The Price of Temptation Read online

  The sea-green eyes narrowed almost to slits. “A mere boy? You didn’t mention that.”

  “Beyond the spotty phase, of course. But he can’t be twenty-four, if that.”

  “Ha. I thought you meant much younger. I myself have barely turned twenty-seven.”

  Stephen let that one slide. In the forgiving illumination of the club, it might almost be true. Give or take half a decade.

  Jamie sat at the large kitchen table at luncheon, barely fiddling with his soup, which was thin and tasteless anyway. How could the earl have got his finances in such appalling order? Still puzzling it over, he hardly noticed the others at the table until with a purposeful glance at Charles, Rebecca suddenly skidded her elbow sideways, neatly dumping the remainder of her bowl over the front of Jamie’s shirt.

  “Oh! How clumsy of me!” Rebecca cried, wiping at the greasy stain with her napkin. “I’m so sorry—I’ve quite ruined your shirt. What are we going to do?”

  Charles picked up his cue. “Don’t worry, Rebecca,” he said, before Jamie could brush off her concern. “I’m sure I can replace it, if Jamie doesn’t mind a hand-me-down?” He turned to the dripping Jamie and smiled hopefully. “I’m a dab hand with a needle, really, and Stephen is always giving me his cast-offs to make over for myself and Sam. If you would allow me?”

  Rebecca widened her pale blue eyes. “Oh Charles, that would be perfect! Jamie?”

  They both turned to Jamie with such eager faces that it would have been churlish to refuse. “That’s very kind of you,” he said. “But really, I don’t want to put you to the trouble—”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” Charles assured him.

  Rebecca allowed a frown to trouble her perfect features. “That takes care of the shirt. But I’m the one who was clumsy, I should do something to make it up to you.” She clapped her hands, as if an idea had suddenly occurred to her. “I know! Christopher, my fiancé, lets me cut his hair for him — he says I do a fine job of it, too. Jamie, if you’d let me—I notice yours is getting in your eyes a bit?”

  Again, it was impossible to say no. In the blink of an eye, it seemed, Charles had whisked Jamie away upstairs to change into one of his other two shirts, taking the soiled garment to use as a pattern for the new one. Then back down to the kitchen, where Rebecca was waiting with a towel and scissors. She draped the towel over Jamie’s shoulders.

  “There, now. Let’s have those spectacles out of the way,” she said.

  Jamie obligingly slipped off his tinted specs and set them carefully on the table. “Ready,” he said with a smile, lifting his unprotected eyes.

  “Oh, my,” Rebecca said softly.

  Charles closed his jaw with an effort. “Perhaps a waistcoat, too,” he mused. “Something blue.”

  After his haircut, Jamie remembered to track down Mr. Symmons, for advice on how to deal with the ink stain on the library desk. He found the butler in the morning room, polishing a collection of Meissen figurines, handling each fragile piece with delicacy and grace. “Oh, there you are, Mr. Symmons. If I might have a word?”

  He glowered at Jamie’s interruption. “Mr. Riley?”

  Jamie smiled. “Yes, Mr. Symmons, I’d like to speak with you... oh, my. How lovely.” He reached for a tiny shepherdess, only to have his hand knocked away with surprising violence.

  “Please don’t touch those, Mr. Riley. They belong... belonged to the Countess.”

  “His lordship’s mother? Or Lord Robert’s wife?” Jamie asked, nursing his hand.

  “Lady Mary,” the butler said, picking out another figure with care.

  The last countess, then. “I met her, you know,” Jamie said. “She was a lovely woman, very kind to me. And to see her with her children...”

  “They were all lovely. A lovely family. Lady Mary. Lord Robert. And his little lordship, the viscount, although we only ever called him Master William. Master Peter—such a devil.” His voice shook. “Master Stephen, you can guess who he was named after. His stammer was just beginning to— All of them. To think they’re gone... all of them gone... and that creature in their place.”

  “I suppose they disapproved of him as well,” Jamie guessed, his tone sympathetic.

