The Lion and the Unicorn
The opening of Martingale’s took place on an April morning that was cold and rainy, but the damp weather did not deter people from coming to see Mayfair’s newest bakery. Emma and Prudence had done an excellent job piquing the interest of the ladies in the area, for cooks and servants began lining up outside the front door two hours before the shop was due to open. Working since three o’clock, Maria and her maids had seen the women begin to gather along Piccadilly well before six. When Miss Foster and Miss Simms, her shop assistants, pulled back the curtains a few minutes before seven, the queue was halfway down the block.
Maria smiled, peeking between the draperies of the drawing room window at the queue of people that extended nearly the length of the block. She let the curtain fall, feeling a wave of nervous excitement so intense she could hardly breathe. The moment she’d worked so hard to achieve had finally arrived. She continued upstairs to the bedroom and changed into a clean shirtwaist and skirt, donned a fresh apron, patted her hair, and went down to the shop.
For the past half hour, her maids had been bringing up baskets of bread and trays of pastries from the kitchens, and her shop assistants had been arranging them in the display cases on fluffy piles of cream-colored illusion. Maria surveyed the array of cakes, buns, and tarts. Though she made a few changes to the displays—tucking in a fresh camellia here, sprinkling a few rose petals there—she was well pleased with what she saw. Everything was just as she had envisioned one month ago.
She took a final look around to ensure that everything was in readiness, then she unlocked the till of the polished brass cash register and nodded to her shop assistants. Miss Foster and Miss Simms drew back the curtains one by one while Maria watched the faces of people outside as they clamored for a look at her wares. When she saw heads begin nodding with approval, her nervousness eased away into satisfaction and relief.
She ignored the impatient taps on the windows and waited until the big French clock on the wall behind her showed that it was precisely half past seven o’clock, then she beckoned Miss Foster to join her behind the counter and gestured for Miss Simms to unlock the door.
From that moment on, pandemonium ensued.
By ten o’clock, Martingale’s had run out of bread. By noon, there wasn’t a crumb of cake to be had, and by four, every single tray in the shop was empty.
Maria wrote the words, “All Today’s Goods Sold Out. Taking Orders for Tomorrow,” on a big sheet of paperboard and hung it in the window nearest the door. For the next two hours, she and her assistants endured grumbles and complaints as they took orders for the morrow, apologizing profusely for the lack of goods available and promising solemnly to plan better in future. By the time the clock struck six, teatime had come and gone, and traffic through the shop had dwindled almost to nothing. All three women were grateful, for they were exhausted.
Maria was just locking the cash register for the night when a voice from the doorway told her that her day wasn’t quite over.
“I’d like treacle tarts, please.”
She looked up to find Lawrence standing in the doorway grinning at her, one palm flattened against the glass of the front door to prevent Miss Simms from closing it.
She felt a friendly warmth at the sight of him, and she smiled in return. “I should love to provide you with treacle tarts,” she told him, “but I’m afraid we’ve none left.” She pointed to the sign in the window. “We’ve no tarts at all.”
“No tarts? Oh, the horror! May I have them for tomorrow, then?”
She turned her attention to Miss Simms, who was waiting by the door, key in hand. “It’s all right, Miss Simms. I’ll take the gentleman’s order and lock the doors. You and Miss Foster must be dead on your feet. You may go home.”
Miss Simms looked at her with gratitude and gladly handed over the key. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“I shall see you both tomorrow morning at seven o’clock,” Maria added, giving Miss Foster a nod of approval. “Excellent work.”
Her shop assistants went down to the kitchen to fetch their wraps and umbrellas before departing through the tradesmen’s entrance, while Maria turned her attention to her last customer. “Do you really want treacle tarts, or are you just teasing?”
“Of course I want them.” Lawrence crossed the room to face her over the counter. “One dozen, if you please.”
