Never Resist Temptation (20 page)

T
he first two bottles of Anthony's best Clos de Bèze Chambertin slipped down Candover's throat as though it were water, but without noticeable effect on the peer's sobriety. The man had an extraordinary capacity for alcohol; Anthony had several more bottles decanted and ready for him. Candover seemed reserved, not fully engaged in his idle gossip about the Prince Regent's set.

Not until the beignets made their appearance as a sweet entremet to the first course did Candover show more than polite interest in the lavish meal. He consumed several of the fried pastries and let out a satisfied sigh.

“As good as I've ever tasted, Storrington,” he said, his complexion heightened to a dull puce. “Your cook has an exquisite touch with the brioche.” He stuffed another into his mouth, leaving a trace of powdered sugar on his chin.

“I was fortunate to find Miss Castle,” Anthony replied, beckoning Simpson to bring in the next course.

He found a certain fascination in examining his guest's appearance, seeking any resemblance to his niece. It was hard to believe that Jacobin, lithe, colorful, and glowing with health and energy, was closely related to the epicure sitting beside him at one end of the long mahogany table. Candover's bulk, scarcely condensed by corseting, spilled over his chair. A roll of flesh squeezed out from the top of his high shirt points and merged with his layers of chin. If there was a cleft there it had long since been smothered in flab.

But Jacobin's chin came from her father, he recalled. He wondered what she was thinking as she worked her magic to lure Candover to destruction. Whether she would ever forgive him.

“Your house is magnificent.” Candover was becoming more expansive as he addressed himself to roast goose and cucumbers in béchamel. His eager eyes investigated the other half-dozen dishes being laid out by the footmen. He partook lightly of the savory offerings. “I've always been curious to see it, since I became acquainted with your parents in Paris. I always hoped your late father would extend me an invitation.”

Anthony stiffened. For a moment he discerned a challenge in Candover's tone, as though the man were goading him.

“Did we ever speak of the time I spent in Paris?” Candover continued. “I was there for the pleasure of marrying off my sister to an utterly worthless Frenchman. A revolutionary, he turned out to be, would you believe
it? He was nearly the biter bit, y'know. Sentenced to the guillotine and rescued just in time. Pity that.”

“That must have been a great joy for your sister,” Anthony said with a hint of reproof. From everything he'd heard, Candover's brother-in-law, Jacobin's father, was a likable, even admirable man. Jacobin's words about her father and his forgiveness of his enemies nagged at his brain. He tried to contemplate forgiving Candover, who was now filling his plate from the sweet dishes.

“Ah!
Crème française au chocolat
. Chocolate is such an underrated food. It deserves to be used for far more than drinking.” Candover's face became ecstatic as he spooned cake, custard, and candied fruit into his mouth. “Magnificent!” He grew redder; perspiration beaded on his pale forehead; he swayed a little in his seat as he ate, as though drunk on sweets.

Anthony began to worry that Candover might not remain conscious for long. He made no move to replenish his guest's empty wineglass.

“Paris,” Candover said, suddenly alert again. “We were speaking of Paris. And your mother. I believe we were speaking of Catherine. I think I've told you before, Storrington, how beautiful Catherine was. Everyone was in love with her.”

Did the man have a death wish? Anthony wondered, clenching his hands together to prevent them fastening around Candover's elephantine neck. But he'd never given the man any reason to suspect he knew of his affair with his mother. He quelled his anger and turned the subject to trivialities. His time would come.

Candover became more jovial as he sampled each of Jacobin's creations. He was full of praise for the desserts and dropped leaden hints about meeting the cook. “You have a most valuable servant, Storrington. She should be congratulated in person.”

Anthony parried the suggestion. “I wouldn't wish to disturb the kitchen now. There's more to come with the remove.”

“The artistic temperament.” Candover nodded knowingly. “Cooks are like artists, you know. Each has an individual touch with pastry.” He popped a morsel between his lips. “Your woman's touch reminds me of my late
pâtissier
, Jean-Luc. He was a genius. As brilliant in his way as Carême. I suppose you wouldn't let your woman—Castle I think you said her name was—come to me?”