  The butler, regaining control over himself with an effort, shook his head brusquely. “They adored him. They were that good, to overlook his many faults.” He looked Jamie full in the face, suspicious. “Oh, I see. I suppose you think I should show more respect to him, for their sakes?”

  “No, Mr. Symmons,” Jamie replied. “We all grieve in our own ways. Honor their memory as you see fit.” He paused, to let that sink in. “But if you have a moment, I’d like to ask you about ink stains, if I may.”

  Chapter Five

  If I see something I don’t like, I try to make it better. Three days in St. Joseph House had taught Jamie that he had a lot of work in front of him, but he remained optimistic. If the reduced number of slamming doors was anything to go on, Mr. Symmons was already rethinking his attitude toward the earl, and that not-insignificant victory gave him the courage to take on other matters. This morning, his fourth in the house, he set his chin with determination as he made his way down to the kitchen for breakfast.

  He’d lingered up in his room, and now, as he’d hoped, Rebecca was the only person present, the rest already busy with their morning tasks.

  “Good morning,” Jamie said, taking his place at the table.

  “You’re up late this morning.” The cook set down her chopping knife and crossed to the iron cook stove, scowling down at a copper-bottomed pot. “I’m afraid the porridge wasn’t improved by standing. Not that it was much to begin with. Luckily, Sam sent over some of yesterday’s pastries again.”

  Jamie shuddered to think of what their lot would be like if Charles didn’t have a baker for a lover. His contributions of pastries and meat pies were keeping them all alive. “You know,” he said casually, “my mother always added salt to her porridge. And she swore by stirring it constantly while it boiled. I never remember a single lump.”

  “Salt? Really?” Rebecca glanced up. “I’ll write that down.” She pulled a small book and stub of a pencil from her apron. “How much? A half cup?”

  “No, just a pinch.” Jamie held up his fingers to demonstrate, and she nodded and wrote it down. He burrowed into the basket of pastries on the table, emerging with a lemon tart. Bless Sam. “You, um. You’re new at this, aren’t you?”

  Rebecca poured them each a cup of coffee and joined him at the table. “I suppose it shows. But I am getting better.”

  If so, Jamie felt very sorry for what the household must have endured previously. “If it’s not too personal a question, how did you end up with the post?”

  “Oh, that.” She bit her lip, looking like an illustration in a children’s morality primer, under ‘Guilt.’ “I had to leave my last post, as a lady’s maid for Miss Feldspar, because her brother — well, anyway, I was to receive a good letter of recommendation. The Feldspars had to let their cook go at the same time, and somehow the envelopes got switched. Once I realized I had the letter for Mrs. Crosby, and that ‘Cook’ was never mentioned by name, I decided to claim it for my own. I hoped that spending all my time in the kitchen might keep me out of sight of the sorts who made my life difficult at my other posts.” Rebecca smiled. “As luck would have it, I found a place with Lord St. Joseph, so that’s rather moot anyway.” The smile faded. “But if I can’t get up to snuff, I’ll be sacked the first night his lordship decides to stay in to dine.”

  “Doesn’t he? Ever?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve only been here two months.”

  Jamie blinked, trying to imagine a world where one dined out every evening. “I think Sam would help you out if you asked him. And can’t you get a cookbook? There are several excellent ones available in the shops.”

  Rebecca stared into her coffee. “His lordship was a little short last quarter-day, so I haven’t two farthings to rub together. And all my savings, such as they
are, are invested. Christopher—that’s my fiancé—he and I are saving up to buy an inn some day.”

  “Couldn’t we buy a cookbook from the household money? It seems a reasonable expense.”

  “Heavens, no. We need every bit we can scrape together just to—” She flushed, breaking off suddenly.

  Jamie thought of the overstuffed drawer in the library desk. “Keep the creditors from repossessing the silver? It’s a mess, I agree.”

  “I wasn’t sure you knew.” She blew out a sigh of relief. “It’s worse than a mess. And we’re so short-staffed that everyone has to pitch in to keep the house in order—unless we can find another housemaid, I’ll be too busy cleaning windows to ever learn how to cook properly.”

