A Cinderella to Redeem the Earl

Chapter One

With a growing sense of dismay, Pamela gazed at Rake Hall, the address of her new employer, the Earl of Dart. Lit only by the moon. What must have once been a fine manor house built in the Palladian style was now a ramshackle hulk of boarded up windows, overgrown ivy and shrouded in darkness.

Clearly, the sly grin on the innkeeper’s face in the village of Rake had been a warning Pamela should have heeded. Not to mention the sniggers from a couple of the patrons in his taproom when they overheard her asking for its direction.

At the time, she had ignored the worry that had niggled in the corner of her mind. After all, the agency had been quite glowing in their recommendation. Not to mention the offer of a fabulous salary. This would definitely be a step up in her career as a cook.

On the other hand, if she hadn’t been quite so desperate to find a new position after her third argument with the head chef at her last post, she might have wondered at the generosity of the offer.

It had come at a moment when she feared she might be dismissed without a reference, having tossed out one of the head chef’s desserts because she had been quite sure he had used rancid butter, likely in order to pocket the funds provided to purchase fresh.

The chill of the evening caused her breath to mist before her face. Fortunately, the brisk two-mile walk had kept her warm, but there was no denying winter was just around the corner.

Having to walk should also have been a warning sign that all was not well. She ought to have been met by some sort of transportation from Rake Hall. But, no. The best she had got from the innkeeper was directions to the manor house and an oily smirk.

Now she was in two minds as to whether to cut her losses and run.

She glanced up at the sky sprinkled with stars. Even by the light of a full moon, she did not fancy the long walk back to the village. And what would she do when she got there? She had no funds to pay for board and lodging. Would she sleep under a hedge like the vagrants she had pitied over the years?

She shifted her valise to her other hand, flexing her arm for ease. Well, she had walked this far, she wasn’t going to turn back now. Besides, she had used her advance of a week’s salary to pay for her travel from Cornwall. At the very least, she needed to work that off.

Very well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

As advised by the agency, she made her way around to the back of the house and across the courtyard between the house and the stables. To her relief, things looked a little less run down on this side of the house and the glow of candles in a couple of windows seemed welcoming.

A lantern beside a low heavy oak door guided her steps. She put down her valise, clenched her fist and banged hard.

After a long pause, and right at the moment she plucked up the courage to bang again, she heard the click of footsteps on flagstones inside.

The door swung back.

A startlingly handsome man of dishevelled appearance, his necktie loose and his coat an embroidered grey waistcoat with buttons undone, opened the door and held up a lamp.

His dark eyebrows drew together at the sight of her.

‘Yes?’

Oh, Lord, what sort of house was this? Not a very well-run one if he was any example. She straightened her shoulders. ‘I am Mrs Lamb, the new cook.’

His eyes widened as if he was surprised. He leaned one shoulder—one impressively broad shoulder—against the door, crossed his shirt-sleeved arms over his chest and his lips curled in wry amusement as he looked her up and down. His smile turned appreciative and devastatingly attractive. ‘Are you now?’

Her heart did an odd little flip-flop accompanied with a strangely girlish sensation of excitement. She hadn’t felt this way since the first time Alan had kissed her on one of their long walks. Alan. The pain of loss hit her anew, followed swiftly by a sense of shame at her untoward reaction to this fellow.

For a moment she had trouble speaking. ‘The agency sent me,’ she forced the words out. ‘I have a contract.’

His eyebrows rose. He nodded his head slowly, his gaze pursuing her as if she was an insect under a microscope. ‘You were expected two hours ago.’

Who was this person? The butler? She hoped not. If she wasn’t mistaken, he had imbibed a little more than he should have and was far more arrogant than he ought to be. She lifted her chin. ‘The mail was late. Still, I expected a conveyance to be awaiting me.’

‘Did you now?’

Handsome or not, she wanted to take him by those elegant shoulders and give him a good shake. ‘I most certainly did. That valise is heavy. May I speak to the housekeeper?’

‘You may not.’

Shocked at his denial, she stepped back. There really was something wrong here. ‘Why ever not?’

‘Because we don’t have one.’ He stepped back and gestured for her to enter. ‘Come.’

When she didn’t move, he glowered and gestured impatiently. ‘Inside.’

