Never Resist Temptation

N
othing in Anthony's upbringing or experience had taught him the proper etiquette for taking delivery of a woman won in a card game. Had his prize been a courtesan, his imagination might have been adequate to the occasion. But this girlâwhat was her name? something outlandish like Robina or Jacintaâwas the niece of a baron, the blood relation of the man he'd defeated at piquet. However awkward he might feel under the circumstances, Anthony consoled himself with the reflection that it must be far worse for the uncle.

Good. Candover's discomfort was his goal. And he intended to make sure it greatly increased by the time he had finished with him.

“Lord Candover, my lord,” announced the butler, who had been told to show the visitors directly to the library.

The old debauchee was alone and wore a furtive look that clashed with his gold-embroidered purple waistcoat. Candover must have decided the correct protocol was to leave the girl in the carriage. Just as well, perhaps. What the devil would the servants think if she were delivered like a parcel and abandoned in his respectable household? Anthony could imagine the tittle-tattle. And though gossip was certainly his goal, he'd prefer to control it until he'd made up his mind what form it should take.

“Candover,” he said with a polite bow. “I take it you're here to settle our bet.”

“Storrington.” Candover returned Anthony's courtesy with a creak of corsets. Then he cleared his throat but said nothing more. His face darkened to an unbecoming puce, and perspiration glistened on his forehead.

As Anthony covertly observed his distress, Candover's eyes shifted to a tray of drinks on the marbled-topped rosewood table in the center of the room. Anthony toyed with the notion of ignoring the hint. He knew everything about Candover's habits, including just how long he usually went without alcoholic stimulation. Not very long. Spirits and sweets were addictions the man never resisted, as testified by his complexion and his girth. Anthony tamped down his hatred and rage. Time enough to reveal himself to his enemy when victory was complete.

Like a courteous host he walked over to the table and picked up a decanter. “Brandy?” Without waiting for a reply he poured a generous measure.

Candover seized the offered glass, tipped back his head, and drained it. A few drops of spirit dribbled from the corner of his flaccid mouth, down his chin, and onto his protruding belly.

“About our betâ¦” he began, then faltered. “I can't meet the terms.” He looked away to avoid Anthony's eye.

Anthony was surprised that Candover owned scruples enough to regret his shocking wager. He'd been eager to offer his niece as Anthony's mistress in an effort to recoup a loss of ten thousand pounds, had goaded Anthony to accept the terms. Anthony forced himself to remain as unemotional as he always did at the piquet table. With Candover the game didn't end when the last card was played.

“Might I suggest, Candover,” he said with gentle reproach, the tone he might take with an erring friend, “that you shouldn't have wagered something you weren't prepared to part with. Not, of course, that I don't understand your reluctance to part with your niece.”

“Reluctance, be damned,” Candover growled. “I've never reneged on a debt of honor in my life. You could have the girl and be welcome to her if I could deliver her. But I can't. The chit ran away.”

“Dear me,” Anthony murmured, enjoying Candover's embarrassment. “Do you mean she wasn't willing to come to me?”

“Willing or not, she'd do as I ordered.” Candover's temper, never easy, was fraying at the edges. “But the bitch ran off with my cook, my French pastry cook. Eloped in the night! Damn it,” he shouted in an explosion of ire, “I'll never find a hand with pastry like Jean-Luc.”

“I regret the loss of your cook, Candover.” Anthony found it difficult to keep his features impassive. “And of your niece too, of course. Do you need a few days to arrange your affairs before settling with me?”

“If you'd be good enough to wait,” Candover replied, “I'd be grateful. It'll take me a day or two to raise ten thousand.”

“Twenty thousand,” Anthony reminded him quietly. “Twenty thousand. If you recall you were already down ten when you staked your niece against your previous losses.”

Candover gulped. “Twenty it is, Storrington.”

“A most unfortunate run of bad luck. Take your time.” Anthony positively oozed false sympathy. “Shall we say one week?”

Inwardly he exulted. Twenty thousand was a vast sum, difficult for any man to raise in such a short time, even one in better financial health than Candover. It might well be enough to tip him over the edge into utter insolvency. At the least his enemy would endure a miserable seven days attempting to meet his debt of honor.