“A dozen?” She reached for a sheet of notepaper and a lead pencil. “That’s a great quantity of tarts for one man to eat. Wouldn’t you prefer half of them be chocolate, so Phillip can have some?”
“Hang Phillip!” he answered, making her laugh. “If he wants tarts, he can come fetch them himself.”
“He won’t, though,” she said as she began writing out the order. “I doubt he’d set foot in here. A gentleman doesn’t buy his own food. He sends his cook.”
“More fool him, then.” Lawrence leaned closer to her, resting his forearms on the counter’s polished walnut top. “When the baker’s as pretty as you, who could stay away?”
It was the sort of compliment Lawrence would give, one he had often given her, and which had made her quite giddy the summer they were seventeen. But now, his words made her uncomfortable. They were all grown up now, well past the silly infatuation they’d felt all those years ago. “You flatter me,” she murmured, glancing at the door, “but didn’t we both make a promise to your brother we’d keep away from each other?”
“Years ago.” He leaned a little closer. “We’re much older now.”
“And wiser, too,” she said sternly, leaning back, knowing it was best to stick to the business at hand. “When would you like your tarts to be ready?”
“Teatime, I suppose.”
“I’ll have them delivered to your chef just before half past four tomorrow, then.”
“Excellent. But that’s not the real reason I’ve come to see you.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. I’ve an ulterior motive.” His gaze lowered to her mouth, and she felt a pang of alarm. Lord, surely he didn’t intend to make advances toward her? She cast a concerned glance at the window, noting the shadows of dusk outside and remembering Phillip’s words from a few days earlier.
This is a respectable neighborhood.
Though she hated giving Phillip credit for anything, he might have been right about guarding her reputation. She might not need chaperones, as ladies of the gentry did, but it wouldn’t do for her to be thought a loose woman. That would give Phillip the excuse he needed to exercise the morals clause in her lease and have her evicted.
“Lawrence—” she began, but he cut her off.
“I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a pickle, Maria,” he confessed, returning his gaze to hers, “and I need your help.”
The idea of Lawrence in a pickle did not surprise her. “You’re in some sort of trouble?”
“Not trouble, exactly. But I am in rather deep waters.” He straightened away from the counter, spreading his hands in a deprecating gesture. “My own fault, I suppose. You see, I’ve been feeling rather at loose ends, not knowing what to do with myself, but wanting something to occupy my time. A profession of some sort.”
“A profession?” she asked in surprise. “But a gentleman doesn’t—”
“Engage in a profession,” he finished for her. “Yes, I know. But I’m desperate to avoid being idle.” He smiled. “I know I am supposed to do nothing but gamble, visit my club, and go to balls and parties. It’s what my friends do, and I enjoyed those pastimes once, too. But they no longer interest me as they once did. I’ve been feeling more and more the need to settle down and be responsible. That’s why I need your assistance.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve been begging Phillip to give me an occupation in Hawthorne Shipping, but he’s been reluctant to do it. You know how he loves being in charge of everything.”
Oh, yes. She knew.
“But,” Lawrence went on, “He’s relented at last a
nd has given me something to do. Our family sponsors dozens of events to raise money for charity, and Phillip’s put me in charge of managing them.”
She nodded. Clever of Phillip, she had to admit, to give Lawrence something so well suited to his temperament. He had the charm to persuade people to open their purses.
“It’s not a position within the company, unfortunately,” he went on, “but it’s a beginning. My first task is to make the arrangements for our May Day Ball, which benefits London orphanages. I thought a ball would be easy, but I’m discovering just how deuced difficult these things are to arrange, so many little details to be taken care of. I’ve got the musicians to hire, the flowers to order, hundreds of vouchers and invitations to send out. I didn’t know my brother knew that many people! Thank heaven he’d already arranged for a ballroom before the season began, for we’d never be able to secure one now. The house in Park Lane won’t do, of course.”
His words brought to mind the conversation she’d had with Prudence. “Yes, I heard Phillip is renovating Kayne House.”
