“Anthony,” croaked the dying man, reaching out feebly to his son.
Anthony stood at his father’s bed and took the offered hand. The long fingers, so like his own in shape and size, were cool and paper-dry. They felt desperately frail in contrast to the warmth and vigor of his own.
His father was dying. The physician said it wouldn’t be much longer now. The old earl had sent the doctor, nurse, and his younger offspring out of the room, leaving him alone with his heir. The wasting disease that had sapped his vitality over the past months left him without strength, but Anthony sensed rather than felt his father tug him closer. He leaned over the bed so that the old man could look him full in the face. The dull blue eyes stared at him intensely.
“Catherine,” the earl murmured. Anthony wondered if he had been mistaken for his mother. He’d always been the image of her, a masculine version of the beauty who had dazzled London society in her heyday. He waited, saying nothing.
“Catherine,” his father repeated. “I loved her.”
Anthony knew that. His father had never recovered from her death. Ever an undemonstrative man, he had completely withdrawn into himself after the loss of his wife.
“I loved her,” the earl continued, “but she was never the same after France.”
Anguish pierced his father’s customary dry tones, and Anthony wanted to offer comfort.
“I loved Mama too, Father,” he said. “She was sad, but she still loved us.”
“No!” exclaimed the earl. “She never loved me again. He took her away from me and then he stole her. And she died.”
Anthony tried to make sense of what his father was saying. His mother had drowned. It had been an accident.
“What are you saying, Father? Mama never had another man. She was faithful to you.” Anthony couldn’t bear to think otherwise.
The earl continued. “I must tell you.” The strain of speech was evident but some great need gave him the force to tell his tale. “She fell in love with him in France, and things were never the same. Then, that night, she left me to join him. There was a storm. She died.”
Anthony’s throat clenched. Even had he found the words he couldn’t have uttered them. The knowledge of his mother’s infidelity shook him to the core. He felt his father’s pain, but even more he felt his own. She’d left him. He wanted to roar out his hurt. He’d like to kill the man who’d ruined his life.
“Who?” The single word was all he could articulate.
He was scarcely aware now of his father clutching his hand. His own rage consumed him.
“Who!” he cried, the need to know the truth releasing his vocal cords from bondage.
“The letter…” His father’s voice was now only a whisper. Anthony had to lower his ear to the dying man’s lips to hear the words. “The letter came…and she left.”
“Whose letter?” Anthony was wild for the truth. “Who was it, Father? The name! Give me the name.”
“The letter came from Candover…”
The earl rose from his supine position and thrust back the covers. He left the bed and stood up, all sign of weakness gone. He stood as tall and straight as he’d ever been and shook his fist in the air above his head.
“Avenge me,” he cried. His voice was young and vigorous. “My son, you must avenge me.”
Anthony awoke in a sweat, as he always did when he had the dream. He couldn’t count how many times it had come to him since his father’s death. It was always the same. And it was always exactly like his father’s last minutes. Until the end.
“The letter came from Candover…” had been his father’s last words. His life slipped away as spoke them.
Only in the dream did he call for revenge. Yet sometimes Anthony found it hard to credit that his father had not risen from his sickbed like that. It always seemed so vivid, so true. And his demand seemed so just.
Jacobin couldn’t get her mind off her employer.
He’d looked so bleak, dismissing his mother’s death as something that happened a long time ago, when it was obvious that her loss scarred his soul to this day. She’d wanted to hold his head to her breast and stroke the improbably windswept locks; to soothe the faint lines at the juncture of the brow, lines of care and worry; and then she wanted to make him laugh and laugh as he recalled his mother doing. To make him laugh until the marks of trouble were erased and the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkled with enjoyment.
These were foolish thoughts. There couldn’t ever be anything between her and the Earl of Storrington, and she shouldn’t want there to be. She mustn’t forget that he was her enemy, a man who’d won her at a game of cards. For all she knew, if he discovered her identity he might believe he held some kind of droit de seigneur over her. She didn’t know how Candover had settled his bet with Storrington after her disappearance, or what either man would do if they realized who and where she was.
And Candover was expected at Storrington Hall. She’d have to keep out of his way. If he found her here it would be much too convenient for him to hand her over to the earl on the proverbial silver platter.
