Lady of Shame

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The little girl nodded.

André folded the hat along its length and then pinned it. This time it fitted her small head perfectly.

‘Better, non?’ He pulled up a stool to the table and stood her on it. ‘I am going to make a chicken pie for your uncle. Would you like to help?’

She nodded. ‘What can I do?’

‘You can make the decorations for the top of the pastry.’

It didn’t take him long to prepare the dough, and soon she was rolling and cutting and generally making oddly shaped little bits covered in flour. She had flour on her hands, on her cheek and some on the tip of her nose. But she seemed perfectly happy.

Becca popped her head around the door, her eyes streaming. ‘Onions are done, monsewer.’

André nodded. ‘Go outside and get some air. It will help with the tears, then there are carrots to scrub.’

The girl scampered off and he heard the scullery door bang shut behind her. He wished there was some way to stop the misery caused by peeling onions, but he’d peeled his share in the past and it was part of her job.

The door into the hallway opened to reveal Madame Holte, who looked terribly anxious, and she had Mrs Stratton right behind her.

‘There you are, Jane,’ the mother said. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere.’

Guilt hit André hard when he saw the panic fading from her eyes.

Chapter Five

‘I’m making leaves for Uncle’s pie,’ Jane said without looking up.

Her mother’s expression shifted from worried to nonplussed in a heartbeat. Her gaze rose to meet André’s. ‘I am sorry if she has been troubling you, Monsieur André.’

‘Not at all, madame. Mademoiselle Jane has been most helpful. Regardez.’

Madame Holte took in the pile of mangle and grubby bits of pastry and the flour on the table, the floor and her child, and she smiled.

The kitchen became a bright and cheery place.

His heart lifted and he recognised an awful truth. It was the mother’s smile he wanted every bit as much as the child’s. Clearly, he was on a very slippery slope and heading downhill at a rapid rate.

‘Monsieur André,’ Mrs Stratton said. ‘You might have let me know Miss Jane was here. We have been searching the house from top to bottom.’

The housekeeper looked frazzled, which was very unusual. Still there was an understanding twinkle in her eyes, so it seemed now the child was found, everything was fine. ‘I beg your pardon. Next time I will indeed send word.’

The madame’s smile faded. ‘I really don’t think—’ She bit off her words. ‘Jane, are you finished? You know, I did ask you not to wander off.’ She gave André a quick smile. ‘Jane is rather adventurous.’

Jane looked at her mother and down at the pile of bits of pastry and then up at him. Something clenched in his stomach. A desire to give the child a hug.

‘I think I have all the decorations I need for today, Mademoiselle Jane.’ He bowed. ‘I hope you will visit me again.’

She took off her hat and handed it to him. ‘Will you keep this for me for next time?’

There likely wouldn’t be a next time. And probably for the best. He didn’t want to become fond of either of them. He would be leaving soon. Yet he nodded. ‘It will be here waiting.’ He tucked it back into the drawer.

Madame Holte helped her daughter down from the stool, brushed the flour off the front of her dress, then walked her to the door.

The little girl tugged her hand free and turned back to him. ‘Next time I should have an apron too.’

Her mother shook her head and led the child away, with Mrs Stratton bringing up the rear.

Becca ran in flustered, then stopped short. ‘She’s gone?’

‘Her mother collected her.’

‘Joe said as how they was tearing the house apart looking for her in a proper panic.’

It was odd, that panic. The child could not have gone far. And the look of utter relief on Madame Holte’s face had been completely out of all proportion to the discovery of the child in his kitchen.

He sighed. Now he was seeing mysteries where there were none. What the family of the house did was none of his concern. He simply had to fulfil his contract and at the end of the month return to London.

He went back to his pie, but somehow the joy had gone out of it.

Two days later, André was working at his accounts when Mrs Stratton popped her head around his door. ‘Mrs Holte requests you attend her in the small drawing room.’

For a moment his heart lifted, then he got a grip on reality. No doubt this was a reprimand for keeping her child in his kitchen. He should have given her a sweetmeat and shooed the child away as most chefs would. If the child hadn’t seemed so lonely …

He rose to his feet with a sigh. ‘Immédiatement, madame.’