The man’s peremptory tone was not a good sign at all.

Heaven help her, she really didn’t have a choice.

Feet dragging, she walked past him into the house. The strong smell of brandy wafted on the air along with the heat from his body in the confined space of the narrow entrance. She sidled through, far too aware of his masculine presence for comfort.

Her breath caught in her throat. How could she find him attractive after his rudeness?

‘This way,’ he said, and squeezed past her again, his shirtsleeves brushing against her. Shivers darted down her back. Reproach rippled through her. How could she respond to this man in this manner? Perhaps Alan had been right.

She pushed the thought aside. She had far more important things to be concerned about. Such as exactly what sort of household she had arrived at.

Apparently, completely unaware of their physical contact, he plucked a lamp from a small hall table, and led the way down a set of stairs into another narrow corridor. He paused at a doorway and the lamp afforded her a glimpse of an enormous kitchen, all neat and shiny.

Pamela peeped in and glanced around in awe.

‘This is the main kitchen,’ he said. ‘Yours is this way.’

Puzzled, she followed him as he held the lamp high to help them see their way. He turned into an even narrower corridor which ended in what was only a slightly larger kitchen than the one in the cottage she and Mother had rented for a short while after her beloved scholarly father died suddenly, leaving them destitute.

A week after his death, her hopes for marriage and a family with her fiancé Alan had been dashed—her parents had informed her of the terrible news of his death by a fluke accident. What an idiot she had been to let her passion overcome good sense and anticipate their wedding vows. Having grown up in a vicarage, she’d been taught better. But then, whoever would have predicted he would be killed by a runaway gun carriage?

Her world had tumbled about her ears. No longer marriageable because she had let herself be ruined, and not penny to her name, she had thought that not even her connections could overcome such disadvantages. She and her mother faced a life of poverty.

Until her mother married a widower she had described as a beau from her salad days within a few months. While the speed of her mother’s marriage had been a surprise, the fact that she had chosen a wealthy husband had not. Mother had been very disappointed by her father’s lack of ambition and his tendency to give their money to people less well off than himself. Pamela often wondered if their blazing row about money she’d overheard a few days before his death had been part of the cause of his fatal apoplexy.

Certainly, her mother’s new husband was wealthy and a peer, and just as keen as her mother to see Pamela wed to one of his friends, a rather elderly bachelor, who was in need of an heir.

After enduring a Season in London as a debutante and with her suitor likely to make her an offer at any moment, she had done the only honourable thing she could think of: she’d fled London and hired herself out as a cook.

And why not? She loved to cook and was good at it, too.

While her mother had tried to discourage her visits to the kitchen, seeing it as beneath one of her station, her father had not minded and the cook at the vicarage had been only too pleased to pass on her skills to so willing a pupil. Together they had preserved fruits and vegetables, made pastries and pies and custards as well as roasted and fricasseed all sorts of meats. She had even begun experimenting with her own recipes. Not to mention that it saved the family money since they did not need to hire extra help.

Her interest had certainly proved fortuitous after she and her mother had been forced to leave the vicarage to make room for the new incumbent. Pamela had discovered she loved being in charge of her own kitchen. However, the moment her mother married again, all that was over. Pamela was back to being someone who was meant to care only for the latest fashion and how many invitations she received in a week.

A tug at her heart made her breath catch. A sense of betrayal. Nothing she said, no excuse or request for delay, dissuaded her mother from insisting Pamela marry the man she had chosen. When Pamela finally told her mother she could not bear the idea of being touched by such an old man, her mother said she was being ridiculously missish. That was when she knew her fate was sealed, unless she took matters into her own hands. Now she was in charge of her own future.

And yet sometimes, like now, she felt lost. She felt a yearning for her old life. For family and the comfort of home.

No. She would not think of that now. This kitchen was her domain. She glanced around. Unwashed pots filled the sink. The stove needed a good scrub. And on the scarred wooden table running down the centre, sat the remains of a roast that was little more than a charred lump.

‘It used to be the summer kitchen,’ he pronounced. He gestured at the table. ‘The last cook was a bit of a disaster.’ His chuckle sent a pleasurable tremor down her spine. Heavens above, this really would not do. She frowned, but whether at her reaction to him or at the mess, she wasn’t exactly sure.