She’d like to think Storrington would refuse the offering, but a core of common sense told her not to rely on her instinct. Or on her wishes rather. She was in danger of seeing Storrington as a knight in shining armor based on nothing but a superficial attraction to his appearance and a hint of vulnerability in his personality. She didn’t really know much about him, and what she did know wasn’t encouraging: he was a gambler; he was a friend of her far-from-trustworthy uncle; and he’d hired her as a cook for an unknown reason that had nothing to do with a taste for pastry.
If she were wise she’d give Storrington a wide berth. She had no reason to trust him.
Her sleep in the small bedroom in the upper reaches of the great house was disturbed. She awoke in pitch darkness and knew there was no chance of regaining unconsciousness. She might as well begin to earn her living while the kitchen was free of the antagonistic presence of Mrs. Simpson. Since she’d be alone, she could dress for comfort. She reached for the breeches and jacket that had been her uniform at the Brighton Pavilion.
The delicate business of kneading chilled butter into the yeast-flour mixture soothed Jacobin’s jangled nerves. With the heel of her hand she repeatedly smeared the sticky mixture over the cool marble slab until the dough was fluffy and could be set aside in a basin for its first rising in a warmer part of the kitchen. She’d better not catch Mrs. Simpson touching it.
Philosophically, she’d decided to set aside the dangers and ambiguities of her situation and try to make herself indispensable in her new position. Maybe Storrington had no personal need for a first-rate pastry cook, but she vowed she’d change his mind. She guessed the earl wasn’t overly fond of sweet things. But she could show him that breakfast offered greater refinements than toasted English bread. Her lip curled scornfully. Wait till he’d tried her brioche.
Because pâte à brioche had to rise three times over several hours, she wouldn’t be able to serve it to her employer that morning, if he kept anything resembling country hours. Of course he might be like her uncle, who never rose before noon. But, despite his undoubted elegance, there was an energy about Storrington that made her doubt he was a slug-a-bed.
She had no intention of waiting another day to impress him. She stoked up the fire in the thankfully modern kitchen range and set water to boil.
A pool of light illuminated the work surface and the new cook’s hands. She cracked an egg into the pot on the table and did something vigorous with a wooden spoon for perhaps half a minute. Then she picked up another egg and repeated the motion. Anthony admired the fluid way she handled the eggs with her left hand alone, while beating briskly with her right. He had no idea what she was doing, but he suspected it was more difficult than it looked. There was something reassuringly competent about Jane Castle.
He didn’t know what, in his wakeful state, had brought him to the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning. He doubted he’d set foot in the place since he was a hungry boy scrounging a forbidden bite to stave off the pangs of hunger between meals. His usual territory during sleepless nights was the main floor of the mansion, the expansive, elegantly furnished rooms inhabited by generations of Storrs. There was no particular reason that tonight’s wanderings had brought him to the utilitarian depths of the house. A faint light had drawn him to the kitchen, a room that should be dark and empty. Instead he found the object of far too many of his thoughts.
It was interesting that she had recognized his mother’s French folly. It seemed unusual, to say the least, that a pastry cook would be so familiar with the Queen of France’s rustic retreat. A mystery surrounded Jane Castle, formerly known as Jacob Léon, that went beyond her recent change of sex. Given the circumstances of that change she was quite possibly involved in a murder, but Anthony was hard put to believe it. There was something so warm about her, so alive. He didn’t want to see her as an agent of death. Her eyes reflected a spirit that made him want to laugh, to set aside duty, to enjoy life in a way that had eluded him for years—for almost as long as he could remember.
Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his velvet dressing robe, he leaned against the doorjamb and watched Jane Castle, wondering why she was at work at this unearthly hour.
She leaned over to peer into the pot, and Anthony lost interest in that question because he’d found the answer to another. He’d wondered about the shape and size of her bosom, and now he knew. The upper part of her body was outlined by the wall lamp beside the table. Small, sweet curves were delineated through the muslin shift that was all she wore on top.
Whatever whim had brought him here, it was an excellent one.
She hadn’t noticed him. His fascinated eyes gazed at the uptilted breasts, each crowned by a delicately pointed nipple, firm and peaked as though aroused.
