Lady of Shame (10 page)

A dark eyebrow flickered upwards. ‘
Madame
is very kind.’

Yes, she was, wasn’t she? Weak, George had always said. She lifted her chin. ‘I do think it would help if you could determine how the dish was spoiled, Monsieur André. Because if something similar happens again next time, there will be no way to keep it from the duke. It seems that Smithins is not a particular friend of yours.’

André grimaced. ‘We have had our differences of opinion.’

‘About politics, I understand.’

He opened his mouth to speak but she waved him off. ‘No matter. He and Lumsden have agreed to say nothing of what occurred as a personal favour to me. However, I can probably only ask for one such favour.’

He nodded stiffly. ‘I am obliged, then,
madame
, and if I can return the favour at any time, please do not hesitate to ask.’

The man was apparently a revolutionary yet steeped in courtly charm. The dichotomy of it was highly confusing.

‘I do not need anything, Monsieur André, apart from a successful dinner party.’ She glanced down at her hands in case she was tempted to apologise for her stern words and icy demeanour.

She stifled a sigh. ‘That will be all.’

He bowed. She knew he did, because she could sense every movement without even looking his way. She did not lift her gaze until he left the room and closed the door.

‘Dash it all.’ No doubt he thought she was punishing him for what happened in the library. But truly she was punishing herself. Making sure it could not happen again.

Making sure there would be no gossip.

She pushed to her feet feeling decidedly raw, as if she’d been flayed. And deservedly so.

Montague women did not kiss servants in the library in the middle of the night, no matter how attractive…even if Montague men did.

She had to make sure it could not happen again and the best way to do that was to remove temptation.

Now it was time for Jane’s lessons. And she also needed to visit the duke. She needed to know more about Lady Hatherton than what she had heard from the servants and the Seagroves. Because she was the only person who seemed likely to have doctored last night’s meal.

Claire shook her head. As a theory, it didn’t make any sense. Perhaps His Grace might have some ideas. In his prime, Crispin’s mind had been sharp and political. But that was before he lost his sons.

* * *

‘Mr Anderson said I could have one of the kittens.’

The words penetrated Claire’s fog as she scanned the
Times
. Anderson was the head groom and Jane had recently taken to visiting his domain too.

‘Oh, dear, Jane, I don’t think we can bring a kitten inside the house.’

‘Why not?’

‘It just isn’t done. The duke wouldn’t like it.’

‘Can I ask him?’

‘We cannot trouble him. He is not well.’ She had been refused admittance this morning. Smithins had been most obdurate.

‘But Mr Anderson said I could have one.’

The old groom, dear though he was, and kindly, should not make promises without asking permission. She was here on sufferance. And without Giles’s approval too, though Lily had been quite sure her fiancé would welcome her arrival.

But then Miss Seagrove was remarkably optimistic about all sorts of things. A product of her father’s calling, no doubt.

‘Not until we have your uncle’s approval. Or that of your cousin Giles.’

‘Does my cousin have any little girls?’

‘He isn’t married yet.’

Jane looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Do you have to be married to have children?’

Saints preserve her. ‘Yes. Or at least that is what everyone expects.’

Jane returned to the picture book she was looking at. ‘That black-and-white cat is the daddy of the kittens. He lives in the barn too.’

‘Cats help keep the vermin down.’

‘They catch the mice. Tiny will be a top-notch hunter, Mr Anderson said.’

Claire was going to wring his neck. Tom’s, that was, not the cat’s. ‘Jane, a barn cat is not easily turned into a house cat. He will be happier if left in the barn, but I will talk to Mr Anderson and make sure he understands this is your cat and though it must live in the barn it will be yours to care for.’

Jane’s eyes widened. ‘He can be my cat even if he lives in the barn?’

Claire nodded. ‘You can feed him and give him water, night and morning. But if you forget about him, then he goes back to being a barn cat, the same as all the other barn cats. Is that fair?’