  “I have some ideas about economy, if his lordship will listen to me. I think we can even squeeze in another housemaid or two just on what the butcher’s been overcharging us. But as to you: let me search the library. There are likely a few cookbooks in there.”

  Rebecca’s blue eyes widened. “Borrow a book from the earl? I wouldn’t dare!”

  He looked at her in surprise. The Earl of St. Joseph was really quite nice, but then again, Rebecca probably hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with him very often. “Don’t worry, if anything happens to it, I’ll take full responsibility.”

  “If you’re sure...”

  “I am.”

  “Then, thank you.” Rebecca gave him a sidelong glance, a slow smile spreading over her face. “You know, I’m a bit nearsighted myself. I’d have a hard time reading a cookbook, unless, perhaps, I could borrow your spectacles from time to time?”

  “Anytime you need them,” Jamie vowed, and wondered why Rebecca looked so pleased.

  “Well, hello Mr. Riley.” Stephen swept into the library later that day, and found his secretary perched on a rolling wooden ladder, examining some dusty old tome of Robert’s. He watched with appreciation as Jamie descended: Charles had been right about the young man’s chief asset.

  “Yes, my lord?” Jamie seemed nervous to be the center of the earl’s attention, but the resultant pink flush lit his features nicely.

  “I got a letter from Aunt Matilda! She’s ready to forgive me, so who does St. Catherine look like?”

  Jamie looked away. “It doesn’t really matter, my lord. Pretend you have a secret and she’ll be all the more intrigued. But if you really want to lay it on thick—”

  “Yes?”

  “St. Catherine has the most exquisitely beautiful face I’ve ever seen. You might say her bone structure is exactly like your aunt’s.”

  Stephen laughed in delight, and clapped Jamie on the shoulder. “You’re a treasure, Mr. Riley.” He looked around the room, thinking it was an attractive place, and really should be used more often. “How’s the cataloguing going? Find anything that will, uh, add to the kitty?” And help him pay off Julian’s contract, if decided he needed to. Keeping a lover on call, especially one as skillful and enticing as Julian Jeffries, had its definite advantages, but the actor’s tantrums were wearing thin.

  “Over here, my lord.” Jamie hurried over to a table near the window, where several items were neatly stacked. “Here’s that Shakespeare I mentioned before, and a first edition of Donne. They’re both in wonderful condition, but very replaceable, should you ever be in a position—”

  “Why bother? I haven’t cracked a book since Oxford.”

  Jamie let out a sigh. “You went to Oxford?” he said with quiet reverence.

  The earl’s full lips curved into a wicked smile. “Only because my father wanted desperately for me to go to Cambridge.” He shrugged. “I quite enjoyed it, however. I’m not a total idiot,” he added parenthetically, “I just seem to have other things to do with my time. What else do you have here?” He picked up a small leather-bound book, and Jamie, perhaps thinking of Mr. Symmons and the shepherdess, took it away from him gently.

  “This, my lord, is a medieval manuscript, a Book of Hours. Look at the hand-lettering, and the illustrations — masterfully done.” He opened the book to demonstrate. The pictures inside were stiff and colorful, with a preponderance of blue, red and gold. They seemed to alternate between religious scenes and illustrations from daily life: on one page the Annunciation; on the next a lively country fair. Jamie pushed his spectacles up his nose, his eyes shining. “It was possibly made in York, even, if this cathedral meant to be York Minster. But it’s hard to tell, the pictures aren’t necess—”

  “Worth anything?” the earl cut him off.

  Jamie stared. “Worth quite a lot, my lord,” he admitted with obvious reluctance. “Even with the broken binding. But, unlike the others, it’s quite irreplaceable.”

  Stephen felt a flash of pain, remembering how proud Robert had been of his collection. He could picture his brother here at the mahogany desk, glowing with pleasure as he turned the pages of the Book of Hours. His secretary had that same look now, as he gazed down at the small volume in his hand. “Irreplaceable? Well, then. We don’t have to sell them all at once,” he said at last. “Could you put together enough old books to the value of, say…” What did he owe on Julian’s contract? “…a thousand guineas, without dipping into the irreplaceables?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord, I think so. And I haven’t been through a quarter of your collection yet.”