Revenge was most definitely a dish best eaten cold.

Chapter 1

Rose Bavarian Cream

Strip the petals off about thirty freshly picked roses and put them, with a pinch of cochineal grains, into clarified boiling sugar syrup. Cover, and when it has become just warm, add isinglass. Strain the mixture through muslin and set on ice. When it begins to set, fold in whipped cream.

Antonin CarÃªme

Three months later

J
acob LÃ©on muttered a French word inappropriate for polite company. It was, however, the kind of language heard often in the kitchens of the Royal Pavilion at Brighton. Especially on a day when the Prince Regent was giving an important dinner and the staff was under pressure to prepare dozens of dishes.

Mrs. Underwood, the supervisor of confectionery, swept into the frigid pastry room and sneered at the young French pastry cook.

“Why aren't you working, LÃ©on?” she demanded. “We've a banquet. Or did you maybe forget?”

Jacob LÃ©on suppressed an insolent retort. There were suppressed sniggers from the other cooks in the big chamber, and Jacob knew that theyâand Mrs. Underwood herselfâwere enjoying the supervisor's sarcasm. Her long nose had been out of joint since Antonin CarÃªme, the most famous
pÃ¢tissier
in all of Europe, had taken command of the Prince Regent's kitchens. CarÃªme didn't approve of professional female cooks and failed to treat Mrs. Underwood with the respect she deserved for her ten years in the royal service. Although Jacob had sympathy for the woman's positionâmore than she would have suspectedâhe wished she wouldn't use him as a whipping boy for her resentment.

Most of the royal staff disliked him too, because he was French. And it didn't help that he was on the short side, with effeminate features and no trace of a beard. To retain their respect he made sure his languageâin both English and Frenchâexceeded any of theirs in the depth and variety of its profanity. But this was not the moment for swearing, or for the cocky attitude he adopted to keep bullies at bay.

“The recipe for rose Bavarian cream,” he explained. “Someone's mixed up the quantities again. I've made this dish a hundred times and I can tell the proportions
are wrong. Someone translated French ounces to English ones without making the adjustment.”

He shuddered to think what would have happened if he'd ruined the rose cream and wasted those costly blooms. Mrs. Underwood would love an excuse to toss him out. Even more than most in domestic service, Jacob needed to keep his job. Desperately.

“I can send Charlie to fetch MaÃ®tre CarÃªme's book and look up the correct quantities.” He glanced at the skinny kitchen boy who was shivering in the ice-cooled room.

“Finish it quickly,” said Mrs. Underwood with an impatient sniff. “You're wanted in the small confectionery room.”

“Why?” Jacob was surprised to be summoned to CarÃªme's own domain, and a little alarmed. Since CarÃªme had hired him as an assistant pastry cook, he'd had little direct contact with the great man.

Mrs. Underwood looked as though she'd swallowed something nasty. “Mr. CarÃªme has come down with a fever. He cannot work today.”

Jacob gasped. “
Les piÃ¨ces montÃ©es!
They are not finished.”

“We are all well aware of that fact. Mr. CarÃªme has directed that
you
will complete them.”

It was midnight by the time Jacob reached his small room in the servants' quarters. His shoulders ached from the painstaking task of decorating architectural monuments constructed from almond paste. Absurdly,
to Jacob's mind, these elaborate productions were not intended to be eaten, but rather to decorate the buffet table and astonish diners with the virtuosity of the chef. MaÃ®tre CarÃªme had been working on them for several days, but there had been hours of labor left on an
ermitage russe
to compliment the evening's guest of honor, the Russian ambassador. Using dyed icing, Jacob transformed the miniature version of a supposedly humble thatched wooden building into an exotic retreat, colored in pale green and yellow and resting on orange rocks that sprouted moss and, oddly enough, a palm tree.

Once these
extraordinaires
, as CarÃªme dubbed his masterpieces, had been safely stowed in the ice room, Jacob had to turn around and assist in the final production and serving of the meal. Chaos was barely kept at bay, despite the fact the Pavilion boasted a huge kitchen, designed to the most exacting modern standards, for serving a prince who loved to eat. Even with a small army of kitchen and dining room staff, the serving of oysters, hors d'oeuvres, three different soups, two fish dishes, three roasts, six entrÃ©es, several vegetable entremets, and no fewer than eight choices of dessert was not to be achieved without dangerously fraying tempers and a good deal of cursing in several languages.

