her dessertspoon into the sauce. She tasted it carefully just on the tip of her tongue and recoiled. It was like eating fire.

  What a disaster. She looked at her guest, at his red and sweating face, and her stomach lurched sideways. ‘Oh, Mr Dyer, I am so sorry. I don’t know what could have happened.’

  Liar. She might not know, but she had a horrible feeling she could guess. Anger reddened her vision.

  Mr Dyer shrugged off his mother’s hand and waved away Miss Seagrove’s flapping fan. He took another drink of water, then rose to his feet. ‘That is what comes of employing a damned Frenchman. He can’t cook plain food fit for an Englishman. Always got to be messing around with it. Making it better. Hotter. Or sour.’ He bowed. ‘Please give my regards to the duke, Mrs Holte, and tell him it is no wonder he is unwell if that is the kind of food he is served on a daily basis.’

  He stomped from the room, his mother making little cries of dismay as she bobbed a curtsey before fluttering after him.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ the reverend said. He tasted the rest of the food on his plate cautiously. As did the other guests. Claire tried the buttered parsnips. And the truffles. It was all perfect, all delicious. Exactly the way she had planned with the chef. All except Mr Dyer’s favourite dish.

  The heat in Claire’s cheeks scalded. No doubt she was as scarlet as her guest had been moments before. ‘Please,’ she said to the Seagroves. ‘Finish your meal. There must have been some misunderstanding. I sampled this dish yesterday and there was no trace of heat.’

  But there could be no misunderstanding, she realised miserably. Monsieur André had sabotaged the meal. After his harsh words yesterday, there could be no other explanation.

  She got up and rang the bell for Lumsden. When he arrived, she pointed to the offending dish. ‘Please return that to the kitchen and inform Monsieur André that I hope he enjoys it as much as we did.’

  The butler’s right eyebrow twitched. The most expression of shock she had ever seen on his face. Ever. Shock was nothing to the painful sensations of betrayal writhing in her breast. If Monsieur André had been standing in the room at that moment, she might have stabbed him with one of the carving knives.

  Humiliation. That was her predominant emotion. She knew it well. George had taken great delight in letting her know her shortcomings. Punishment, she’d always thought, for the Montagues cutting the connection. She hadn’t expected Monsieur André to treat her so shabbily.

  While the Seagroves and Lady Hatherton kept the conversation going, talking of local matters and people, Claire could only breathe around the hard hot lump in her throat. Anger and tears. They made a bitter combination.

  At long last the meal was done and the final plate cleared away. Claire pulled the threads of herself together. Having survived all the misery George could dish up on her plate, she could swallow this and move on. Mr Dyer was only one of her prospects and, after reacquainting herself with the man, she wasn’t entirely sorry to cross him off her list.

  But she would have liked to have made that decision for herself, not had it thrust upon her by an interfering chef.

  ‘Shall I call for tea in the drawing room?’ she asked the ladies.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lady Hatherton said, ‘but I think it is time I took little Crispin home.’

  ‘Oh, is he here?’ Miss Seagrove asked.

  ‘He is in the nursery with Jane,’ Claire said. ‘The two of them are becoming acquainted.’

  ‘I haven’t yet met your daughter,’ Miss Seagrove said.

  Claire had no wish to prolong the evening. ‘I expect she will be in bed by now.’

  ‘Then will you bring her for a visit to the vicarage? I would love to meet her, and the little marquess too. Perhaps you could both come one afternoon?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Lady Hatherton said, not ve
ry encouragingly.

  ‘It is very kind of you, Miss Seagrove,’ Claire said, glad of this kindness after all that had gone before.

  The young woman blushed. ‘I should like it if you would both call me Lily. After all, we will be family very soon.’

  ‘Only if you would call me Claire.’

  Lady Hatherton did not offer her first name, though they all knew it was Alicia.

  Claire accompanied the Seagroves to the front door and saw them out. Lily kissed her cheek and patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Claire. There are still two more dinners to come. I am sure nothing will go wrong next time.’

  The heavy weight in Claire’s chest did not ease. She was sure of it too, but what on earth would she say to Monsieur André. And the duke. If he learned of this, he would surely insist the chef be let go at once.

  It might be for the best, a little voice whispered selfishly in her head. It would be cowardly. But it might remove temptation.

  She turned to follow Lady Hatherton up to the nursery.

  * * *

  Slumped on a stool, the kitchen empty except for him and the cat who wandered in every night to sleep by the hearth, André glared at the congealing cods’ heads. They looked back at him, mouths open, grinning.

  How the hell did a perfect sauce with a dash of cayenne acquire the heat of hell between his kitchen and the dining room? He’d tasted every dish before it had gone on the platters. He must have tasted this one. He would never make such a beginner’s mistake.

  It had been perfect. He was sure of it. Then what could have happened? Who wished him harm? Joe Coyle, never his friend, had carried the platter up, but the lad had no access to his spices. No one did. Except him.

  The servants hadn’t liked him much when he first came. The French Devil, they had called him, a play on Deval, his chosen last name, but that had been over a long time ago. The war was over too, and if people still fought it in their minds and in the taverns, they did not fight it here at Castonbury Park. Or not openly. The butler and the housekeeper saw to that. Of all the servants, though, only Joe would have the temerity. And the lingering hatred. He’d lost brothers in the war with Napoleon.

  André got up and threw the contents of the dish into a slop bucket. It was so bad, not even pigs would eat it. It would have to go into the privy.