Never Resist Temptation by Miranda Neville Read Free Book Online

remarked the cook with an indignant sniff when presented with Jane Castle’s arrival. “He’s always been quite satisfied with my puddings, just like his father before him. Apple tart, fruit fools, and Christmas pudding in season. Good English fare. That’s all we’ve ever served here.”
    Jacobin sighed inwardly. It was too much to hope for the kind of friendly acceptance she’d enjoyed among her uncle’s servants. Still, she had no intention of allowing the woman to bully her.
    â€œI don’t know anything about that, Mrs. Simpson,”she said firmly. “But Lord Storrington has engaged my services as a pâtissière and confectionère . Please be good enough to show me to the pastry room.”
    â€œDear me, Miss Castle! We don’t have any place like that here.” From the cook’s scornful tone, Jacobin might have asked to be shown to a brothel. “There’s a marble slab over there”—she indicated a corner of the kitchen—“I use for rolling out dough.”
    â€œThat’s not good enough,” Jacobin replied. “I must have my own room where the temperature can be kept cold enough for pastries and jellies.”
    â€œYou’ll have to ask Mr. Simpson. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve dinner to get on the table in two hours, thanks to His Lordship arriving unexpected.”
    â€œMr. Simpson?”
    â€œHe’s the butler,” the cook replied. “And my husband.”
    Jacobin kept a rein on her ever volatile temper and decided a temporary retreat was in order. “I will get out of your way then, madame.”
    She left the kitchen and went to inspect the rest of the offices. She found an ample ice closet and guessed that a plentiful supply of ice would be forthcoming. Storrington Hall’s location—like that of the Brighton Pavilion—near the chalk downs provided perfect conditions for the storage of ice year-round. Not far from the main kitchen there was a small unused pantry that could easily be equipped as a pastry room.
    Diverted by the sound of a visitor at the back door, demanding to see the head cook, Jacobin drew closer to the half-closed door of her pantry.
    The steps of the under servant who’d opened the door retreated to the kitchen. After some indecipherable, but clearly irritated, speech, heavier footsteps approached the back door, and Jacobin heard Mrs. Simpson asking the visitor his business.
    â€œI’m inquiring if there’s a new pastry cook been hired on here.” The voice was one of a superior servant.
    â€œWhat’s that to you?” Jacobin now had reason to be grateful for Mrs. Simpson’s suspicious nature.
    â€œI’m trying to a find a cook named Jacob Léon, a young Frenchman,” the voice continued. “I’ve heard reports he’s taken service in a household near Brighton.”
    Zut , Jacobin thought, how could they have tracked her down so quickly?
    â€œWe don’t have any Frenchies here,” said Mrs. Simpson firmly. “And no male cooks neither. His Lordship’s new pastry cook is an Englishwoman, just like I am.”
    â€œWhat’s her name?” The inquiry was relentless.
    â€œYou want to know anything else, you go to the steward. Or to His Lordship. Come back here and I’ll give you what for, snooping around His Lordship’s kitchens like this.”
    Jacobin’s confidence, on the rebound since Storrington had agreed to employ her without a lot of difficult questions, seeped away. It was bad enough to face the political quicksands of her new position without investigators dogging her footsteps. She needed to keep this job until the furor over Candover’s attempted murder had subsided. Or until they found the real culprit. She hoped the authorities—for she had little doubt it must be the representative of a magistrate or of Bow Street who pursued her—were searching all over