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today, Mademoiselle Jane.’ He bowed. ‘I hope you will visit me again.’
    She took off her hat and handed it to him. ‘Will you keep this for me for next time?’
    There likely wouldn’t be a next time. And probably for the best. He didn’t want to become fond of either of them. He would be leaving soon. Yet he nodded. ‘It will be here waiting.’ He tucked it back into the drawer.
    Madame Holte helped her daughter down from the stool, brushed the flour off the front of her dress, then walked her to the door.
    The little girl tugged her hand free and turned back to him. ‘Next time I should have an apron too.’
    Her mother shook her head and led the child away, with Mrs Stratton bringing up the rear.
    Becca ran in flustered, then stopped short. ‘She’s gone?’
    ‘Her mother collected her.’
    ‘Joe said as how they was tearing the house apart looking for her in a proper panic.’
    It was odd, that panic. The child could not have gone far. And the look of utter relief on Madame Holte’s face had been completely out of all proportion to the discovery of the child in his kitchen.
    He sighed. Now he was seeing mysteries where there were none. What the family of the house did was none of his concern. He simply had to fulfil his contract and at the end of the month return to London.
    He went back to his pie, but somehow the joy had gone out of it.
    * * *
    Two days later, André was working at his accounts when Mrs Stratton popped her head around his door. ‘Mrs Holte requests you attend her in the small drawing room.’
    For a moment his heart lifted, then he got a grip on reality. No doubt this was a reprimand for keeping her child in his kitchen. He should have given her a sweetmeat and shooed the child away as most chefs would. If the child hadn’t seemed so lonely…
    He rose to his feet with a sigh. ‘Immédiatement, madame.’
    The housekeeper’s eyes glinted with something that looked like amusement. Perhaps even excitement. He could ask her if she knew what was wanted, but that would taste of lack of confidence.
    They parted company where the corridor divided east and west, family and staff, high and low, and he squared his shoulders as he strode along a rug that had seen better days. Castonbury looked well enough from the outside, he thought morosely, but inside, in the family quarters and those of the servants, it had seen better days. He couldn’t wait to leave Derbyshire and get back to London. Going sooner than he’d expected would not be so bad. As long as they didn’t renege on his contract. Getting this position had required he call in several favours. It would set him back years if things fell apart.
    He knocked on the door and entered the cheerful room.
    Madame Holte looked up from her book, one of those she had borrowed from the library.
    How tiny she looked in the overstuffed armchair. A shaft of wintery sunlight caressed her caramel-coloured hair and made it glint gold. She had shed her widow’s weeds for a gown of pale blue. A modest gown, but it showed her womanly curves to perfection and gave her grey eyes a bluish tinge. Her neck was long, he realised, elegant as a swan’s. And the thought of touching his lips to the pale skin below her ear gave his body a jolt.
    Arousal. Because she had a beautiful neck? He took a deep breath and ignored the inappropriate desire. Aristocratic women were out of his league. And not just because of their status. Like his mother, they were idle creatures, with no thought for any but themselves. They served little purpose except for decoration as far as he had ever seen. Or at least most of them. Madame Holte was not like that. He wished she was. She would be easier to resist.
    ‘Madame Stratton said you wished to see me,’ he said stiffly, holding himself erect much as he would have for a superior officer when he was a soldier.
    ‘Yes.’ Pink stained her cheeks.
    Here it came, then. The lecture. The putting him in his place. He kept his face