“He is, and it’s a terrible mess at the moment, so he’s secured the home of his friend, Lord Avermore, for the ball.”
“Avermore?” Maria echoed in surprise. “You don’t mean the playwright?”
“That’s the one. The earl is in Italy at present, so Phillip is borrowing his home for the event.”
“But the man’s notorious! I don’t read the society papers myself, but even I know Avermore is terribly disreputable. And your brother is friends with him?” She laughed. “I don’t believe it, Lawrence. You’re having me on.”
“I’m not. They’ve been friends for years.”
“How very odd. I’d have thought Phillip far too fastidious to associate with anyone who had a tainted reputation.”
“But that’s just it! Phillip adores notorious people because he’s so upright and honorable himself. His more disreputable friends allow him to flirt with the wild side of life without actually doing anything immoral. But I didn’t come here to talk about Phillip’s friends. I came to talk with you about the ball. I need your help.”
“My help?”
“Yes. I need a menu for the supper.”
Maria eyed him with dismay. “But you don’t need me for that,” she said, desperate to extricate herself. “You’ve been to a thousand balls in your life, Lawrence. You know what’s served. And surely Phillip’s chef—”
“No, no, you misunderstand me. Bouchard will handle the gist of things, of course, but he’s got enough work to do, poor fellow, just to provide the meats and game. With four hundred expected to attend, we’ll have to contract for the other dishes, so I want you to provide the breads and pastries.”
“Me?”
“I’ve no intent to stop there. I want you to be the official pâtissier for all of our charity events.”
“All of them?” She swallowed hard, not quite able to believe it. The Hawthornes did an enormous amount of philanthropic work, and had always been a very powerful, influential family. Invitations to their charity events were among the most sought after of the season. Even the Prince of Wales had been known to attend their parties on occasion, and if ever there was a man who appreciated good food, it was the Prince of Wales. Oh, to make a dessert that might be eaten by the Prince of Wales! Excitement began rising up inside Maria like champagne bubbles.
“So,” Lawrence’s voice broke into her thoughts, “will you do it?”
The sound of his voice brought her back to reality. “I can’t,” she said with a groan. “I can’t. Phillip will never allow it.”
“Phillip won’t mind.”
If you come anywhere near Lawrence, I’ll swoop down on you like a peregrine on a field mouse.
She remembered those words and Phillip’s implacable expression as he’d uttered them. “Oh, yes, he will. He’ll mind enormously, believe me.”
“He won’t even know I’ve hired you. Not for a while anyway. He’s leaving for our shipyards in Plymouth at the end of the week, and he won’t be back until just a few days before the May Day Ball.”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head in adamant refusal. “I have no intention of lying to your brother.”
“It isn’t lying.”
“He always finds out,” she went on as if Lawrence hadn’t spoken, “and there’s always hell to pay. Or have you forgotten that little jaunt to Scotland you and I planned twelve years ago?”
“Oh, but that’s all water under the bridge now.”
“Not for Phillip. He made me renew my promise to stay away from you. Did you know that?”
“He did?” Lawrence was taken aback. “Whatever for?”
“Isn’t it obvious? He’s afraid history will repeat itself.”
“After all this time? Of all the idiotic notions! Besides, I couldn’t begin to hope you’d have me after I was such a cad.” He paused, as if waiting for her to protest his self-condemnation, and when she didn’t, he gave an embarrassed little cough. “Yes, well, in any case, his fears are groundless. And this is the perfect opportunity to prove that to him.”
“He’ll have me evicted for breaking my promise.”
“No, he won’t. Maria, listen to me,” he rushed on before she could argue the point. “By the time Phillip returns from Plymouth, it will be too late to find another pastry chef to handle the May Day Ball.”
“And after the ball?”
“By then, he’ll see that he has nothing to worry about. You and I aren’t going to go off and elope.”
“He won’t let me continue to be pâtissier for your charity events, though.”