Jane frowned, then smiled. ‘Yes, it is fair. Can we go and tell Mr Anderson right now?’

Claire put aside her paper and glanced outside. It was grey and lowering but as yet no rain or snow.

‘Yes, we can go and tell him.’

Jane hopped down from her chair. ‘I’ll go and ask Mr Lumsden for my coat and hat.’

‘While we are there we shall see if John Coachman can take us to the village in the carriage. I need some embroidery thread.’

Jane hopped from foot to foot. ‘Can I drive?’

‘The coach? I think not.’

The child’s face fell.

‘But perhaps we could take the gig. You could drive it, I think.’

‘Oh, yes, please, Mama.’ She dashed out of the room.

Claire followed. It seemed she could deny her child nothing. But then she’d denied her a great deal for far too long. These small concessions would do her no harm.

They would need to dress warmly; the wind had been howling around the house all morning, but she needed fresh air and an errand was a good way to get it. Something to take her away from the house and its stifling effect on her senses.

* * *

It had been years since she’d driven the gig and Claire was surprised how quickly the skill came back. She’d never been particularly dashing with the ribbons, but definitely more than competent. The freedom of driving with the wind in her face and the wild Derbyshire country all around her lifted her spirits.

She could do this. She could make a good marriage and salvage the shreds of her life. For Jane. For herself too. No more running and hiding and fearing every knock on the door. No more living a lie.

Life would be comfortable and safe. Once George’s debts were paid and Ernie Pratt was no longer a threat.

‘Can I help drive now?’ Jane asked. Her cheeks were glowing from the wind and her eyes sparkling at the thought of doing something so grown up. Her eyes had been sparkling a lot just lately. She seemed younger, more her age.

There was no reason why she shouldn’t try her hand at the ribbons. Claire had learned from her brothers at around the same age. She lifted her onto her lap. ‘Look at the way I am holding the reins.’

Jane looked.

‘Sit up straight and hold out your hands, palms up,’ Claire instructed, and handed over the reins.

Terror filled the child’s face as she felt the movement of the horse and realised she was in control of the large beast in front of the gig. Claire kept her hands ready to help.

When nothing happened, Jane relaxed. ‘How do I make him go faster?’

‘You don’t. Always respect your animal. The road is rutted and full of holes. Let him go at his own speed.’

Jane frowned. ‘Can’t I make him trot?’

‘No. It is your job to watch between his ears. Keep a careful look out for muddy places where the wheels might become stuck and guide him around them. A small amount of pressure on the reins left or right is all he needs. His mouth is sensitive and if you pull too hard you will hurt him.’

A crease formed between the child’s brows, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. So intent. So very careful. Almost too careful. She’d learned to be careful around her father. Perhaps she shouldn’t have sounded so strict.

The child was quick-witted as well as sensitive and it wasn’t long before she had the hang of it, guiding the horse around potholes and through the occasional puddle. She dared a quick smile of delight over her shoulder and Claire grinned back, relishing her daughter’s joy. The child deserved the same happy carefree existence she had enjoyed as a child.

She would not let the past destroy the future.

Pratt would not ruin their lives. She shuddered and looked around her, half expecting danger to leap over the walls. Not possible. No one knew where she was or her real name.

‘What do I do now?’ Jane’s voice held panic. Claire focused on the road. Ahead, a puddle stretched from one side of the lane to the other. No way around it.

‘I wonder how deep it is,’ Claire said. ‘Pull back gently and evenly on both reins and bring him to a halt so I can get down and take a look.’ When they were fully stopped, Claire tied off the reins so Jane could not inadvertently set the horse moving and, umbrella in hand, climbed down.

The water reflected the clouds scudding across the sky above, but Claire could see pebbles and mud an inch or two below the surface. Reaching out as far as she could, she poked at the mud with the tip of her umbrella. It disappeared into the mud, but no more than an inch or so. It really didn’t look very dangerous. Traffic travelled from the Park to the village constantly; indeed, the post had arrived earlier in the day without any problem. Surely, if there was danger, one of the grooms would have mentioned it before she set out.

