Never Resist Temptation Page 4

  She didn’t know exactly what he wanted from her, but she seriously doubted it was dessert. Much against her better judgment she found his admiration…stirring.

  Little puffy things indeed. She’d give him little puffy things. She’d whip up a batch as soon as she got settled into her new pastry room and find out whether he’d actually eat them.

  Despite the perils of her situation, she couldn’t help enjoying their conversation. She found herself liking this rather dour man when he’d become flustered under her interrogation about his confectionary tastes. She got a glimpse of the man under the exterior shell of the unflappable nobleman, arrogantly confident of his own power. When he’d discovered her sex he’d shown just a glimmer of a smile, one she’d like to see repeated.

  “Ah, les petites choses bouffies,” she said airily, daring to tease him a little. “One of the greatest challenges of the pâtissier’s art. Not every cook possesses the necessary finesse. They require the utmost lightness of hand. But fortunately for yourself, my lord, you have hired the right person. I can promise you little puffy things like you’ve never tasted before,”

  Her employer gave her a hard look. “You misspeak. Did no one ever explain to you, Miss Castle, that one of the first requisites of a successful life in service is to address your master with respect.”

  Jacobin threw back her head and summoned the expression of blazing creativity she had observed in the eyes of Germaine de Staël when her father had taken her to the novelist’s Paris salon.

  “Ah! Monsieur,” she exclaimed in a pronounced French accent. “It is you who misspeak. I am no servant. I am an artiste!”

  For a moment she thought she’d gone too far, that she’d jeopardized her position, her future, possibly her very life.

  Then his features relaxed and the Earl of Storrington laughed.

  Chapter 4

  Lord Candover’s butler accepted the presence of a Bow Street runner in his master’s Brighton house without surprise. Given what Tom Hawkins had already learned about the nature of Candover’s mode of living, the servant was probably used to irregular occurrences.

  “I’d like to speak to Lord Candover,” Hawkins said, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his scarlet waistcoat.

  “His Lordship is not receiving. You had better speak to Mr. Edgar.” The butler led the runner into small reception room.

  “Mr. Hawkins, sir,” he announced.

  “Ah, the runner, no doubt,” said the occupant of the room. “I am Edgar Candover, Lord Candover’s cousin.”

  “Thomas Hawkins, at your service. I am investigating Lord Candover’s attempted murder at the request of His Highness the Prince Regent.”

  Edgar Candover was a slight man of below average height. His features were undistinguished, and the only impression he gave was one of colorless anonymity. Even his age was uncertain, though he couldn’t be above thirty. He could have been any gentleman anywhere. Yet as Hawkins examined him, he noted that the man had aspirations to dandyism, his clothing plain but well cut and of superior quality. A chased-silver fob watch hung from his waistcoat.

  “It’s a terrible thing,” Candover said, wringing his hands. “I can’t believe anyone would wish to murder my cousin. I feel sure it’s all a terrible mistake.”

  “The physician was certain that the symptoms were of aconite poisoning, not an ingredient usually found in food.”

  “No indeed,” Candover replied. “Thank heavens his valet was at hand.”

  “Saved his life, so I hear.”

  “My cousin ate a single spoonful of the affected dish and was taken ill immediately. His valet acted quickly and called a physician.”

  “I’ll have more questions for you later, but first I’d like to speak to Lord Candover, as soon as possible.”

  Candover’s eyes filled with concern. “I don’t think it would be wise today, Mr. Hawkins. He’s very weak. Tomorrow perhaps. In the meantime I will be happy to assist you.”

  Hawkins asked the obvious question, expecting the indignation that it always aroused. “Who stands to gain from Lord Candover’s death? Who inherits the title and estate?”

  Edgar Candover seemed undisturbed. “Although not a close relation, I am the heir to the barony. My cousin never married and he only had a sister, who died some years ago. The estate is unentailed and I have no idea who is named in his will. I assume it is myself, but he has never told me so.”