The hook was baited but Anthony jerked it aside. “Hardly,” he said. “As you rightly say, a good pastry cook is hard to find.”

“Yet you take only modest advantage of her talents.” Candover stared at Anthony's lightly laden plate.

Anthony nibbled at a
vol-au-vent
that tasted rather unpleasantly of violets. He preferred his flowers in vases. “Quality matters more than quantity, surely?” he asked, glancing at Candover's girth, which he would swear had gained several inches since the start of dinner. “Besides, a good cook is such a boon to one's guests. I'm sorry you weren't present at my recent dinner in London but I collect you were still recovering from your unfortunate illness.” He smiled. “I doubt if I'd have the
pleasure of your company now had Miss Castle's fame not spread.”

Now was the moment to propose a hand of piquet. The gusto with which Candover was devouring pastries suggested that even a hint of using the cook as a stake would lure the man from his self-imposed abstinence from cards. But with the smell of victory in his senses, Anthony couldn't find the words. His mind's eye kept seeing Jacobin's devastated face.

“I suppose you'll want to play cards after dinner,” Candover said.

Anthony hadn't had to say it after all.

“I wondered if you'd wish for a chance to recoup your losses,” he replied, but with curious reluctance.

Candover grunted. “Did you say there was another course?”

Half an hour later even Candover was sated. He leaned back, his vast stomach distended and causing Anthony a moment's anxiety for the continued health of the matched set of Hepplewhite dining chairs.

“Splendid painting over there,” the old glutton said. “Though a trifle gruesome for a dining room, perhaps.” He was pointing, not at the famous Storrs Raphael that hung over the mantelpiece, but at a smaller Dutch painting on the wall facing him. Of the many works of art in the Storrington collection, it wasn't the one most likely to draw the attention of visitors, though it had always caused the current earl a certain amusement. It showed an elderly graybeard beset by demons and virtuously
resisting the blandishments of a voluptuous seductress:
The Temptation of St. Anthony
.

Anthony wondered who was tempting whom.

 

The Queen's House was cold and dark. By the light of a single candle, Jacobin drew the curtains before lighting fires, upstairs and down. The last thing she wanted was some nosy servant glimpsing a light and coming down to see who was in the deserted folly at this time of night.

The warmth dispelled the gloom but not her anxiety.

Would he come? Did he care enough—no, forget affection, that was too much to expect—did he
want
her enough to set aside revenge? It seemed an absurdly slender hope.

She'd left the kitchen as the footmen collected the last course for delivery to the dining room. It would be at least an hour before dinner was over, very likely more if the gentlemen lingered over wine. Her uncle always lingered over wine.

To calm her nerves she roamed the house, examining the exquisite appointments and marveling that the late Lady Storrington had shown such indifference to this jewel of a gift. What a nice man Anthony's father must have been, to go to so much effort and expense for his wife, especially if he believed her faithless. What a foolish woman to reject such an expression of love, and neglect her own children. And all for a man like Candover.

In the upstairs chamber she turned her back on the bed, which filled her with mingled anticipation and dread for what she hoped would happen soon, and turned her attention to a large walnut armoire with a double-domed cornice. To her surprise it was filled with clothing. She pulled out a tulle gown, still crisp though its white had faded to palest yellow. It looked to be about her size. At least this time she would be properly dressed.

The simple chemise gown had deep ruffles around the neckline and hem, its only other adornment a gauze sash with a gold filigree pattern. She recalled her mother wearing such garments, which were brought into fashion by her beloved Marie Antoinette. Mama had long resisted the post-revolutionary fashion for raised waistlines, rejecting the new regime's styles along with its politics.