She headed back for the trap and a very proud-looking Jane in charge of the horse.

Claire clambered up beside her. ‘I think it will be fine, but it would be good if we gained some momentum so we do not get stuck in the middle.’

Jane looked at her, clearly expecting instruction.

Every instinct inside Claire strained to take the reins from the child. To ensure nothing went wrong. To protect the child from harm. Or failure.

But wasn’t that what they’d done to her? Set her about with cotton wool, sheltered her from the dangers of the world, until she broke free and brought disaster down upon her head?

‘Shake the reins and make a clicking sound with your tongue,’ Claire said. ‘The horse will know you want him to go and go fast.’

The child did as she was bid and the horse pulled forward, then broke into a brisk trot. In seconds they were splashing through the puddle. The wheels dragged a little when they got to the middle of the water, but the horse was already on dry ground and Jane flicked the reins again and the little horse picked up speed and pulled them clear.

‘Well done,’ Claire said with a grin at her child. ‘Slow him down now—there is a sharp bend coming up.’

Jane pulled back gently on the reins until they were once more travelling at little more than walking speed.

‘That was fun,’ Jane said.

‘So it was. And here we are in Castonbury village already. You must drive very slowly to avoid pedestrians. Pull into the inn courtyard. We will leave the gig there and go the rest of the way on foot.’

The manoeuvre into the inn courtyard proved beyond Jane’s newly learned skill and she handed over the reins without demur. Claire soon had the gig safely in the hands of one of the ostlers, leaving them free to walk to the the haberdasher’s. Claire had decided to trim one of her gowns with a smidgeon of lace, to make it more fashionable. She also needed more hairpins and a ribbon or two for Jane.

Their errands did not take very long and indeed a servant could have easily been despatched to undertake these small purchases, but the trip had helped dim the events of the previous evening. The later events. The meeting with André that had kept her awake half the night. Not to mention how much Jane was enjoying their jaunt.

It kept the child from visiting the kitchen and meant Claire was relieved the task of fetching her and facing Monsieur André in his own domain.

Such a coward. In her own home too.

She would have to face him sooner or later. Later would be better, when she stopped feeling heat flood her veins each time she remembered his touch on her body and the feel of his lips on her mouth. Those delicious wicked feelings that left her feeling boneless.

So wanton. So dangerous.

When they emerged from the haberdasher’s after making their purchases, the sky lowered with dark grey clouds. The temperature of the air had plummeted too. The weather was about to take a rapid turn for the worse as it so often did in this part of the country. It might even snow. It was a good thing they didn’t have far to travel, since the gig did not offer much in the way of shelter.

A man ran to fetch her vehicle from the barn while she and Jane waited in the courtyard.

A well-dressed man, military by his bearing, came out of the taproom and loosed his horse tied to a post. Upon seeing Claire and Jane he gave them a sharp look, then raised his hat and bowed.

He had the reddest hair. Something about him felt odd. Not the courtesy, but the glance that took her in as if he was seeking someone. A shiver slid down her back. Could he have come from London?

Chapter Eight

T
he ostler brought the gig over and touched his forelock. ‘Rubbed her down well, I did, Mrs Holte.’

‘Thank you. The man, who just left, do you know who he is?’

The ostler scratched his unshaven chin. ‘Aaar, you mean Sir Nathan’s new man. Likes a pint, he do.’

The back of her neck prickled. ‘Has he worked for him long?’

The ostler looked a little startled. He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘A week, mebbe more, I reckon. Come from down south.’

‘From London?’

‘Aye. Likely enough.’

Could Pratt have sent him? Unlikely if he was working for Sir Nathan. A cold sensation licked down her spine. Fear. She wouldn’t be free of it until she had paid the man off. She handed the ostler a coin and turned to help Jane into the gig, but the child scrambled up like a monkey and Claire had nothing to do but follow. She shook out the travelling blanket and put it over their knees.

