Never Resist Temptation (17 page)

Just at that moment the brute crashed through the rhododendrons, ridiculously underdressed for December, hair waving madly in the stiff breeze. Jacobin and Jean-Luc stared at him, clinging to each other as they faced six feet, two inches of furious English aristocrat.

Storrington came to a halt. “Mademoiselle de Chastelux,” he said with barely restrained rage. “Despite anything that might have happened between us, I'd like to remind you that you are still in my employ and my servants are not permitted to meet their lovers in the grounds of Storrington Hall.” He glared at them, fists tightly clenched, blazing eyes at odds with the stony set of his face. “I expect this man to depart the premises immediately.”

Fearing he'd hit Jean-Luc, Jacobin moved protectively in front of the Frenchman and stood firm, arms ready to ward off an attack. Their glances locked, and she tried to hide her fear and hurt under a cloak of defiance. For an instant she thought she detected something like vulnerability in his stormy gaze. Then he looked away.

Without another word he swung around briskly and stalked back in the direction of the house.

Mouths agape, Jacobin and Jean-Luc watched his departure, then Jean-Luc looked down at her with quite a different expression.

“My, my. Things aren't at all as I'd thought. For one thing,
milord
is
very
attractive.” His eyes glinted wickedly.

“Oh, really,” Jacobin said crossly. “Trust you to notice that.”

“Don't worry, he's not my type. And I am most certainly not his. I don't have to look far to find the object of
his
interest. I was frightened for my life there for a moment. I'm very pleased,
chérie
. Lord Storrington would be an excellent match for you.
Très sortable
.”

“Nonsense. He'd never so demean himself. He will marry a proper English virgin of good family.”

“There's nothing wrong with your family. Michel says the Chastelux are one of the best families of France, and believe me, he would know.”

He knew her too well; better than anyone else alive. He read in her face that it wasn't the
good family
part of her last statement that was bothering her.

“Come on,
chérie
. I think you'd better tell me
all
about it.”

Hesitantly at first, Jacobin outlined the story of her interactions with Storrington, her indignation gathering steam as she approached the denouement. “And then he said I couldn't be a virgin because I'd eloped with the cook. He meant you, Jean-Luc. He thought we were lovers. And he knew who I was, the rat!” She burned with rage and disappointment as she relived the dreadful moment.

Jean-Luc hugged her again. “And then I suppose you lost your temper and said some things you shouldn't.”

“I told him I loved you and I wished you
were
my lover.” She blinked back tears. “And it's true, I do. You broke my heart when you told me you weren't interested in women.”

He knew her too well to fall for this piece of dramatic exaggeration. “Ah! I cruelly spurned you and ruined your life,” he returned in kind. “If only you'd been a boy! Of course, you'd still have been sixteen years old and I have always preferred older men. Let's face it,
chérie
, if anyone's broken your heart it isn't me and never was. Now dry your tears and think about catching your earl. He's the answer to all your problems.”

“But he deceived me! He said—”

“Don't tell me what he said. Let me give you some advice. Men will say all sorts of things and tell all sorts of lies, especially when their sexual desires are engrossed. But it doesn't mean they are bad, only that they are men.”

She turned her back on him, filled with loathing for the entire male sex, even Jean-Luc. “I can't believe you're defending him!” she said, arms folded defiantly. “He is a coldhearted beast and I never want to speak to him again.”

“I
understand you have recently employed a female cook,” Hawkins said, unintimidated by Storrington's ferocious stare.

Of all the arrogant noblemen Tom Hawkins had met, Storrington was without doubt the worst. The earl looked at him as though he were a slug who'd announced his intention of trailing slime through his kitchens. Under other circumstances he might have been an agreeable man, no doubt was with his equals. He made no bones about the fact that Tom Hawkins was emphatically not his equal.

“What's that to you?” the earl asked in a voice that would freeze lamp oil.

“Perhaps you are not aware, my lord, that we are looking for a cook in connection with Lord Candover's poisoning.”

“I believe my secretary mentioned that inquiries had been made. A male cook if I remember correctly. Mine is a female.”

“We have reason to suspect that Jacob Léon, the
cook in question, was a female in disguise.” Hawkins watched Storrington closely but didn't detect so much as a hint that the line of questioning troubled him. Apart from disgust at its perceived impertinence.

“My employee is not in disguise.”

“Not anymore,” Hawkins agreed. “Would you mind telling me how this woman came into your service?”

“If I recall correctly she came from Scotland.”

“With references?”

Storrington raised his brows. “Naturally.”

“How long has she been with you, my lord?”

The earl waved a languid hand. “Really, I can't be sure. Three or four weeks, perhaps. You may check with my secretary in London.”

Hawkins didn't need to. One of his fellow runners had interviewed Storrington's secretary, and Hawkins had seen his notes. Jane Castle had arrived at Storrington Hall the day Jacob Léon disappeared. “How did you discover this young woman?” he asked.

“I don't recall now how her name came to my attention, but we were in correspondence with her for several weeks before she took up her position. It's not easy to find a first-rate pastry cook.”