She pulled herself together. ‘A mess indeed, Mr—I am sorry I did not catch your name.’

A mischievous grin lit his face. Her insides fluttered. ‘I didn’t give it. I am Dart.’ His words stopped her cold.

Dart? Why on earth was the Earl of Dart answering his own door? What sort of establishment was this that he had no servants?

It certainly looked as if the last cook had left in a hurry. Perhaps she had jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

‘My lord.’ She sketched a curtsy. ‘I am curious as to why you use this kitchen when the other is so much better?’

He shot her a hard look. ‘I hope you do not plan to question my every decision.’

Taken aback at the swift change in his demeanour, she stared at him.

‘I do a great deal of entertaining,’ he said in more moderate tones as if he regretted his outburst. ‘When my guests are here, a chef comes from London to prepare their food. Your job is to feed the servants who wait upon my guests, as well as send food out to their coachmen and grooms in the stable block.’ He paused. ‘And, upon occasion, feed me and Monsieur Phillippe, when I am here and not entertaining. Any more questions?’

‘Yes.’

His frowned deepened.

‘Where are my quarters? I have had a long journey and I need to rest.’ She glanced with distaste at the kitchen. ‘I will start work on this mess first thing in the morning.’

His unwilling chuckle lightened the atmosphere, though she had no clue why he thought what she had said was humorous. ‘Your quarters are this way.’

He led her further along the narrow corridor through an antechamber and into the room beyond. The lamp revealed a chamber that boasted a narrow bed against one wall and a table with two chairs in the corner.

He lit several candles in strategically placed holders. ‘This chamber backs on to the kitchen hearth. It is cosy in the winter and too hot in the summer, but there are lots of windows to open.’

There were indeed. A set of French doors led to somewhere outdoors. He pulled a set of heavy curtains over the glass. ‘Better to keep these closed at this time of year.’

He glanced down at her valise. ‘I will leave you to settle in.’ He headed for the door.

‘Wait.’

He turned back with a glare. He really did not like to be questioned. ‘What is it now?’

‘I have an offer of employment from the agency detailing salary and terms that requires your signature.’

‘I will meet you in my office tomorrow, at ten, to finalise the details.’ He sounded completely uninterested, but given that the offer was for what she considered an exorbitant salary, she was determined to have the contract signed and sealed.

‘Very well. I will attend you at ten. Also, how many people require breakfast tomorrow morning, where and at what time?’

He huffed a sigh. ‘Two. Me, Monsieur Phillippe, in addition to yourself. Something simple laid out in the servants’ hall will do. By tomorrow afternoon there will be fifteen additional staff. They will require dinner at six, then will return to London before morning. They return again on Friday. They will require meals two evenings each week. I hope that is clear?’

Only two evenings each week? All that money for so little work? What was she to do the rest of the time?

Her earlier misgivings returned in a rush.

Damian frowned as he strode back to his study. Mrs Lamb, as she called herself, had not been quite as anticipated. When he had hatched his plans to take revenge on her and her family, he had not expected to discover her hiring herself out as a cook. He had also expected her to be delicate, less confident and easily influenced.

Until recently, his only experience with gently born ladies had been his mother, who had suffered greatly at their reduced circumstances. Her brave attempts to pitch in had been endearing, but more of a hindrance than a help. Her idea of adding to the family coffers had been to take in mending, but then had required his father to hire a woman to provide assistance. An expenditure they could little afford.

His father, who did his best to protect his wife, had not had the heart to tell her she was costing him money. Her sensibilities had been very delicate.

At first meeting, it seemed that Mrs Lamb was made of sterner stuff, both resilient and competent, which rather contradicted the tepid reference he’d received from the chef at her last place of employment. The reference had accorded with his expectation of a spoiled little miss, who, not getting her way over something ridiculous, had run off to be a cook, to blackmail her family into giving in.

But time would tell which of these was true.

He certainly had not expected to find her quite so lovely, or feel a tug of attraction. Until now, he had found most of the ton’s ladies not to his taste, being far too empty-headed and ingratiating.

Fortunate indeed. Had he found the spoiled miss repulsive, it might have made undertaking her ruin more difficult. Rubbish. Nothing would stand in his way. He controlled his future, whether it be divesting a young man of a fortune by the turn of a card, or tempting a woman to let down her guard. Every move he made was thought out and based on full knowledge of the risks.