  “Is the fortune a large one?”

  “I have been acting as His Lordship’s steward for nine years. The estate is in reasonable health, though my uncle has lavish tastes. If you would prefer to receive details from someone other than myself I can refer you to my cousin’s solicitor in Guildford.”

  So apparently Edgar Candover was the one to benefit most from Candover’s death, Hawkins thought. He didn’t seem worried about his situation, though Hawkins wouldn’t accept that alone as a sign of innocence.

  “Are you familiar with a young French cook by name Jacob Léon?” he asked, observing Candover closely for any reaction.

  Candover shook his head. “Should I be?”

  “He was employed as a pastry cook at the Pavilion and disappeared from Brighton yesterday. No one has seen him since the news of your cousin’s poisoning spread through the servants’ quarters.” Leon’s location was of crucial concern to Hawkins. None of the kitchen staff appeared to know where he came from. He had been hired directly by the head cook, Carême, who was in the grip of a fever and unable to answer any questions.

  “Why would a French cook in the employ of the Prince Regent wish to kill my cousin?” Candover asked, sounding bewildered.

  “That’s what we’d all like to know, isn’t it, Mr. Candover.”

  Leaving the Bow Street runner to interview Lord Candover’s valet, Edgar went upstairs to his cousin’s bedchamber.

  Lord Candover sprawled whalelike in his huge bed, propped up by a mountain of pillows so that he could, against doctor’s orders, drink brandy in comfort. His valet had commented to the butler that it was most likely the pickled state of his stomach that enabled him to survive the poison.

  “What’s the news, my boy?” he asked Edgar, sounding surprisingly cheerful. “Do they know yet who tried to do me in?”

  “As your heir I’m the prime suspect,” Edgar replied.

  “Nonsense, nonsense, you’d never think of such a thing, even if you had the means. What an absurd suggestion. But I heard the rumor that a cook is missing from the Pavilion, the same one who completed Carême’s work for the dinner. Pity, I was hoping to hire the boy, but I suppose I shouldn’t if he’s a poisoner.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t jest about such things, cousin.”

  “You’re too scrupulous, Edgar. Why should he want to kill me, anyway? Perhaps he’ll appear again and I can get him to work for me. I miss Jean-Luc.” Candover sighed, reflecting on his lost pâtissier. “Come to think of it, that rose cream reminded me of Jean-Luc. It was prepared just the way he used to. My favorite dish.”

  He sipped some more brandy. “What was his name?”

  “Who?” Edgar asked.

  “The cook. The one that ran away.” Candover reached over and selected a tartlet from a plate on the bedside table. Not even a brush with death could dull his passion for pastries. He examined it critically. Since Jean-Luc’s departure he constantly complained about the quality of the sweets produced in his kitchen.

  “Jacob Léon.”

  “Funny that,” Candover mused. “You don’t think it could have been Jacobin, do you? The similarity in name, you know. That bitch would love to kill me.”

  “You’re imagining things,” Edgar said soothingly. “How could Jacobin get a job as a cook at the Pavilion and keep it? She doesn’t have the training. She’s in Paris with Jean-Luc, and Jean-Luc is working for the Duc de Clermont-Ferrand.”

  “Damn his eyes, and damn hers too,” the older man growled, spitting a shower of crumbs onto his barrel of a chest. “And refill my glass.�
��

  Edgar left Candover to the enjoyment of his brandy, his pastry, and his spleen. He needed to find Jacobin. Fast.

  Chapter 5

  Jacobin’s doubts about her new job were confirmed when she saw her working quarters, or rather lack of such. The kitchens at Storrington Hall were spacious, well equipped, and fully staffed. There was no vacancy for a specialist in pâtisserie, because no such position had ever existed.

  As for the cook, Mrs. Simpson, she reminded Jacobin of a plumper version of her old enemy Mrs. Underwood at the Pavilion.