Anthony shied away from that particular thought; it too nearly matched his own state. Unmistakably, things were stirring down below. He pulled on the sash of his robe to make sure it was secure. On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
She spun around to face him, her mouth opening in a moue of surprise. The wooden spoon clacked onto the marble table as her hand covered her lips, eyes widened with shock. She stood motionless and silent for a long delicious moment during which dusky areolas were visible through the white shift. Then, with a gasp, she crossed her arms protectively across her chest.
“My lord, I didn’t expect to see you here—now. I didn’t think to see anyone at this hour.” She glanced over to a chair a few yards away where her cook’s jacket had been tossed. It was warm in the kitchen, Anthony realized, aside from any heat being generated for other reasons. He held up a restraining hand.
“Don’t change your attire on my account, Miss Castle. If you are comfortable as you are, please remain so.”
She gave him a suspicious look, as well she might, given that his eyes kept wandering between her upper torso and the alluring curve of hips and thighs clad in snug breeches. With an effort he fixed them on her face. The lamplight glowed through her chestnut hair, casting a fiery aura around her head and making her look like a slightly grumpy angel. To distract her from the idea of donning additional clothing, he looked around the dimly lit room with an intense—and entirely feigned—interest.
“It’s been years since I’ve been in here,” he remarked. “I couldn’t sleep and noticed the light. Are these the normal hours of a pastry cook?”
His casual speech seemed to dispel her embarrassment. She shrugged and turned back to her work, taking up the dropped spoon again.
“I don’t usually start this early, but since your staff seemed quite unprepared for my arrival, there isn’t a suitable place for me to work. I thought I’d cook a few things before anyone was stirring.” She gave him an impudent look. “You’ve never had a pâtisserie specialist before, have you?”
It was time to get the upper hand here, Anthony decided. He wasn’t going to suffer another of her impertinent interrogations into his tastes.
“As it happens, no,” he said coolly. “You are a new addition to the household because I am making some changes in my way of life.” He had no intention of making any further explanation to this servant. Her job was to follow orders and collect her exorbitant salary.
The woman was irrepressible.
“Excellent,” she said, a wide smile lighting up her whole face. “You are to be married?”
Well, that was as good an excuse as any. “It is time that I should. I have responsibilities to my position.”
“May I be so bold as to wish you and milady every joy?”
“Well I’m not actually betrothed…yet.”
She looked as though this was the most delightful piece of news and she’d like nothing better than to sit down for a friendly chat about his nuptials. He found it exceedingly irritating. The spoon clattered to the table again, and she spun around and flitted over to the range.
“Sit down,” she said.
Irrepressible and bossy, by God.
“I’ll make you some tea, then in a little while you can have a first taste of my cooking.”
This definitely wasn’t a good idea, he thought. He should be putting her in her place. A friendly chat in the middle of the night, alone, with a much too attractive female servant was completely inappropriate. He never encouraged undue familiarity from his staff. But instead of taking a haughty leave, he found himself sitting down at the big pine kitchen table while she fussed around with a teapot and lit another lamp to place beside him. The tea, in a thick earthenware cup, was strong and tasty, and he felt an unwonted sense of well-being.
Once he was served she returned to her corner. He watched her spoon the contents of her pot into a triangular cloth bag.
“What are you making?”
She cast him a quizzical look, her head cocked to one side, then returned to her task. “I think I’ll let it be a surprise.” She squeezed blobs of thick pale yellow paste through a hole at the bottom of the bag onto a metal tray, which she then carried over to the stove. She opened the oven door and casually thrust her bare arm into the heat.
“Be careful,” he said in alarm, prepared to leap up and save her from being burned alive.
“I’m just checking that the oven is hot enough.” She laughed. “If it were dangerous there wouldn’t be many cooks left.”
Once she’d put the tray into the oven, she came over to the table, sat down beside him, and poured herself a cup of tea.
“Tell me about your lady,” she invited. “Is it an arranged marriage?”
“Well,” he hedged, “I don’t actually have anyone in mind yet. In fact I shall be doing some entertaining in London so that I can meet some suitable young women.” He’d only just thought of it, but it was a good plan. News of a dinner party—with a spectacular display of desserts—would reach Candover’s ears. The trap needed to be baited.
“You’ve never married, Miss Castle,” he remarked. She was certainly attractive enough to find a husband.
