Lady of Shame. Ann Lethbridge

I caused?’

      ‘There are still plenty willing to ally themselves with this family, aye and pay for the privilege. If you want my help with these debts, you will be guided by me.’

      The snare pulled tighter around her. ‘Crispin, please, I have my daughter to think of.’

      ‘Then think of her, not yourself. There are a few good men in this county who would see marrying my sister as a step up, and who are deep in the pockets too.’

      She hesitated, panicked, not sure how to answer. She had not expected this.

      ‘I can’t force you to marry anyone, Claire.’ He cracked a laugh and put a hand to his chest as if it hurt. ‘I learned that lesson, but perhaps you would trust my judgement this time? You would be helping the family.’

      The anxiety in his voice made her nervous. ‘How?’

      ‘As I said, there are some who would pay handsomely to claim kinship to a duke. And for the influence they’d gain. The estate could use an infusion of money.’

      Money for the dukedom. He wanted to sell her to the highest bidder in return for welcoming her back into the family. Heart pounding, her gaze sought her child, now seated on the floor with the statue, making him march along the patterned edge of the carpet. Jane needed security and safety. This would provide it.

      And this time Crispin would choose. Wisely. A choice made of reason and logic. ‘Do you have someone in mind?’

      He looked pleased. ‘I’ll make up a list of possibilities. Then I advise you talk to Seagrove. Get a sense of the men. He knows people’s hearts.’

      ‘Seagrove?’

      ‘Bloody parson. You remember him. Plays chess.’

      So she was to consult with the vicar about a suitable husband. It seemed a little embarrassing to say the least. ‘How is Lily Seagrove? Does she still live at home?’

      The duke raised his head. ‘Aye. For the nonce. She’s to marry Giles in the summer.’

      Now that was a surprise. ‘I didn’t think they liked each other.’

      The duke’s eyes began to glaze as if the topic wearied him. Dash it, she had one more thing to ask. ‘I was wondering if Jane and I could stay here at Castonbury.’

      ‘Stay? Yes, stay. What else did you think? No females here at the moment, I’m afraid. No one to act as chaperone. Phaedra is off somewhere with her aunt Wilhelmina. Ask Smithins where they went. He’ll know.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Kate married, you know.’ He leaned closer. ‘An American.’

      He made it sound as if she’d married a criminal. She’d seen the notice in the papers and had dithered about sending congratulations. She wasn’t even sure Kate would remember her. And Phaedra had been so young when she left.

      The lost years saddened her. ‘I’m a widow. I don’t need a chaperone, but if I am to meet these men, I will need to entertain a little.’

      ‘That’s the ticket. Catch yourself a husband.’ He nodded as if they hadn’t just discussed the matter in detail. ‘I’ll have that steward of mine give you some pin money. We can’t have you looking like a crow. You are a Montague.’

      Tears scalded the back of her throat. ‘You really are too kind, Crispin.’

      ‘Should have run the bugger through. That would have been kind. I was as hotheaded as you, I suppose. I wanted you to learn your lesson.’

      She bowed her head. ‘I did. You don’t know how often I regretted what I did.’

      He glared at Jane, who had wandered back to stand at Claire’s side. ‘Learn from your mother, girl. Do what your family expects.’

      Jane visibly wilted.

      Crispin turned his head to stare into the fire. ‘We need Jamie. That’s who we need. He would have known what to do.’

      Smithins appeared as silent as a wraith at Claire’s elbow. ‘Best leave now, Mrs Holte. I will issue his instructions.’ He gestured to the door.

      Claire rose and took Jane’s hand.

      ‘Why, he has fallen asleep,’ Jane said, looking at her uncle, bending over to peer right up into his face. ‘Uncle Duke?’

      Smithins smothered a giggle. ‘He’ll rest now until lunch. It’s the laudanum, you know. It keeps the pain at bay.’

      ‘Come, Jane,’ Claire said. ‘Let us leave your uncle Rothermere to his nap.’ She led the child outside.

      The smell of illness lingered in her nostrils.

      ‘Why don’t we go for a walk?’ she said to Jane.

      The little girl gave a skip. ‘Can we make a snowman?’

      ‘I don’t see why not.’ Fresh air would help her come to grips with this new development. Find a husband? She almost laughed hysterically. Seemingly she had stepped from the frying pan into the fire.

      Her stomach gave a sickening lurch.

       Chapter Four

      ‘No eggs?’ André growled.

      Becca shrugged.

      ‘Sacrebleu. How am I supposed to provide dinner without eggs?’

      The girl looked at him with a considering gaze. André half expected her to tell him. The girl was as nervous as a cat most of the time, but when they were alone in the kitchen, she sometimes displayed a hidden courage. He tried to encourage it.

      ‘What flea’s biting you this morning, monsieur?’ she asked instead.

      ‘I beg your pardon? I do not have fleas.’

      ‘You’ve been as bad tempered as a dog with fleas since you got in here this morning. Which one bit you?’

      Ah, the English vernacular. It always caught him out.

      Yes, he had been out of temper. Not screaming and yelling as some chefs did when angry, but edgy and perhaps a little too sharp. It was his unexpected response to the Englishwoman that had unsettled him. His urge to help, when she had been quite clear she needed nothing from him. Such concern for a highborn woman wasn’t like him. And it certainly wasn’t Becca’s fault that there were no eggs in the pantry. ‘I beg your pardon, mademoiselle.’

      She stifled a giggle behind a red work-roughened hand. She always did that when he called her mademoiselle. It made him smile back.

      ‘The boy didn’t bring no eggs yesterday afternoon,’ she said, bending to grab another potato. ‘I wondered why you didn’t ask him.’

      She could have said something. He was lucky they’d had enough for breakfast. Merde, he’d been so incensed about Mrs Holte eating none of his sandwiches, so keen on making something to tempt her at dinner, he hadn’t noticed.

      She’d made him forget what he was about, with her pale face and the crescents of lavender beneath sad grey eyes. And led him to go where he was not welcome. Her dismissal still irked.

      He let go a sigh. There was no one to blame but himself and therefore he must solve the problem. He would go to the Dower House and see if the cook there had any eggs to spare. If not he would be walking to the village. In either case a walk would do him good. Clear his head of visions of the mousy Englishwoman who intruded upon his thoughts when he least expected.

      He didn’t like skinny women. He liked them plump and curvaceous, with hearty appetites at the table and in bed. Women who did not cling or need cosseting. Women who enjoyed and moved on as he did. It was better that way.

      Mrs Holte looked as if she needed a strong arm at her waist, or she would blow away in one of the infernal winds that swept down from the foothills they