The housekeeper’s eyes glinted with something that looked like amusement. Perhaps even excitement. He could ask her if she knew what was wanted, but that would taste of lack of confidence.

They parted company where the corridor divided east and west, family and staff, high and low, and he squared his shoulders as he strode along a rug that had seen better days. Castonbury looked well enough from the outside, he thought morosely, but inside, in the family quarters and those of the servants, it had seen better days. He couldn’t wait to leave Derbyshire and get back to London. Going sooner than he’d expected would not be so bad. As long as they didn’t renege on his contract. Getting this position had required he call in several favours. It would set him back years if things fell apart.

He knocked on the door and entered the cheerful room.

Madame Holte looked up from her book, one of those she had borrowed from the library.

How tiny she looked in the overstuffed armchair. A shaft of wintery sunlight caressed her caramel-coloured hair and made it glint gold. She had shed her widow’s weeds for a gown of pale blue. A modest gown, but it showed her womanly curves to perfection and gave her grey eyes a bluish tinge. Her neck was long, he realised, elegant as a swan’s. And the thought of touching his lips to the pale skin below her ear gave his body a jolt.

Arousal. Because she had a beautiful neck? He took a deep breath and ignored the inappropriate desire. Aristocratic women were out of his league. And not just because of their status. Like his mother, they were idle creatures, with no thought for any but themselves. They served little purpose except for decoration as far as he had ever seen. Or at least most of them. Madame Holte was not like that. He wished she was. She would be easier to resist.

‘Madame Stratton said you wished to see me,’ he said stiffly, holding himself erect much as he would have for a superior officer when he was a soldier.

‘Yes.’ Pink stained her cheeks.

Here it came, then. The lecture. The putting him in his place. He kept his face impassive.

‘I am planning several dinner parties for the duke over the next few weeks. I thought we might discuss menus.’

If she had stripped off naked and run round the room he would not have been more surprised. Or any better pleased, though that would have pleased him a great deal.

He forced his mind out of the gutter and his body to calm. ‘I should be pleased to give you any assistance required.’ He frowned. ‘Is Lord Giles aware of this?’

It really was not his place to ask, but Lord Giles kept a firm hand on the purse strings for his father, according to the duke’s steward.

Her colour heightened. ‘I do this at His Grace’s request.’

Something in her voice did not quite ring true, but it was not his place to question the duke’s sister. He might, however, enquire of Madame Stratton. Or Smithins.

‘How many events are you planning?’ he asked. ‘And who are the guests? Are the same people to be invited more than once?’

She picked up a piece of paper from the table where she had placed her book. ‘There are to be three dinners in all, the first next week. I am hoping His Grace will attend, but it will depend on his health.’

Elation began a slow build inside him. This was the chance he’d been waiting for. It would be better if the duke attended, and he could quite see why she would want to hold out his presence as an inducement. Very few people would turn down an invitation from a duke.

‘The Reverend Seagrove will be present for all of the dinners as well as myself, and perhaps his daughter. And if Lord Giles should return, the duke would expect him to attend also.’ She consulted her paper. ‘The first dinner will include Mr Dyer and his mother. At the second I expect Sir Nathan Samuelson. And at the third, Mr Carstairs and Miss Carstairs.’

Small intimate dinners. He could do them with one hand tied behind his back.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘and the dowager marchioness is to be invited too.’

Interesting. For the most part, Lady Hatherton had been kept at arm’s length. Servants’ gossip said there was doubt about the validity of her claim. It seemed those doubts were past.

The other guests Madame Holte named were from prominent families in the neighbourhood. Gentlemen and ladies who travelled to Town for the Season. People who would speak of his skill, if he pleased them. Yes, this was just what he had hoped for when he’d accepted this contract. A chance to grow his reputation as a chef among members of the ton. To move his own plans forward. The fact that he would do so for Madame Holte made it doubly rewarding. Saints save him, he was grinning from ear to ear. He pulled himself together. ‘How many courses do you wish to serve?’

‘Enough to appear generous, but not so many as to seem ostentatious. I would be grateful for your suggestions.’ She cast him a brief smile. It held shyness and hope and a shred of wariness. It was that last that caught at something in his chest.