‘I’ll drive,’ Jane said importantly.

‘When we get on the road and out of the village.’ Claire guided the gig out of the courtyard and the full force of the wind hit them.

Jane snuggled deeper into the blanket. ‘Is it always so cold here?’

‘No. In summer it is warm. And very beautiful. We will go for a picnic out in the dales and you will see what I mean.’

‘I would like to be here in the summer.’

A pang struck her heart. The child was used to moving on. George had always been sure the gold at the end of the rainbow was around the next corner, when in reality they went further and further downhill. Each set of lodgings more dreary than the last. Only this past year had they stayed in one place for any length of time, only to move again. ‘I hope we will still be here.’ She would make sure of it.

‘If we have more snow, can we make another
bonhomme
with Monsieur André?’

Just the mention of his name made her heart beat faster and a blush glow on her cheeks. ‘We mustn’t bother Monsieur André. He has duties. And besides, we do not want snow until after we get home.’

She should not have said that, about not wanting snow. She wasn’t superstitious, but George had always warned her about tempting fate. He had believed in lucky tokens and favourable signs. Or he had said he did. She had begun to think they were just excuses for doing what he knew he should not.

When they were clear of the cottages, Claire handed the reins over to Jane as she had promised and looked out over the countryside. The sky was growing darker by the minute. The clouds looked quite ominous.

Jane urged the horse into a trot. Claire stopped daydreaming and focused ahead. Ah, the water on the road. The child had remembered to pick up their pace. Ice had formed in a thin skin at the edges. It crackled under the horse’s hooves. Then the creature was splashing through the middle. A tree to one side of them gave a resounding crack and a branch fell into the road.

The little horse threw up its head. It jolted into a canter, the gig bouncing along behind. Jane let go of the reins to cling onto the side of the seat. Claire made a snatch for them. They slipped through her grasping fingers and disappeared. A swift glance over the side showed them trailing on the ground. The horse stretched into a gallop.

‘Hold on,’ she said to Jane, clasping her tight around the shoulders with one arm while gripping the side with the other. ‘He will stop in a minute.’ Either because he ran out of breath, or because the gig had tipped over and acted as a brake.

The brake. She leaned over the side and pulled on the handle. It broke off in her hand. ‘Oh, no.’

The wheel hit a rut and the carriage bounced. Jane blanched to the colour of snow and Claire’s spine jarred. She clung tighter to her child.

Then something launched from the verge at the horse. A man. He grabbed the horse’s bridle and turned the animal’s head, hard. A hat went flying off, revealing a dark head of hair, but she didn’t need to see his face to know who it was. Monsieur André.

Be careful
, she wanted to yell, but her voice seemed stuck in her throat. All she could do was hang on tightly to Jane.

The wild careening slowed to a walk and then a halt. The horse stood trembling.

Monsieur André walked back, picking up the reins as he came. His dark eyes flashed anger. ‘Madame Holte, what are you doing out in this weather alone?’

‘The weather was fine when we left,’ she said, the thanks on the tip of her tongue driven off by the accusation in his tone.

‘Mademoiselle Jane,’ he said gently. ‘Everything is fine.’

Claire looked down at her daughter, still clenched beneath her arm, and became aware of tears streaming down the child’s face. ‘Monsieur André is right. We are safe now, Jane. No need to cry.’

‘I couldn’t stop him,’ she said between sobs. ‘I pulled, but he wouldn’t stop.’

Monsieur André’s brows went up. ‘You were driving?’

‘She was learning to drive,’ Claire said. ‘She is old enough. I learned at the same age.’

His dark eyes came to her face, inscrutable, despite the rapid rise and fall of his chest from his exertions on their behalf. ‘As did I,
madame
,’ he said.

‘I can’t do it,’ Jane said.