  “I don’t know what’s got into His Lordship’s head,” remarked the cook with an indignant sniff when presented with Jane Castle’s arrival. “He’s always been quite satisfied with my puddings, just like his father before him. Apple tart, fruit fools, and Christmas pudding in season. Good English fare. That’s all we’ve ever served here.”

  Jacobin sighed inwardly. It was too much to hope for the kind of friendly acceptance she’d enjoyed among her uncle’s servants. Still, she had no intention of allowing the woman to bully her.

  “I don’t know anything about that, Mrs. Simpson,” she said firmly. “But Lord Storrington has engaged my services as a pâtissière and confectionère. Please be good enough to show me to the pastry room.”

  “Dear me, Miss Castle! We don’t have any place like that here.” From the cook’s scornful tone, Jacobin might have asked to be shown to a brothel. “There’s a marble slab over there”—she indicated a corner of the kitchen—“I use for rolling out dough.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Jacobin replied. “I must have my own room where the temperature can be kept cold enough for pastries and jellies.”

  “You’ll have to ask Mr. Simpson. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve dinner to get on the table in two hours, thanks to His Lordship arriving unexpected.”

  “Mr. Simpson?”

  “He’s the butler,” the cook replied. “And my husband.”

  Jacobin kept a rein on her ever volatile temper and decided a temporary retreat was in order. “I will get out of your way then, madame.”

  She left the kitchen and went to inspect the rest of the offices. She found an ample ice closet and guessed that a plentiful supply of ice would be forthcoming. Storrington Hall’s location—like that of the Brighton Pavilion—near the chalk downs provided perfect conditions for the storage of ice year-round. Not far from the main kitchen there was a small unused pantry that could easily be equipped as a pastry room.

  Diverted by the sound of a visitor at the back door, demanding to see the head cook, Jacobin drew closer to the half-closed door of her pantry.

  The steps of the under servant who’d opened the door retreated to the kitchen. After some indecipherable, but clearly irritated, speech, heavier footsteps approached the back door, and Jacobin heard Mrs. Simpson asking the visitor his business.

  “I’m inquiring if there’s a new pastry cook been hired on here.” The voice was one of a superior servant.

  “What’s that to you?” Jacobin now had reason to be grateful for Mrs. Simpson’s suspicious nature.

  “I’m trying to a find a cook named Jacob Léon, a young Frenchman,” the voice continued. “I’ve heard reports he’s taken service in a household near Brighton.”

  Zut, Jacobin thought, how could they have tracked her down so quickly?

  “We don’t have any Frenchies here,” said Mrs. Simpson firmly. “And no male cooks neither. His Lordship’s new pastry cook is an Englishwoman, just like I am.”

  “What’s her name?” The inquiry was relentless.

  “You want to know anything else, you go to the steward. Or to His Lordship. Come back here and I’ll give you what for, snooping around His Lordship’s kitchens like this.”

  Jacobin’s confidence, on the rebound since Storrington had agreed to employ her without a lot of difficult questions, seeped away. It was bad enough to face the political quicksands of her new position without investigators dogging her footsteps. She needed to keep this job until the furor over Candover’s attempted murder had subsided. Or until they found the real culprit. She hoped the authorities—for she had little doubt it must be the representative of a magistrate or of Bow Street who pursued her—were searching all over Sussex rather than having specific information linking her to Storrington.

  Loath to face interrogation by the cook, as soon as the coast was clear she slipped out the back door for a walk in the grounds.

  The damp winter chill, stiffened by a purposeful breeze, cut through her worn cloak and echoed the cold fear in her heart. She longed desperately for an ally. At her uncle’s house she’d at least been surrounded by friendly servants. Below stairs she’d found a family. Not one capable of replacing her doting parents, whose love and attention had made her childhood an endless summer of warmth and safety. But her welcome in the servants’ hall had comforted her when she was reeling with grief at the loss of both father and mother within a few months, and alleviated the cruelty and neglect dealt her by her uncle and guardian.