The hard scrabble of the many years of gaining a fortune in the mean streets of Marseilles had taught him to identify what he wanted and focus his all on getting it.

He’d learned from the best, first as a lad, running errands for one of Marseilles’s notorious criminals, and later setting up his own illegal gaming hell, which attracted a better class of gambler, where he made sure the gaming was honest and the premises discreet enough to attract the wealthiest of customers.

So it would be with his plans for Mrs Lamb. Pamela. Such a soft name for such a sharp-edged female. Well, pretty soon he’d blunt her blade and have her eating out of his hand, when and how he decided.

It was inevitable.

A twinge of guilt took him by surprise.

Guilt? Or pity?

Impossible. There was no way he would entertain second thoughts. Her father had ruined his family so she could live off the fat of the land while they languished in misery in France. She, and the family of the other man who had profited from the fraud perpetrated on his father, were going to suffer the same fate.

He deliberately recalled his father’s agony as his mother wasted away from some horrible disease in what was little more than a slum. It was the night she died that Damian had learned who had brought about his family’s downfall and made him promise to avenge his mother’s death.

After her death his father lost all hope. Night after night he drank himself into oblivion until he finally succumbed.

If only Damian had been able to do more, provide more, he might have been able to save them both. The guilt of it racked him. He could have done more if he had not let his scruples get in the way. He’d been offered a chance to participate in a lucrative robbery, but the sight of the pistols and knives to be used if anyone got in the way had deterred him. At fifteen he still had notions of honour and right and wrong.

Until the night his mother had died and he learned the truth about the way his father had been lured into debt by a man he trusted and then who denied any knowledge of the plot and refused to help.

If Damian had taken the opportunity, his parents might be alive today to enjoy their old age in security and comfort. All he could do now was keep his promise to his father and bring to justice those who had profited from their downfall.

He hardened his heart against the fleeting memory: a fascinating dimple in one soft cheek when a small smile curved her lips.

He cared nothing for her innocence or her reduced circumstances. He had been innocent, before he had been forced grow up among the stews of Marseilles. Innocence had offered him no protection. Scruples were nothing but a dead weight.

He entered what had once been his father’s study—his own study now. It smelled of mould and dust. One day he would restore the house to its former glory. Perhaps. Or maybe, once his goal was accomplished, he would leave it to rot and move on. Only bitter memories and regrets remained for him here.

There was no need to think about the future. Right now, he had to focus on the task at hand. Bringing his enemies to their respective knees.

The thought usually warmed him. Tonight, it left him feeling hollow. Perhaps because there was much left to be done and he wanted it over.

Pip, his friend who had helped him survive the streets of Marseilles, was one of those rare fair-haired men from the north of France. Glass in hand, he pushed his lanky six-foot frame from the overstuffed chair beside the hearth and went to the desk. ‘Brandy, mon ami?’ he asked.

Damian sighed. ‘Brandy would not come amiss.’

Pip poured him a generous serving from the decanter. They chinked glasses and Damian gestured for Pip to sit. They had been together for so long they needed no ceremony. Pip was his partner in some would call it crime—Damian called it justice.

‘Everything is ready for tomorrow evening?’ Damian asked.

‘Of course.’ Pip’s French accent was hardly discernible. Barely twenty-five and smart as a whip. That was what living on the streets since birth did for a chap.

Damian had been lucky to meet the younger man or the streets might have eaten him alive, he had been such a Johnny Raw. He still didn’t know what had moved Pip to befriend him rather than take advantage of his naivety. Together they had run rings around the local gendarmes.

But that was in the past. Now, after years of living in the backstreets of Marseilles, he was home. And he was well on the way to accomplishing all he had dreamed of these past fifteen years: revenge.

A return, with interest, for what had been done to him and his family by two self-serving noblemen. It wouldn’t happen overnight, of course. But his plans were well underway. Already, news of the exciting new club called The Rake Hell, a short drive from Mayfair, had spread far and wide among the younger members of the ton.

Pretty soon, his fish would be in his net.

‘The cook has arrived,’ he said.

Pip cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is she as you expected?’

‘More or less.’ More and less. More beautiful. Less pliable, but not invulnerable.