The heat from the charcoal grills and huge ovens had been almost unbearable after a day spent in the frigid temperatures of the confectionery room. Now alone, Jacob sighed with relief as he removed his double-breasted chef's coat and the padding he wore beneath it.

Within minutes the pudgy cook was transformed into a slender girl.

She longed to unwind the tightly wound linen cloth that constricted her small breasts. But she wasn't yet ready to be Jacobin de Chastelux, the identity she would resume only when she retired to her narrow bed. Too enervated to sleep, she craved cool sea breezes. Quickly she donned the breeches, coat, and boots that made her look like a well-bred youth. She deftly tied a linen cloth around her neck, and even through her fatigue spared a glance of appreciation for the dapper young man in the tiny looking glass. She reflected on the irony that she was better dressed as a lowly cook than she'd been as a young lady from a wealthy family. Tying her unruly chestnut hair in a neat queue, she put on her hat and set off with a quiet swagger and a jaunty air.

On a cool November evening Jacobin had the Steyne almost to herself on the short walk to the seashore and back. But as she approached the servants' entrance to the Pavilion, she noticed a figure waiting nearby. Something about him struck her as familiar. Stopping, she examined the man cautiously. There was only one person in Brighton who was likely to recognize her. Lord Candover had attended this evening's dinner, but he'd never stand out in the cold. He wouldn't set foot outside until his well-warmed carriage was ready to receive him. Besides, this man was short and slightly built. Jacobin waited until the man turned his head and one of the lamps caught his features.

Edgar. What was Edgar doing in Brighton?
He rarely left Hurst Park.

Her heartbeat accelerated. He mustn't see her. She couldn't even keep her head down and hope to pass as an anonymous stranger. It was all too possible that Edgar would recognize her clothes, since only three months earlier they'd belonged to him. To be fair, she supposed they still did. She certainly hadn't obtained his permission before helping herself to them.

Jacobin withdrew among some of the heaps of stone and building equipment that littered the area around the unfinished palace. The cold bit through the wool of her coat, and she felt exhaustion overtake her. Curse Edgar. She couldn't stay here all night. She crept out from her hiding place and turned sharply in the opposite direction, practically running to the far corner of Castle Square. Straight into trouble.

“Wot 'ave we here?” demanded a drunken voice as she almost collided with a group of three men. “'Ere's a pretty lad.”

From their clothing Jacobin deduced the trio were laborers employed on the renovations. From their state of inebriation she concluded that it was payday and she'd interrupted a celebration.

“I'm sorry, sir,” she said pacifically. “I didn't mean to disturb you gentlemen.”

They all roared with laughter. One man's eyes bulged like marbles from a filthy and unshaven face. He was the largest of the three and apparently their spokesman.

“Gen'lemen, are we?” he mocked. “Don't 'e speak
nicely, this one. D'you reckon 'e's a
gen'leman
too? I don't think so. I think this one would like to be a
lady
.”

Zut!
How could this drunken oaf have seen through her disguise?

“Look, lads,” the man continued. “I think we've caught ourselves a molly boy.”

“Disgustin'!” commented one of the others, and the third grunted his agreement.

“What would one of your kind be doin' out here in the middle of the night, I wonder. Lookin' for trade with one of the nobs with the same unnatcheral 'abits?”

It was a relief they thought her merely an effeminate boy, but their intentions seemed far from friendly. She prepared to run.

“No yer don't.” A meaty hand encircled her upper arm, and the overpowering smell of stale onions mixed with gin assaulted her nose. She struggled, but liquor hadn't affected Bulgy Eyes's strength.

“What do you say, lads?” he asked his friends, digging his fingers into Jacobin's flesh. “Let's get the young gen'leman ready for 'is next customer. Pull off them fancy britches, then 'Is Lordship won't have to look too hard for his bumhole.”

Jacobin didn't want to even think about what would happen when they discovered she was female.

