Lady of Shame. Ann Lethbridge

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      ‘Bloody Frenchman,’ Joe muttered under his breath, and ran off.

      The next set of dishes brought back to the kitchen were from the dining room where the mouse had sat in splendid isolation with her child.

      The tureen of soup had been broached, the soup tasted. A spoonful or two from one bowl, more from the other. But neither was drained.

      His jaw clenched hard when he saw nothing else had been touched, not the poached chicken or the pheasant pie or even the vegetables. There was something wrong with the woman. There had to be.

      Joe leaned close and inhaled. ‘Smells lovely,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll be done right proud in the servants’ hall tonight.’

      André bared his teeth. ‘You will touch none of it without my permission.’ He glanced at the dishes set ready to go up. ‘Take the last course.’

      ‘No point,’ Joe said cheerily. ‘The little one is sick. They went up to their rooms.’

      ‘Sick?’

      ‘Too many sweetmeats, my lady said.’

      Not the food. Of course not the food. His food was delicious. He stared at the untouched meal and remembered the thin face and the grey eyes filled with worry. He recalled the child whose bones looked ready to burst from her skin and wanted to hit something. The child had eaten only sugarplums and made herself ill.

      Faced with such a treat a hungry child would fill its belly to bursting. He should have sent only the plainest of food. The most easily digested morsels this afternoon. He should have known. He was an idiot.

      ‘Leave the pie,’ he instructed. ‘Take the rest to the hall with my compliments.’

      Joe glowered. ‘Too high and mighty to share that pie with the rest of us, are you?’

      André gave him a hard smile.

      The lad picked up the tray and scurried off. ‘Be back with the rest of the dishes in a minute or two, Becca,’ he called over his shoulder.

      Becca kept her gaze firmly fixed on her dirty pots in the sink.

      The pie was a work of art. Pastry so flaky it melted in the mouth. The contents were cooked to perfection. His fists clenched and unclenched as he stared at it. Not because he was insulted. He knew his cooking was exceptional, but because the woman still had an empty belly after he’d sent up food fit for a queen.

      It was nothing to do with the tingle of sparks he’d felt when he’d touched the delicate skin of her throat, or the pang of disappointment when he’d learned who she was. A woman above his touch. Not at all. It was simply a desire to see his patron’s family satisfied.

      Mentally he shrugged. He’d provided the meal, what they ate was none of his business.

      Automatically, he set a tray. The knife and fork just so. A napkin. A slice of pie on a plate and a selection of vegetables. Beautiful.

      He glanced over at Becca. ‘Take the rest of the pie to Madame Stratton and M’sieur Lumsden.

      La pauvre, as he thought of her, bobbed a curtsey. For some reason the sad little creature treated him like royalty no matter how often he explained that kitchen maids didn’t curtsey to chefs. There was a time when maids and footmen had curtseyed and bowed before running to do his bidding. Before the revolution that had ripped France apart and put it back together differently. He never looked back to that time. The looking back no longer hurt, but those times had become foggy, like a dream. Or a nightmare.

      So why was he thinking about it now? Because of her. Mrs Holte. Curiosity and desire mingled with a longing he did not understand. Should not try to understand.

      He picked up the tray. No one would remark on his absence. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken his food to his own rooms to eat.

      He strode up the servants’ staircase.

      Claire left Jane finally sleeping and returned to her own room, leaving the door between their chambers ajar. She sat in the chair by the window and stared out into the darkness. What if Rothermere refused to see her? Nausea rolled in her stomach. To have come so close to rescue would be too cruel.

      Would remaining here when the man was so ill be similar to her husband preying on young green youths new to gambling? Except Crispin was family. And while he hadn’t despised her mother, who had been the old duke’s nurse, as some of his younger siblings had, he had not held her mother in any great affection either. The birth of yet another daughter so late in the duke’s life had come as a shock to all, but Crispin had always been kind to Claire. Until she had rejected his ducal decision and had more or less forced him to wash his hands of her.

      While she had admitted her mistake to herself a long time ago, it would crush what little remained of her pride to beg his indulgence.

      Perhaps if the Montagues had treated her more like family and less like an interloper in the years after her father died, she might not have been so vulnerable to the practiced seduction mounted by a fortune hunter like George Holte. Which ultimately left her forced to beg for her brother’s help.

      And she would not be here, she reminded herself fiercely, if not for her daughter. Jane was the real victim of Claire’s mistake.

      A light tap on the door brought her head up. Was this the summons to meet with her brother?

      ‘Come,’ she said, gripping her hands tightly in her lap.

      The door opened to reveal a tall man in a dark coat. The chef from the kitchen, minus his white hat. The handsome man for whom she had warmed from the inside out at the slightest touch. Unless that was all in her imagination. Everything about him was dark. His eyes brooded. Lips finely moulded for kissing looked as if they rarely smiled.

      He pushed the door wider, revealing the tray balanced on one large hand. She recognised the pie as part of the meal she’d been forced to leave behind. The delicious smell made her stomach growl so loudly she was sure he must hear.

      ‘You did not eat your supper, madame,’ he murmured.

      His voice was deep and the trace of his French accent as attractive as the man himself. Her insides clenched with the pleasure of just looking at him. Madness.

      An intense dark gaze riveted on her face. She had the feeling he could see right into her mind. As if he could see her lustful reactions. An answering spark flared in his eyes. Her cheeks warmed. This was not behaviour befitting a duke’s daughter.

      ‘My daughter felt unwell.’

      ‘Too much rich food before dinner.’ His face remained impassive, but she was sure she heard condemnation in his voice. He thought her an unfit mother.

      ‘It has been a long time since Jane had such delicious treats.’ Oh, why was she offering up an excuse? Servants always gossiped and they had enough to scorn without her giving them more ammunition.

      Why should she care what a chef thought? Was it the delicious smell of the food on the tray undermining her reserve?

      ‘Now the child is settled,’ he said СКАЧАТЬ