She gave her characteristic shrug, which he labeled in the back of his mind as typically French. “Had my parents lived they would have arranged a match. Now, who knows?”
Anthony’s curiosity was caught again. He was aware that arranged marriages were still the norm in France, more so than in England, among the upper orders. He didn’t know if it was also true of other classes.
“Arranged marriages are no longer fashionable in this country,” he said. “It is thought better for a couple to be well acquainted and have some affection for each other.”
“No doubt that is true,” she rejoined, “but is it any more a guarantee of eventual happiness than marriage to a partner carefully selected by one’s family?”
He considered his own parents. He believed that it been a love match, at first. But the love had become one-sided and brought neither partner long-term joy. He shied away from the thought. The emotions engendered by his recurrent dream were too raw.
“Was your parents’ marriage arranged?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And were they happy together?”
He detected a momentary guarded look before she replied. “I believe that both were satisfied with the arrangement.” A careful response that begged further questions.
“So you would have been content with your family’s choice?”
She shrugged again. “Perhaps. More enlightened parents—and my father was certainly such—would never force a daughter into marriage without consultation.”
“But your father was English, after all.”
She seemed about to argue with him, then thought better of it. Instead she rose from her seat and went over to the stove.
Zut. This was dangerous, Jacobin thought. She’d nearly contradicted him and revealed that her father was French. It was hard to keep her story straight. Whenever she conversed with this man she tended to forget her masquerade, to speak without reserve or dis-simulation. To be Jacobin de Chastelux.
She busied herself setting water and sugar to heat on the range, then looked for vanilla. She was pleased to find a supply of castor sugar already infused with vanilla beans. Mrs. Simpson might be difficult, but she ran an efficient kitchen.
She peered at Lord Storrington through her lashes. He was the epitome of informal masculine grace in his full-length claret velvet robe. Her mind recoiled from speculation about what he might be wearing beneath it. She eyed her jacket, which she’d taken off when the fire heated the room. Accustomed to working in frigid confectionery kitchens, she’d quickly become uncomfortably warm. But putting another garment on now would draw attention to her state of dishabille. It wasn’t as though her shift was particularly indecent. It was made of sturdy muslin, she thought optimistically.
Giving the syrup a good stir, she decided not to initiate further conversation. Any form of intimacy with Lord Storrington would be unwise or worse.
Apparently he didn’t have the same compunction.
“Have you ever been in love, Miss Castle?”
Had he really asked that? It seemed so unlike the cool aristocrat she was acquainted with. She turned to examine him. He seemed oblivious that he’d said anything untoward. He looked at her with an air of disinterested curiosity that might be inspired by a question about the weather. She wanted to jolt his complacency.
“Yes, I have,” she replied, looking him full in the eye. “Once. But it didn’t end well.”
“What happened?” He cocked his head forward with an intent look.
“Our feelings were not the same. It ended.” She infused her tone with subdued tragedy and summoned moisture to her eyes by dwelling on sad thoughts of maimed Parisian beggars and the hungry-eyed cats that haunted the Luxembourg Gardens. It was a trick she’d learned as a child and often put to good use when bending her doting parents to her will. To make sure he noticed her tears, she moved closer to the table.
She expected him to be embarrassed; instead he stood and took her hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’ve distressed you with my questions. Please forgive me.”
His hand cradling hers felt large and firm and warm. She looked down and noted the contrast between his well-manicured nails and her own fingers, which were roughened by work and bore several tiny scars from cuts and burns, the inevitable bounty of the cook. His regret sounded genuine, and she was ashamed of her manipulation.
“It doesn’t matter. Don’t think anything of it.” She meant to smile reassuringly, but met his eyes. Dark gray in the dim light, they held sympathy and a warmer emotion she didn’t want to identify. Breathless, she could only stand there, captured by his gaze and feeling a flush suffuse her cheeks. She wasn’t much given to blushing, and the sensation was alien. She wasn’t sure she liked it.
The aroma of baking roused her from a confused silence.
“The oven,” she muttered, retracting her hand and hurrying to the range. As she removed the tray from the oven she could still sense the pressure of his fingers gliding over hers as she’d pulled away.
He followed her to the stove and looked over her shoulder. She could feel his warm breath at her ear, mingling with the steam arising from the tray of pastries.
“Little puffy things,” he said, his voice husky and amused.