The Earl of Storrington dismissed his carriage at the entrance to the Pavilion. He preferred to walk the short distance to the Old Ship Inn and let the breeze dissipate the annoyance of a wasted evening. He was beginning
to wonder whether his careful cultivation of Prinny was worth the past three months he'd spent in the regent's circle. He'd come no closer to luring Candover into another game of cards. All he seemed to achieve was a succession of achingly long and ridiculously elaborate meals like the one just served in the prince's seaside pleasure palace. There'd been enough rich, over-garnished dishes to feed a multitude. Little wonder he needed a walk.

Somehow Candover had scraped together the twenty thousand pounds he'd lost after the girl eloped with the French cook. And now he stubbornly refused to sit down with Anthony at the piquet table again.

A commotion ahead pulled him out of his frustrated musing. In the dimly lit street he could make out a figure lying on the ground, under attack by three men.

He didn't like to see such unfair odds, so his first impulse was to launch himself into the fray. A mill with a group of ruffians would be just the thing to appease his irritation. But Anthony, who took pride in possessing the logical mind of a mathematician, disdained impulsive actions. He recollected that he was unarmed, and the wise option would be to avoid the scene and go for help. Negotiating a compromise between inclination and common sense, he embarked on a third course: bluff. He lengthened his gait, and as he came closer he could see that the victim was slight, only a youth, but flailing his arms, gamely resisting the efforts of the others toâgood Lordâremove his breeches.

“Stop that!” he shouted.

The attackers looked up. One of them, a dirty brute with protruding eyes, looked assessingly at the earl, probably trying to decide how much damage he and his fellow bullies would sustain in a brawl. Anthony's fists clenched with anticipation of inflicting a good deal of damage. Confidence leached out of the lout's expression as he contemplated the earl's well-muscled six feet, two inches. That was the trouble with spending hours in the boxing saloon. Only an idiot wanted to pick a fight with you. Alas, this man wasn't an idiot.

“Just havin' a bit of fun, me lord,” he cajoled. “Caught this nancy boy lurkin' round the prince's house. Thought we'd give 'im a scare like.”

The boy on the ground thrashed about at the man's accusation, but was held fast to the ground by two of his captors. “I'm not a nancy and I wasn't doing anything,” he gasped, winded by his struggle.

“I suggest the three of you leave, immediately,” Anthony said, regretfully abandoning visions of combat and falling back on his usual persona of haughty aristocrat. “If you get out of my sight now, I may forget that I saw you and be unable to report you to the magistrate.”

Casting reluctant backward looks at the youth, the three took themselves off up North Street. Storrington turned to the boy, who was now on hands and knees, trying to get up. A glance was enough to see that the lad's clothing was of superior quality, his style that of a gentleman. A very young gentleman who had no business being in the streets at such an hour.

“What are you doing out so late, and alone?” he asked, offering a hand.

Brown eyes gazed up at him. He could see why the boy's looks had attracted attention. His face was delicately handsome, saved from girlishness only by a firm jaw.

“I thank you, sir, for your intervention.” The boy was still short of breath and having difficulty standing, so Storrington seized his hand and tugged him to his feet. The lad lost his balance and fell against him, forcing the earl to clasp him round the waist lest they both tumble to the ground.

A curious shiver passed through Anthony's body. He looked at the youth with alarm. Good God, he'd never felt that way about a boy. Almost a sexual frisson.

Hastily he dropped his arms and stepped backward so quickly that the youngster lost his balance again and stumbled forward. Anthony reached out a hand to ward him off and felt a slender shoulder through the fine wool jacket, sending a shiver of awareness up his arm. Appalled, he snatched it back. A surprisingly light body crashed against his chest, and he found himself inhaling a faint, sweet scent from a cluster of curls that tickled his nose. There was nothing for it but to remain still, suffering the same discomforting physical reaction, until the boy had regained his equilibrium.

Anthony dismissed his initial intention of seeing the boy home safely. Not when he found himself looking at a pair of lips and noticing that they were plump, rosy, and sensually curved.

“It's nothing,” he said gruffly. “Get along now, be careful, and don't wander the streets of Brighton at night again.”

The boy scampered off, and Anthony resisted the urge to watch where he went.

The devil! What was the matter with him? Almost two years without a woman, without even wanting a woman. It seemed that the Almighty, or some other power, was playing a joke on him.

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