  She missed the trivial daily gossip of life below stairs at Hurst Park. She missed the kindly cook who had shown her how to roll out pie crust. She even missed Edgar, her dull but amiable cousin who hadn’t treated her unkindly. Most of all she missed Jean-Luc.

  Since Jean-Luc Clèves had taken command of Candover’s kitchen when she was sixteen, he had been her closest friend. He’d reminded her of her childhood in France and taught her to cook. And he’d helped her escape from Hurst.

  There was no one to help her now. She, who rarely cried, felt the prickle of tears. Ever since her father’s death she’d had to look after herself. As an eleven-year-old girl Jacobin had propped up her heartbroken mother and arranged their escape from Napoleon’s France. Orphaned soon afterward, she’d suffered years of living with Candover’s hatred, months in the regent’s kitchens in constant fear of being unmasked, and now she was on the run because of a crime she hadn’t committed. A rising sob tore at her breast, and she succumbed to waves of fear, loneliness, and a desperate anger at the injustice of her situation.

  For the first time in months she consciously recalled the events that had led to her departure from her uncle Candover’s house.

  It was a rare occasion when Jacobin was summoned to her uncle’s presence. In eleven years at the Candover estate she could probably count the number of times on the fingers of her two hands—and without needing the thumbs. Experience told her this encounter would be unpleasant.

  She hurried upstairs from the kitchen to tidy her hair and smooth out the creases in her gown created by apron strings securely bound at the waist. At least at this hour of the morning her dress was still clean; several hours in the pastry kitchen would find it dusted with flour and smeared with butter, despite the protection of the large linen cook’s apron. She’d prefer to face Candover looking like the well-bred young lady she was supposed to be, little as he honored her position.

  Her mind raced over the possible cause of his displeasure. Although he was usually content to ignore her existence, he seemed to feel the periodic need to berate the niece he’d given houseroom since she was eleven years old.

  In a tiny corner of her mind, Jacobin couldn’t help hoping that for once he’d show her an iota of kindness, a small indication that he regarded his sister’s only child with anything but loathing.

  She knocked softly at the library door. Candover didn’t trouble to rise when she entered at his curt command. Trying to gauge his mood, she eyed him cautiously. A darkly shadowed chin and the state of his dress told to expect nothing good. At nine-thirty on a Hampshire morning he was slumped in an armchair, still in evening clothes. That meant he’d driven from London by night and was likely still foxed. Sober he was merely cold; drunk he could be vicious.

  “There you are.” He looked at her through bloodshot eyes that held a curious gleam, an expression that seemed almost triumphant. “You’re to go and pack. You’re leaving today.”

  He was th
rowing her out.

  “Why?” It was the only thought she could utter.

  “I have found a position for you.” His slack lips curled nastily.

  A position? For a moment Jacobin was glad. Glad to get away from Hurst Park and out of her uncle’s power. But relief gave way to suspicion as she considered what kind of position he meant. It seemed unlikely that anyone would hire her as a governess. Although more than capable of fulfilling the academic requirements of such a post, she was—thanks to Candover—without the feminine accomplishments that gently bred parents expected their daughters to master. Latin, Greek, and a thorough acquaintance with French intellectual thought were not useful qualifications for a young woman seeking employment.

  “What kind of position?” she asked.

  He gave a crack of laughter. “On your back!”

  She wasn’t too naïve to understand the inference.

  “Lord Storrington is taking you,” Candover continued. “I had nothing left to wager, so I staked you instead. And lost.”

  “He wants to marry me?” Jacobin inquired cautiously, unwilling to believe in the more obvious meaning of his words.

  Candover’s laughter was ugly and without humor. “Marriage? To a worthless French slut? You flatter yourself. You’ll be lucky if he sets you up as his mistress instead of taking a quick tumble and throwing you into the gutter as you deserve.”