‘We will have no more complaints from Chandon about feeding riff-raff who don’t appreciate his talents,’ Damien said. ‘If she is half the cook she claims to be.’

Pip chuckled. ‘The staff will be pleased if it is so. The meal Betsy cooked last week wasn’t fit to feed to a pig. How many will attend this week?’

‘At least thirty, by my reckoning. About a third of them female companions.’ Up from the twenty last week. ‘Now I wait for the other one to fall into our net and the real game can begin. In the meantime, we are making a fortune. The future bodes well.’

‘You are a lucky devil, Damian.’

‘So they say.’ His luck at the tables was legendary. He was counting on it to hold.

After the successes of the past few weeks, every gentleman in London would do anything to receive one of his prized invitations to an evening at the exclusive Rake Hell Club. It catered to only the richest and most well-connected members of the ton—and their vices. Their need for excitement and titillation. Like children.

To Damian, the tables were the most important part of his venture, but the draw for his patrons was the club’s exclusivity and its upstairs rooms. A sprat to catch a mackerel.

‘Is the cook aware of the sort of house she’s come to?’ Pip asked.

‘She has no reason to know anything apart from that she cooks only for the staff.’

‘But servants talk, mon ami. Everyone working here is known to us. Is loyal to us. This cook is a whole different story. Will you be able to keep her from going to the authorities?’

He shrugged. ‘She needs money or she would not have taken the lure. Besides, there is nothing illegal about what we are doing.’ Although they walked a very fine line and it would not take much to tip them over on to the wrong side of the law.

Pip sipped his brandy. ‘Let us hope you are correct. I look forward to meeting this cook of yours.’

A spark of something hot rose in Damien’s chest. Anger? Since when did he care about Pip’s legendary romantic adventures? Nonsense. He merely didn’t want Pip causing his plan to go awry. ‘This is one female I insist you stay away from.’

A charming smile broke out on his friend’s face. ‘She is so lovely, then?’

‘Ugly or fair, it is all the same to me. I don’t want you getting in the way of our plans.’ He caught the twinkle in his friend’s eye and relaxed. ‘Stop roasting me, I will deal with her.’

Pip tossed back his drink. ‘It shall be as you request. I bid you goodnight. Tomorrow will be a busy day.’

Tomorrow would be a good day. Everything was coming together exactly the way he had planned.

Pamela dried her hands on a cloth and inspected the fruits of the labour she had started at six that morning. The little kitchen—her domain—sparkled. The wooden table top shone, as did the floor, the copper pots hanging from the wall rack gleamed and the stove had been scrubbed inside and out.

Four hours of hard work and well worth it.

To her delight, the pantry was exceedingly well stocked with everything she would need for at least two weeks. Now she began to explore the rest of her surroundings. Since the house was built into a small rise, while she had come downstairs from the front door to reach the kitchens, at the back of the house, it was above ground. The kitchen windows looked out over a herb and vegetable garden, long neglected.

Following the corridor, she had walked down the previous evening, she passed the servants’ hall where she had laid out breakfast for three as ordered and opened the back door to the outside. This was how one accessed the garden and a collection of buildings for storage, smoking meats and laundry. Which had her wondering who was responsible for washing the linens.

Another question to ask her employer when she saw him in...not very many minutes’ time.

Time to get ready for her appointment. At the thought, her heart gave an odd little skip. Not afraid, but a kind of eager anticipation. It really would not do. She must not let herself find him attractive. He was her employer. She peeked into the servants’ hall and was disappointed to see no signs that Dart or Monsieur Phillippe had availed themselves of the breakfast she had laid out.

She had wanted his reaction to the food. She wanted to make a good impression. But alas, apparently the exceedingly handsome, somewhat brooding Earl of Dart clearly was not an early riser.

The more she thought about him, the more she wondered at the strangeness of his abode. Opening his own door. Hiring his own servants. And the odd arrangement regarding meals for the servants and guests.

She had heard that some members of the nobility were eccentric and she had an uncomfortable feeling about this one. Well, as long as he left her in peace to do her work, she didn’t see why she would have a problem with his foibles.

Returned to her kitchen, she took a deep steadying breath, hung up her apron and glanced at her reflection in the bottom of a pot.