‘You can,’ Claire replied. ‘Really you can. I promise. You know, horses are the stupidest creatures. They run when they are scared. I would have been in exactly the same boat if I had been holding the reins. Now dry your tears or Monsieur André will think you are a watering pot.’

Jane took the handkerchief and dried her eyes and blew her nose.

‘Feeling better,
ma petite
?’ Monsieur André said, his face gentle. He looked like a different man when his gaze fell on Jane, she realised. He looked younger, even a touch out of his depth, as if he found her fascinating.

‘Oui, monsieur,’
Jane said. ‘But I don’t want to drive any more.’

If the philosophy Claire had learned in her own childhood was right, she should make the child drive right away, but Jane had suffered a terrible fright and Claire couldn’t see torturing her. ‘You can try again another day.’ She looked down at the chef. Goodness, he looked magnificent with his skin brightened by the wind and his dark eyes watching her child with concern.

‘We are most grateful for your timely appearance, Monsieur André. Were you leaving Castonbury Park or returning?’ she asked.

‘Returning,
madame
.’ He bowed and stepped back.

The action of a servant. Of course, she had made it very clear last night that their worlds were far apart.

‘May I offer you a ride, then?’ she said, knowing she should not. It was not done. If they were seen… Dash it all, she was a widow, not a debutante. If she wanted to offer a man who had saved her life a ride, she would. And to the devil with the gossips.

He shook his head. ‘I enjoy the exercise.’ There was pride in that dark face. In the set of his shoulders. Even in the slightly broken nose that ruined the chiselled perfection of his features.

‘It is going to snow, Monsieur André,’ she said. ‘I will not have it said that I caused dinner to be late because I let you get lost in a blizzard.’

He looked up at the sky and back at her. A rueful smile twisted his lips. ‘I suppose it is my duty, then.’

‘Indeed,’ she said.

‘I’ll squeeze up next to Mama and make room,’ Jane said.

‘I am much obliged,
mademoiselle
.’ His long legs took the step up in one easy stride and he settled in beside Jane. He still held the reins. He shot Claire a sideways glance and a small smile curled his full lips. ‘I will drive. It is better if my hands are busy, no?’ He urged the horse into a walk.

Claire’s face flushed hot. She prayed it looked like a burn from the wind.

‘I really must thank you, Monsieur André. I do not know what might have happened if you had not been there.’ She was glad to hear her voice did not echo the trembles inside her.

He stared straight ahead, but even in profile she could see the twinkle in his eye. ‘The horse would have slowed and you would have continued on your way.’

About to object, she noticed the way his gaze flickered down to her daughter. A warning. Do not scare her more than she is already scared, it said. She blinked. How on earth could she read all of that into a mere flicker of an eyelash? The very idea.

Yet she knew in her heart, in the depth of her being, that was what he had meant.

‘You are right,’ she said. ‘Poor little beast. A branch broken by the wind scared him.’

‘I think you are right about a coming storm,’ he said, glancing across the valleys and hills. ‘It is a wild place, this Derbyshire.’

‘Where in France did you come from?’ she asked.

‘Bordeaux,’ Jane announced. ‘In the south. Monsieur André showed me on the map.’

Claire raised her brow. ‘I didn’t know we had maps in the kitchen?’

Monsieur André gave Jane a pointed look.

‘I took a book of maps from the library. I wanted to see France.’

‘Blaeu’s
Le grand atlas
.’ Monsieur André’s voice was dry.

‘Oh, goodness. That book is worth a king’s ransom.’

‘I put it right back,’ Jane said.

‘Without the addition of any flour,’ Monsieur André added.

He was smiling down at the child and Jane was looking back at him with worship in her eyes. He’d charmed the daughter as much as he’d charmed the mother. Was this his intention? Was he deliberately trying to worm his way into her affections? Thinking to move up in the world? As George had.

Somehow she couldn’t picture him doing anything so underhanded. He’d been nothing but honest with her. Straightforward to the point of rude, on occasion. And she admired him for that. A great deal. He might be a servant but he was unquestionably honourable.