What an odd couple her parents had been, she reflected: her father handsome and glittering as a comet in the night sky, her rather plain mother the model of a staid Englishwoman. What was it like for Mama, she wondered, to be always overshadowed by her husband, to be stranded by political upheaval in a foreign land? Felicity must have had reserves of strength disguised by her prim exterior and which her daughter had never suspected. Like everyone else, Jacobin had been dazzled by Auguste's brilliance and failed to appreciate her mother's less exciting qualities.

She remembered the last time she'd thought about her mother, when she was preparing for her previous meeting with Anthony in this house.

“I'm sorry, Mama,” she whispered out loud. “It's not what you'd have wanted but it's what I must do.”

Speaking of which, where the hell was he? If he'd heeded the message, surely he'd be here by now. Unless he had the unmitigated gall to think her offer would still be open
after
a session at the tables with Candover.

He couldn't be so stupid.

She lay down on the bed and waited.

 

“Shall we raise the stakes?”

They had been playing quietly for two hours. It was almost dull. The luck of the cards ran evenly with no extraordinary scores on either side. Anthony, playing with his usual mathematical precision, was ahead, but by only a few hundred pounds. Now he could sense his opponent feeling his age, his weight, and the three bottles of Burgundy and several pounds of sugar he'd consumed.

Candover appeared to ponder the suggestion as he gathered up the cards from the last
partie,
which he'd won by a narrow margin.

This was the moment, when Candover felt confident that the gods of fortune had turned in his direction. Anthony knew better: he didn't believe in luck, only his well-honed skills, diligent study of Mr. Hoyle's treatise on piquet, and hours of practice figuring the odds. There lay the difference between himself and his foe. Candover was a true gambler.

It was time to move in for the kill.

Irrelevantly Anthony found his eyes drawn to the
draped windows. He realized he'd forgotten to check the urn before dinner. Not that he expected any signal from Jacobin now. Or, he had to admit sadly, ever. He could only hope she wasn't packing her bags, having played her part so perfectly this evening. Anthony knew it was her cooking that had lured Candover to the card table. Now he must try and win without risking her. Still, he was tempted to look outside, until he remembered that it wouldn't do any good. For whatever reason he'd elected to hold his final confrontation with Candover in one of the small sitting rooms at the front of the house, rather than entertaining his enemy in the library, his own special sanctum.

It made a curiously tame domestic setting for the denouement of months of planning. Decorated in cheerful shades of yellow and pale blue, the room had been used by Kitty and her companion before his sister's marriage. Now the center of the room was dominated by a card table, opened to its green baize playing surface.

“How much?” Candover asked.

“Shall we say twenty thousand for the
partie
? There seems a certain—artistic justice in the figure.”

“Indeed. My slut of a niece cost me a pretty sum. Not to mention my cook.”

Anthony burned with anger at hearing her uncle's crude reference to Jacobin. He looked forward to vindicating her too, through Candover's downfall.

“Twenty thousand for the
partie
, you say.” Candover made a pretense of deep consideration, but it seemed to Anthony that the man had already made up his mind.
Candover was toying with
him.
“Twenty thousand it is, but instead of money, I want your cook.”

It has come down to this, just as he'd intended, and Anthony found he couldn't close the deal. He couldn't get Jacobin's face out of his mind. “I don't think so,” he said. “The money or nothing. It doesn't sit well with me to wager a human being.”

Candover's great body heaved with laughter. “You weren't so squeamish before. You were ready enough to take that jade Jacobin, damn her! Are you afraid of losing?”

Anthony braced himself against Candover's taunts and fixed the boor with a steely gaze. He remained silent. He sensed that Candover wanted to play. He could outwait him.

“I never took you for a milksop, Storrington. A lily-livered coward afraid to take the plunge.” The fleshy face thrust forward. Malice glinted from Candover's porcine eyes. “They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Your father was a weakling too. And your mother was insane.”

Anthony saw red. “Have it your way, Candover. Twenty thousand pounds against Jane Castle's contract.”

 

Jacobin didn't know the time, but she must have been at the Queen's House for three hours, maybe four. She had to face the fact that he wasn't coming. She buried her head in the pillows and wept.