Читать книгу Lady of Shame - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 9

Two more finicky appetites to tempt. Andre’s hands fisted at his sides as he looked at the tray returned from the drawing room. The sandwiches were untouched and only one plate had been used even though the gaunt woman and child he’d seen in the kitchen had looked half starved. Madame Holte had eaten nothing and the child had eaten sweetmeats. The more he knew of them, the more he thought the English aristocracy were completely mad.

Ire rose in his chest. He was tired of preparing meals for people who cared little about what appeared on their plates. Food he’d prepared with his heart and soul.

Becoming the personal chef to a duke had not been the hoped-for triumph. No grand entertainments for members of the ton. No culinary feasts.

But there had been something else. A realisation of the subtle role food played in a life. The duke preferred the comfort of familiar dishes. Almost as if they offered a haven from the devastating changes in his life. André had sought out those dishes and prepared them in the manner of the duke’s youth. And the duke had regained his appetite, somewhat, and Lord Giles had been pleased.

Based on that success, he would return to London at the end of the month with the promised letter of endorsement.

In the meantime, he had a dinner to prepare and he needed to think of something to tempt a woman who looked like a small brown mouse and had turned out to be the sister of a duke. And a child. A little girl with the same sad grey eyes as her mother. What did he know of what children liked? Thoughts of his own boyhood only made him angry, so he’d locked those memories away. Still, he would like to see the child eat something to put a bit of flesh on her bones, and her mother too.

He did remember starving on the streets of Paris for months until he was taken up in the army. He knew what it was to be hungry. It was the reason he’d convinced His Grace to permit a pot of soup on the stove for those wandering the dales in search of work.

He strode to the larder and looked at his plentiful supplies. The pantry always made him feel good. Nothing but the best for the duke and no expense spared. And still the old man preferred a haunch of venison and suet puddings to the delicate sauces and fricassées André longed to prepare. Puddings. Pah. If the great Carême could see him now, he would be horrified.

He brought an armful of ingredients into the kitchen and laid them on the long plank table. As usual, he gave a swift glance around his domain. What he saw made his gut clench. Fear grabbed him by the throat. The swaying skirts of the scullery maid were inches from the flames leaping hungrily at the fat dripping from the meat.

‘Mademoiselle Becca,’ he barked. ‘Step back from the fire, s’il vous plaît.’

The scullery maid squeaked and leapt back, her lank hair slipping loose from her cap.

‘How many times must I tell you, mademoiselle?’ André uttered fiercely, visions of other accidents raw and fresh. ‘Stand to one side of the spit or you will roast along with the pig.’ This kitchen needed modernising. He would speak to the steward again about installing a winding clock beside the hearth, then no one would risk themselves so close to the fire. It just wasn’t safe.

‘Sorry,’ the girl mumbled, wringing her hands. She positioned herself properly and once more turned the handle.

He frowned. ‘Where is Charles? I assigned him this duty.’

‘Mr Smithins sent Charlie on an errand, chef,’ the girl said.

Smithins, the duke’s valet, was a blasted nuisance. He seemed to think he ran the household, and had even tried throwing his weight around in André’s kitchen. Once. But young Charlie, the boot black, hated turning the spit.

Knowing he was watching, Becca turned the spit slowly, just the way he liked and he gave her a nod of approval. She returned a shy smile. Pauvre Becca, she thirsted for approval. He gave it as often as she deserved.

The kitchen maid, Agnes, stuck her head through the scullery door. ‘Shall I throw out this soup, then, monsewer?’

He hated the way these English servants said monsieur. It sounded as if he had crawled from the privy. But it did no good to correct them.

‘How much soup is left?’

‘A quarter of the pot. Not so many came today.’

‘Then the remainder will go to the servants’ hall for dinner.’

‘I don’t see why we should eat the leftovers from a bunch of dirty Gypsies,’ she muttered.

André swallowed a surge of anger at the scorn in her voice. This girl had never known what it was to go without. He kept his voice calm, but instructive. ‘The only difference between you and the Gypsies, as you call them, is you have work and they do not. N’est-ce pas?’

‘Nesper?’

Becca giggled behind her hand.

André frowned. Agnes scuttled back into the scullery and André returned to shucking the oysters.

‘I thought we’d prepared everything for dinner,’ Becca said, watching him, her arm turning the spit by rote.

‘The duke has a guest.’

‘His sister,’ Becca said, nodding. ‘Eloped she did. Years ago.’

That might account for the fear he’d seen in her eyes. A prodigal sister unsure of her welcome. Fear would account for the lack of appetite too. It did not, however, account for the lifeless pallid skin or the eyes huge in her face. She clearly had not eaten well for a long time.

If she had no appetite, she needed something to seduce her into putting food in her mouth. Not that he cared about Mrs Holte. Spoiled noblewomen didn’t interest him in the least, except as they could advance his prospects. If this one refused to eat his food, his reputation would suffer. He bit back his irritation. He would use it as a chance to put his theories about food to yet another test. No woman, noble or otherwise, would resist his food. He left the oysters to simmer and set to work braising fresh vegetables. This time the plates would not return untouched.

Normally, once dinner preparation was finished and the food taken up to the drawing room, André would have retired to the parlour set aside for the use of the upper servants—the butler and the housekeeper and any ladies’ maids present. Or he’d go to his own room and work on his menus for the hotel he planned to open in London. Tonight he found himself inspecting cuts of meat, counting jars of marmalade and generally annoying Becca, who was up to her elbows in hot soapy water washing the pots and pans in the scullery.