It was interesting, Hawkins thought, that the earl chose to volunteer that morsel of intelligence. His other answers had been as brief and uninformative as possible.

“If you don't mind, my lord, I would like to interview the woman.”

“I see no reason for that. Clearly Miss Castle is not
the person you're looking for and I won't have my servants subjected to harassment. You can take my word for it that she had nothing—could have had nothing—to do with the attack on Lord Candover. The very idea is an insult to my household.”

“I can assure you, my lord, that the Bow Street runners are not in the habit of harassing witnesses. It would set my mind at rest if I could speak to Miss Castle myself.”

Storrington gave him a very nasty look. “Are you impugning my honor, Hawkins?”

Hawkins knew when to retreat. The aristocracy were touchy when it came to their so-called honor, he knew. But there was more than one way to skin a cat. He'd leave his arrogant Lordship for now, but his investigation into Jane Castle wasn't over, not by a long chalk.

 

Anthony hadn't realized he had such a flair for deception. The hours of practicing a deadpan expression for sessions at the piquet table had helped. He'd done it now: lied blatantly to an officer of the law investigating the attempted murder of a peer.

And all to shield a young woman who refused to speak to him and claimed to be in love with someone else. But when it came down to it, he couldn't let Jacobin be hauled off in chains. He wanted to protect her. He
owed
it to her.

He rang the bell. She'd better damn well speak to him now.

He couldn't believe how pleased he was to see her when she stamped into the library in response to his summons. She glared at him, the cleft chin thrust forward pugnaciously. He'd never found a woman so maddening, so intriguing, so irresistible. He had the oddest desire to laugh. And to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until he extinguished all thoughts of that disgustingly good-looking Frenchman.

A core of insecurity held him back. She'd enumerated in painful detail the reasons she preferred the other man, and objectively he saw they were correct. Clèves was, first of all, an extraordinarily handsome man—and a tall one. Jacobin had never shown any indication of being impressed by his own wealth and position; instead, from their first conversation she'd done nothing but flout Anthony's social superiority. And when she said Clèves, a mere cook, was the greater gentleman, Anthony had to face the humiliating knowledge that she was right. His treatment of her had fallen short of the highest standards of gallantry. An unwonted humility kept him from using physical persuasion to return her to his arms. Fearing rejection, he resisted the urges of jealousy and desire.

And respected the muscles of her upper arms. The fury in her eyes suggested she wouldn't hesitate to use them if he moved even an inch nearer.

She dropped a deep—and ironic—curtsy. At least he knew now where that particular skill came from. “My lord.”

He'd risen courteously when she entered the room. Now he gestured her to a chair. “Sit down, Jacobin. And I think the ‘
my lord
' might go, under the circumstances.”

“That wouldn't be correct, my lord,” she answered stiffly, remaining where she stood. “I am still your servant.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You're Jacobin de Chastelux, a member of both French and English noble families. We've also been lovers.” In his frustration he spoke more harshly than he'd intended. “Call me Anthony,” he continued more gently. “We're both in the devil of a pickle so we might as well drop the formality.”

“I think not, my lord. There's no pickle. We should just forget that evening.” She clenched her shoulders in a shudder of distaste.

“We'll talk about that later. The problem I'm discussing now is the minor matter of a Bow Street runner who is looking for a female cook, previously known as Jacob Léon.”

That got to her. Jacobin's hand went to her mouth and her expressive eyes widened in alarm. “Are you sure? I heard they were still looking for a man.”

“Hm, your precious Frenchman brought news, I see. I'm afraid this man Hawkins is one step ahead of the gossip. He seems to know that Léon was a woman in disguise.”

“I must leave at once.” Jacobin looked around her wildly, as though prepared to jump out of the nearest window.

“It's all right,” he said gently, and moved closer to her. “I fobbed him off. You're safe, at least for the present.”

“You did?” She stared up at him with a pinched look, all animation drained from her face. “How?”

“I made up a story about you having come from Scotland and sent him off with a flea in his ear when he tried to argue with me.” He chuckled. “I couldn't let him see you, as he wished. I have no doubt he has an accurate description of Jacob Léon. I came over the very haughty aristocrat, I assure you.”

“That, I can believe!” Her eyes kindled for a moment, and the return of her natural vivacity pleased him. He hated to see her so downcast and frightened. “I suppose he'll be back,” she continued, then gasped, as a thought came to her.

“My God! You'll be in terrible trouble! You lied for me and they're bound to find out.”

It felt good to see the loathing disappear from her face. Her concern for him coiled around Anthony's heart like a flame licking dry wood. Longing to enfold her in his embrace and hold her safe, he dared only envelop one of her hands in both of his. And felt gratified when she didn't snatch it away.

“I promised I'd help you. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

She wasn't comforted. “Truly, I never meant to get anyone else in trouble. Supposing they catch me. They might hang you too.”

“I don't think it'll come to that,” he said. “It's damn
hard to convict a peer. I'd have to be tried in the House of Lords, and those fellows look after their own.”