It was part of what made him so dashed attractive. Warmth flowed through her veins and her heart seemed to open in welcome.

So unwise. She forced her mind back to the conversation. ‘Did you find Bordeaux on the map?’

‘Yes.’ Jane nodded hard. ‘You can’t see it from England. It is in the south. You can see Calais from England though. From Dover on a clear day, Monsieur André says. And you can see Dover from Calais too. There are white cliffs across the…the
manche
.’

‘In Britain we call it the English Channel,’ Claire said, smiling.

‘In France it is the “sleeve,”’ Monsieur André put in.

‘Does the sea belong to England?’ Jane asked.

‘Yes,’ Claire said.

‘No,’ Monsieur André said at the same moment. Then he laughed. ‘It depends on your perspective, I suppose. But really, how can water belong to anyone? You cannot hold it. It never stays in one place for long, and if you heat it up, it disappears.’

‘Like magic?’ Jane asked.

‘In steam,’ Claire said, enjoying the back and forth of conversation. Monsieur André was a surprisingly well-educated man and very patient with her daughter’s interminable questions. The more she knew him the more there was to admire.

She ought not to admire him. They really ought not to be talking about things the way they did. She just couldn’t seem to help herself.

‘Are fog and steam the same?’ Jane asked.

‘No,’ Monsieur André said. ‘Steam is hot. Fog is cold. But they are very similar. Snow is also water that is very cold.’

‘And so is ice,’ Jane said.

‘And clouds,’ Claire added.

Jane frowned. ‘How?’

‘I think your daughter is going to be a scientist when she grows up,’ Monsieur André said. ‘She is so curious.’

‘Women do not study science.’ Or law. Or medicine. Not in any meaningful way.

‘In France they did. For a while,’ Monsieur André said.

‘Did you believe that philosophy about all men being equal?’ Claire asked. ‘The Jacobin stuff.’

He looked at her askance, his eyes unfathomable. ‘A great many men died for their beliefs in that “stuff,” as you call it.’

‘And others died because they did not.’

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. A sad looked crossed his face. ‘Too many in my own country, I am afraid.’

‘So you do not believe in it. My family does not.’

His brow lowered. ‘I believe that men should have the opportunity to make the best of their lives by their own efforts. If they are skilled, if they work hard, then they should be recompensed accordingly. I do not believe that any man is better than another because of his birth.’

‘Positively revolutionary. Yet you work for a man who believes he is better for that very reason.’

He turned the gig through the gates of the Park and raised a hand to the gatekeeper as they passed by.

Claire noticed that Jane had fallen asleep against Monsieur André’s shoulder. She glanced up at his face in surprise. He smiled sweetly at the child and her heart tumbled over. This man would be a wonderful father. But not to her children, she reminded herself. It would not be permitted. She reached for Jane.

‘Leave her, she is fine,’ he said gently.

She tried to stave off the soft feelings melting her heart and focus on what she should not admire in him. ‘I am surprised you came to England, feeling as you do.’

He grimaced. ‘That is because you do not know France. I love my country. I fought for her. But England had the Magna Carta. This country too, is changing—the changes began long ago, and continue steadily if slowly. In France it happened quickly. And with many losses.’

She wanted to ask him if he had suffered losses, but wondered if he might resent her probing too deeply.

‘There are still many here who would like to follow France’s example. The workers in the mills are in a terrible turmoil. Look at the riots at Spa Field only a few months ago.’

His mouth flattened. ‘There have been some mistakes, it is true. And there are many who cling to outmoded beliefs. The world passes them by. Eventually they will become obsolete.’

‘Many like my brother, for example?’

‘His sons already understand the new world. Or at least Lord Giles does, I think. And Lady Kate. I see England as a land of opportunity for a man such as me. And if it is not, then I will go elsewhere.’

Another man always on the move. A pang of regret touched her heart. Still, what business was it of hers? She had her own plans. ‘Where would you go? America?’