And while he counted and checked, he had one eye on the door.

He barely noticed when Joe returned with the duke’s tray. ‘Smithins said to tell you that His Grace said the beef could have used a bit more cooking,’ Joe announced with a cheeky grin, keeping well out of André’s reach.

‘M’sieur Smithins can go to hell,’ André replied, as he always did.

‘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 briskly, ‘there is time for you to eat.’ He set the tray on the small table at her elbow, then lifted the table and set it before her.

Her mouth watered. ‘This is very kind of you, Mr …?’

‘André. Monsieur André.’

She smiled. ‘My thanks, Monsieur André.’

He acknowledged her gratitude with an incline of his head and folded his arms over his wide chest. ‘Eat.’

‘Yes, thank you.’ She looked at him, expecting him to leave. He didn’t move. ‘Is there something more?’

His eyes widened a fraction. Chagrin flickered across his face. Or was it anger? His expression was now so impassive, so carefully blank, she couldn’t be sure. ‘I wish your opinion on the pie, madame,’ he finally said. ‘Is it good enough to send up to the duke?’

‘Oh.’ Her chest tightened at the idea that he would think she had such authority. ‘It is not my place to say, I am sure.’ She looked down at the plate, at the pastry, golden and flaking at the edges, the thick creamy sauce coating the vegetables and meat. ‘It looks and smells delicious. I am not sure—’

‘You will taste it, madame.’

That was an order if ever she’d heard one. French chefs. She’d heard they were difficult. She had no wish to upset him. No wish to anger her brother. Not before they had a chance to talk. She picked up the cutlery.

Monsieur André leaned forward and shook out the napkin and spread it over her skirts. He moved so close, she could see the individual black lashes so thick and long around his dark eyes, and the way his hair grazed the pristine white collar showing above the black of his coat. Her breath seemed to lodge in her throat at the beauty of his angular face so close to hers and the warmth of him washing up against her skin. The scent of him, lemon and some darker spice, filled her nostrils. Her head swam a little.

Only when he stepped back could she take in a deep enough breath to dispel the dizziness. It must be hunger.

What else could it be?

A flush lit her face and neck. She lowered her gaze to her plate and cut into the pastry. She stabbed a fragment of partridge coated with sauce with her fork and put the whole in her mouth. The flavours were sensational. Creamy. Seasoned to perfection. Tender. She closed her eyes. Never had she tasted food this good. She finished the mouthful and glanced up at the chef who was watching her closely.

Once more she had the feeling he could read her thoughts. The man’s intensity was positively unnerving.

‘It is delicious. Thank you. I am quite sure His Grace will be pleased.’

She set down the knife and fork, expecting him to depart. Would he take the tray with him? She hoped not.

‘You need to eat more to be certain,’ he said.

She blinked. ‘I really don’t think—’

‘It might be too rich,’ he said. ‘You cannot tell from one mouthful. Did you not find the oyster soup too rich?’

‘Oh, no, it was delicious. Really.’

He raised a brow. ‘You ate so little, how could you tell?’

Goodness, the man was as autocratic as he looked and that bump on his nose reinforced the fierceness in his eyes. A warrior chef? ‘Very well.’ She picked up her knife and fork and ate two more mouthfuls and found herself wanting to shovel the rest into her mouth. The more she ate, the more she wanted. Before she knew it, the plate was empty and she felt full to the brim. She sighed.

When she looked up, the chef’s full sensual lips had the faintest curve. A smile?

Her stomach flipped over in the most decadent way.

What was wrong with her? Hadn’t she learned her lesson with regard to attractive men? They didn’t want her at all; they wanted her family connections. Mortifying it might be, but it was the truth.

She straightened her spine, picked up the napkin and flung it over the empty plate as if it would hide just how hungry she’d been. Too hungry to leave a morsel. No doubt they would be talking about that in the kitchen tomorrow while they dredged up the old scandal. ‘That was delicious, Monsieur André.’ She waved permission for him to take away the tray.

His posture stiffened. ‘Madame would like some dessert? There is a vanilla blancmange in the kitchen.’

It sounded heavenly. And he offered it in such velvety tones she could almost taste the vanilla on her tongue as his voice wrapped around her body. Charm. She fell for it so easily. She clenched her hands in her lap. ‘No. Thank you.’

A muscle in his axe blade of a jaw flickered as if he would argue. A mere twitch, but it broke the spell. What was she doing, letting this man order her about? Never again would she be any man’s doormat. Her spine stiffened in outrage, at him, at herself. ‘That will be all, Monsieur André.’

He recoiled, his eyes widening. ‘I simply saw that you did not eat and thought—’

‘What I eat, when I eat, is my concern alone, monsieur.’

‘I beg your pardon, madame,’ he said stiffly. There was anger in his tone, but something else gleamed in his dark gaze. Hurt? Gone too quickly to be sure, he was once more all arrogant male as he bowed. ‘I will relieve you of my unwelcome presence.’ He swept up the tray and strode from the room.

Blast. Now she’d upset Crispin’s chef. Montague pride, when she had nothing to be proud about. Hopefully the man would not vent to her brother, or take his anger out on the kitchen staff. She would probably have to apologise, even though the chef was in the wrong.