“Oh, yes he will. You’ll be such a smashing success, with everyone raving about your wonderful pastries. He won’t reward you for that by giving you the sack. But if it will make you feel better, we’ll draw up a contract, and I’ll sign it.”
“What good would that do? Phillip could just revoke it.”
“But he won’t. I will have given you my word, and Phillip would never force me to go back on it. He’s all about doing the right thing.”
But what constituted doing the right thing was a debatable point. She didn’t think forcing one’s brother to break his engagement and abandon the woman he loved had been the right thing, but Phillip hadn’t had any compunction about doing that.
Still, how could she refuse the opportunity Lawrence was giving her? To be the pâtissier for one of society’s most prominent families was the opportunity of a lifetime, every chef’s dream. Just thinking of it brought her excitement rushing back with such intensity that she felt dizzy.
She took a deep breath, trying to quell her excitement enough to think. It might be every pastry chef’s dream, but it also had the potential for utter disaster. Meticulous planning would be required to handle the work. She would need to hire at least two experienced pastry chefs to work under her, something she hadn’t envisioned would happen for at least a year. But those chefs would be necessary, not only to do the work provided by Lawrence, but to assist with the flood of business that would surely follow from other clients.
“I’m a new establishment,” she said, as much to remind herself as the man standing opposite her. “Are you sure you want to entrust me with all your charity events?”
“Are you joking? There’s nobody I’d trust more. I appreciate that you’ve only just opened, and if you think you’re not ready to take it on, I understand, but—”
“I’d love to do it,” she said before she could come to her senses.
He grinned, looking relieved. “You’re a brick, Maria.”
From Lawrence, that was the highest of compliments, and she smiled back at him. “I’m honored you asked me.”
“And don’t worry about Phillip. When he finds out, I’ll be here to ensure that he doesn’t bully you or anything. I’ll take all the responsibility.” His grin faded. “I promise I won’t leave you in the lurch. Not like last time.”
Something came into his eyes, a flash of what she’d seen in their
blue depths years ago. It felt strangely awkward to see him look at her that way now, awkward and a bit disconcerting. Maria felt a sudden impulse to change her mind. Perhaps it would be best if—
“Right,” he said, breaking the silence. “So that’s settled?”
She nodded, hoping she wasn’t making a huge mistake.
“I’d best be on my way, then,” he said and started for the door. “I’m meeting some chaps at my club. I’m their fourth at whist, and they’ll have my head if I don’t show.”
“Wait!” she cried and flipped up the hinged part of the counter top to follow him across the room. “We must meet to discuss the details. What events you have planned, the dates they are to take place, that sort of thing.”
He paused, his hand on the doorknob, and turned as she halted beside him. “I’ll have my secretary type a dossier with all that information for you.”
“That will be perfect. And after I decide on the specific pastry menu for the May Day Ball, you’ll need to approve my selections. Oh, and I’ll need to know the total number of guests expected.”
“It’ll be around four hundred, I should think, though I can’t give you an exact number until we have all the invitations back. That will take about a fortnight. Where should we meet? Do you have an office?”
“I do.” She waved a hand to the room on the other side of the counter. “But it’s likely we’d be interrupted every few minutes by one of my shop assistants, or a tradesman wanting an order, that sort of thing. Still, it’s the best place, I suppose. Why don’t we meet on a Monday? The shop is closed on Mondays.”
“It’s all right to meet here on a day the shop is closed? I only ask because Phillip reminded me—and quite rightly—that we need to consider your reputation.”
As much as she hated to admit that Phillip was right about anything, she knew she needed to have some degree of care for her respectability, and Lawrence coming and going from here on a day the shop was closed was the sort of thing that could be misinterpreted should anyone see him. “I suppose coming to call on you would be out of the question, too, even though you live right next door,” she said with a sigh. “How silly these rules are.”
Secret Desires of a Gentleman Page 9