“Really? I know nothing of English justice,” she said in astonishment. “It wasn't like that in France.”

“Even there they've stopped rushing their aristocrats to the guillotine.” He didn't add that while he might not fear for his neck, the thought of the scandal, should he be found harboring a wanted criminal, made the traditional English gentleman in him cringe.

“Come,” he said bracingly. “We'll just have to find the real villain.”

Her face lit up. “I have news of Bellamy! What you suspected was correct. He indulged in an indiscretion in France when he was a young man.”

“How do you know this?”

“Jean-Luc told me.”

“So that
was
your precious Jean-Luc you were embracing behind the shrubbery.” He knew he sounded petty. This wasn't the moment to return to their personal disagreements, but he couldn't contain his jealousy.

Jacobin didn't seem to notice his vexation. She had a way of becoming completely involved in the concern of the moment and was almost bouncing with excitement. “Jean-Luc knows all about these types who prefer men. He heard from his friends about Mr. Bellamy. So you see, we must have been right. My uncle was blackmailing him and Bellamy tried to kill him to keep him quiet.”

Not sharing her single-minded fixation on the immediate present, Anthony didn't miss the implication
of her statement. No wonder the Frenchman hadn't become her lover when they'd run off together. He felt like ordering champagne.

He happily contemplated an early return to Jacobin's favor, and her bed, if only she would listen to his explanation of his other transgressions. And this time he'd make sure she had no cause ever to leave him again.

“I asked my secretary to find out—discreetly—anything he could about Bellamy's relations with Candover, and his movements around the time of the poisoning.” He now felt the urgency of the task, a powerful desire to clear her name and dispel the threat to her. “I'll give him a day or two to report, and if I don't hear anything I'll go to London myself.”

For a moment Jacobin felt like hugging him. Then she remembered she still had good reason to be angry. She freed her hand, which had been unconsciously returning his clasp, and stepped back. She could think more clearly without his proximity.

“Jean-Luc thought Edgar might be responsible for poisoning my uncle,” she offered.

“Edgar Candover, the heir? Who acts as your uncle's steward?”

She was surprised Anthony knew so much about the family. Edgar wasn't closely related to Lord Candover and spent most of the time in the country, never appearing at London social events. It crossed her mind to wonder how he'd come to attend the ball at the Argyll Rooms. It wasn't Edgar's style at all.

“I don't think it likely that Edgar would do such a
thing,” she said. “My uncle has always been good to him. They like each other. And Edgar will inherit everything eventually. Frankly I don't see Edgar having the backbone to kill anyone. He's a very mild man, quite weak.”

“I imagine the runners will have investigated him thoroughly, as the obvious suspect. Let us concentrate on Bellamy for now. The other will keep.”

“I'm very grateful, my lord, for your help.”

“I don't want your gratitude, Jacobin. But I would count it a favor if you'd use my Christian name.”

Something in his voice, the way its pitch diminished as he spoke, made her look away. Since she had entered the room her emotions had lurched from anger and defiance to concern and appreciation. Having him as an ally filled her with warm relief. Now the soft note in his voice turned her insides to caramel. Yet there was still much in his behavior to abhor, and she wasn't ready to forgive him.

“Very well, Anthony.” To temporize while she resolved her internal conflict, she glanced around the library. It was a very English room, lined with thousands of neatly bound books and furnished in solid oak pieces, totally unlike the gilded French splendor of the Queen's House. She walked over to a bookcase and selected a volume at random. It was a treatise on crop rotation.

“You have a lot of books,” she said. “Have you read this?”

He'd followed her and now removed the book from
her hands and placed it on a table. “Jacobin,” he whispered. “Please forgive me. And please let me explain.”

She felt herself weakening. She eyed him warily but didn't draw back. It couldn't, she supposed, do any harm to let him say his piece. Not, she told herself sternly, that there could be an excuse for his behavior.

“Why?” she said, stiffening her backbone and planting her hands on her hips. “Why did you pretend you didn't know who I was?”

“I truly meant it for the best. I didn't want you to feel any obligation to me because of that wretched wager with your uncle. I assume you know he lost you to me at cards. That was why you ran away from Hurst.”

“Of course I ran away! My uncle gave me a choice: you or a brothel. Naturally I chose neither. Why?” she demanded, her rage and hurt bursting from her. “Why in the name of God and all his saints did you agree to such a disgusting bet? Is that the only way you could get yourself a mistress?”

Anthony frowned. He'd never been able to quite explain his acceptance of Candover's scandalous stake to himself. How could he justify it?

“Accepting the wager was wrong,” he admitted. “I knew it at the time, but I was furious with Candover. I hardly had time to determine what to do with my winnings”—he placed an ironic stress on the word and cast her an apologetic look—“before he informed me you'd eloped with his cook. But one thing you must believe: I would never have forced you, or any other woman, to do anything you didn't want.”

She seemed to accept his sincerity but still looked bewildered. He searched his mind for the answer to her unspoken question, one he'd been avoiding for himself for months.