She smoothed a stray lock of hair back into her bun. Neat as a pin, like her kitchen. Satisfied, she climbed the stairs and pushed open the baize door into the main entrance hall.

Where was Dart’s study?

She walked along the corridor to the right and peeked into the first room she came to. She could not believe her eyes. The floorboards were rotted and haphazardly patched, a broken chair lay on its side and odd bits of wood covered many of the window panes. If she wasn’t mistaken, those were mice droppings all over the floor.

She tried the next room and found it worse.

Perhaps the other wing... She retraced her steps back to the entrance hall.

‘Are you looking for something?’

Her heart gave a startled thump.

She spun around to see a young fair-haired man strolling down the grand staircase. An Adonis of a young man, no less.

She took a quick breath. ‘Yes. I am seeking my employer. Lord Dart.’

The young man tilted his head and let his gaze roam from her head to her heels.

‘Yes, of course,’ he murmured. ‘The cook.’

Her face heated. ‘You have me at a disadvantage, Mr...’

He beamed winsomely. ‘I am Phillippe. My friends call me, Pip. But then I only have one friend.’

She did not trust that charming smile for one moment. This was the Monsieur Phillippe Dart had spoken of the previous evening. ‘Do you know where His Lordship is?’

‘Bien sur,’ Monsieur Phillippe said.

‘Would you care to share the information?’ she said coldly.

‘So haughty a cook. Interesting.’ He gestured to the other corridor. ‘You will find him in his study.’ He frowned. ‘Do you offer breakfast, or should I help myself as usual?’

Something about this young man annoyed her. ‘You will find bread and cheese and fruit laid out in the servants’ hall. I was not asked to provide a hot meal until this evening.’

He nodded and walked off whistling. Very annoying indeed. And if he was responsible for the mess she had just cleaned up—he’d clearly stated he had been helping himself to her kitchen—she wanted to get back to her domain as soon as possible to keep an eye on him.

She hurried down the corridor. The set of large, ornately carved double doors she came to first did not look as though they would lead to a study, but she opened them anyway.

She gasped at the sight of gilt and glass and tastefully arranged tables arrayed around the rooms. It was one of the most sumptuous rooms she had ever seen in her life.

Nothing like the shambles in the other wing.

It looked as though it was set for a ball or a rout. Or a card party, perhaps, but on a very grand scale.

She backed out and continued along the corridor. Further along, a door lay ajar. Perhaps this was where she would find the elusive Lord Dart.

She pushed the door open and there he was, seated at a desk, wearing a pair of spectacles on the end of his aristocratic nose. He wore a tweed coat and belcher handkerchief at his throat. The uniform of a gentleman farmer. And he wore it with impeccable style.

By comparison, she felt suddenly dowdy.

As was right. After all, he was an earl and she merely a cook.

The room, however, was nothing like the luxurious ballroom. The furniture had seen better days and the air had a stale smell.

He looked up upon her entry, removed his spectacles and pushed to his feet.

That she had not expected. Courtesy to the lower orders was rarely observed in her experience.

She dipped a curtsy. ‘You said we should discuss the terms of my employment this morning.’

‘I did. You found everything to your satisfaction with your new quarters?’

Startled, she stared at him. Most of the employers she had come across since leaving home hadn’t cared a farthing whether she found her quarters, let alone if she found them satisfactory. ‘They are perfectly adequate.’

They had, in fact, been deliciously cosy and the bed had been so comfortable she had drifted to sleep in an instant.

He indicated a chair in front of the desk. ‘Please, be seated.’

She hesitated. Then took the chair offered.

‘You have the contract for me to sign?’ he asked.

She laid the sheaf of papers on the desk. ‘The agency contract.’

He perused the paper. ‘All seems in order.’

He didn’t even blink at the ten pounds per week the agency had proposed and she had wondered if he might argue about it, as had happened before when an employer discovered her youth.

An uneasy feeling rippled down her spine. Everything about this man—this house—seemed out of kilter with her experience. Perhaps accepting this position, no matter how lucrative, was a mistake.

But then everything she attempted seemed to be a mistake. Such as giving herself to Alan and trusting her mother to have her happiness at heart.

Unfortunately, each new undertaking she had embarked on had proved to have drawbacks.

It seemed this one might be no different.

The question was—would the drawbacks be untenable?