  Stephen smiled. “Well, get back to work then.” He was almost to the door when Jamie put up a hand to stop him.

  “Wait, my lord,” he called out. The earl turned back, an elegant black eyebrow lifted. Jamie flushed. “Since you’re here. I’ve been wondering if I might make some suggestions. About the household budget.”

  “I wasn’t aware there was one, Mr. Riley,” the earl admitted cheerfully. “I assume, if there is, it’s Mrs. Symmons’ province. But you have my blessing to speak with her, if it pleases you.”

  “Thank you, my lord, I shall. I think some economy might be in order.”

  His lordship’s frown was mocking. “Put me on bread and water, will you? Well, as long as the bread is from Sam’s—”

  “Please, my lord, be serious for a moment,” Jamie begged. “If you would just listen to a few of my ideas?”

  The earl hesitated, then nodded, deviltry lurking in his eyes. “I will, but not now. According to the schedule my frightfully efficient personal secretary has created for me, I’m nearly late for a musicale at Aunt Matilda’s. Since my librarian has kept me longer than I expected, I’m afraid I don’t have time to meet with the household steward right now. Perhaps tomorrow, after lunch?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Jamie smiled in gratitude, giving Stephen his first glimpse of the dimple.

  Not so bad, thought the earl with approval. Not my type, of course, but that smile— “Have a good evening, Mr. Riley,” he said, once again heading out the door. “And tell Charles not to wait up.” If he were going to be able to rid himself of the Golden One soon, he may as well get some use out of him tonight.

  Lady Matilda Clair stood at the top of the wide marble staircase that led down to her ballroom, bemoaning to herself the high-waisted, slim gowns of these modern days. Practical to conserve fabric considering the years of war they’d just been through, but the dress of the last century had been impressive indeed. There was a time—she didn’t want to think of the exact year—she’d had panniers so wide her skirts had brushed both sides of the stairway as she descended. Now that was an entrance. Still, the light reflecting from the crystal beads on her bodice gave off a pleasing sparkle, and her painted India fan would be the most fashionable in the room.

  Matilda raised her opera glasses and surveyed the room below. A longtime veteran of society campaigning, she knew to scout the terrain for intelligence before advancing. Signorina Isabella di Sarno, the lovely Italian soprano who would be making her London debut tonight at Matilda’s musicale, was throwing back her head to laugh at something Lord Lovington was whispering in her ear. Isabella would be the toast of the town: the silken swirl of ebony hair coiled on top of he
r head was rumored to reach her knees, and not an eye in the room would be able to tear itself from her mobile, cherry-ripe lips once she began singing. It was rumored that she could even carry a tune. From the possessive manner in which Lord Lovington held her arm, it was clear the soprano had made her English debut of another kind in his boudoir last night. Matilda hoped Lovington had enjoyed himself, for he was unlikely to get a second private performance: Signorina di Sarno’s wide black eyes were busy searching the crowd for her next conquest.

  Tonight, the ballroom was set up for the performance to come: the wide expanse usually reserved for dancing was arranged with low couches on which her guests could comfortably flirt behind their fans under cover of music. Matilda was well-satisfied with the stage she had designed for Signorina di Sarno at one end of the room: she had borrowed several prop columns from the Theatre Royal, festooned them with ivy, and strategically placed a number of her own classical busts among them. A grateful artist, whose investments she had been directing for some time now, had provided a painted backdrop of moonlit Italian mountains, and the effect was that the soprano would be singing among the ruins of a Roman temple deep in the Italian countryside.

  Most of the guests were still on their feet and mingling, but a number were already taking advantage of the couches to pursue their evening’s goals: Major Burke was, as always, seeking a warmer bed than that provided by his wife; Patrick Howard a discreet loan to cover his rocketing gambling losses. Matilda thought it was time to take the Howard lad in hand: if he had anything left of the impressive inheritance he’d received from his second wife, she had just the opportunity for him to buy into. Perhaps they would talk privately later.