“You are thinking too hard,” Mr. Hales observed.
She emptied her teacup and handed it to him. “I am going to marry Mr. Bliven, if he can last long enough for Gawain to obtain a special license.”
“What good will that do?”
She took a biscuit from the tray and stared at it. “It will be better for Jacob.”
“And for you?”
Her mind went blank. How could she explain how desperately she’d wanted Mr. Bliven, then how desperately she’d avoided him? “It won’t matter very much to me, not at this time. I’ll be a widow soon enough.”
He took a biscuit, reminding her to bite into her own. “What about mourning?”
The rich chocolate and marmalade topping soothed her throat enough for her to swallow the dry texture underneath. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She stared down. Her skirt was a muted red and blue tartan. She’d have to wear black for a couple of years, but that would only make her more severe-looking, not a bad thing. Terrible for her complexion, but then she wouldn’t be hunting for a husband. “It will be fine. I don’t care.”
“You are clearly a woman who would do anything for her child.” His gaze was sympathetic.
She didn’t want him to think she was a martyr. “No, I wouldn’t marry him before. He came back, you see, wanted to marry me then, and I refused. About a year ago, a little longer than that. Before he returned to India.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She worried her lip, tasted a stray fragment of orange peel. “He seemed mad. I was afraid to put myself under his power, and I was arrogant, thought Jacob and I were better off alone.” The biscuit turned into a rock in her stomach, weighing her down. “But it wasn’t true. Maybe if there was a male in my household Jacob wouldn’t have seemed such an easy target.”
Mr. Hales leaned forward. “He wouldn’t have done you any good. The nanny would have known he was bedridden, ill.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to believe him. “Are you sure?”
He took her hand, his own so warm that it seemed to add life to her skin. “Yes, Miss Redcake. I am sure. The opportunity would still have been there. What do you think, now that this avenue has been ruled out? Why was your son taken?”
She stared at his hand, the fine hairs covering the thick wrist, the ropy veins. Once she had thought such a hand in hers was her right. Then the only hand she could claim was a small child’s. And now, nothing. “I suppose it was just for the money. Gipsies are kidnappers. It is well known.”
“It is rumored. I do not know if it is true.” His hand squeezed and pulled away.
How she wanted a hand to hold hers again. She sat, doing nothing but breathing, remembering the feel of Jacob’s small, fragile hand in her palm. She had taken her son for granted, forgetting what a miracle he was.
“Miss Redcake?”
She glanced down, pulling the shreds of her professional personality over the frightened mother, and realized she had downed her biscuit. “So sorry, woolgathering. I think I can eat that soup now.”
He lifted the cloche off the bowl. “It is probably better eaten at my desk.”
She nodded and stood slowly, then reseated herself as he placed the bowl of steaming white soup on his desk, on top of a closed ledger. His presence loomed at her back as he pushed her chair toward the desk and handed her a spoon.
“Lord Judah is coming back on Monday and will retake the reins of the enterprise,” he said, as he came to the side of the desk and placed his hand on the shelf. “But between my duties here I took the time to go over to Douglas Flour and test some samples.”
“And?”
“I specifically asked to test the flour sacks earmarked for us in Bristol. It was all bad. I didn’t have time to check any other flour sacks, but the manager said he’d look into it. Obviously, if it is all bad we won’t be able to reorder until the problem is fixed. I’ll take a look at their books next week to see how they do things. Is our flour batched separately from other factories’ and so forth. I wonder if yours was sabotaged on purpose because we were experimenting here in London with the Liverpool supplier.”
“I’m sure you know what to do. I’ll leave you in charge.”
“That’s the thing, Miss Redcake. You see, I am in charge. Of the factories. I’m going to stay in London and oversee the earl’s businesses here. So I’ll be leaving Redcake’s.”
She’d never see his hand holding hers again either. The thought hurt more than it should, considering the fact that, so recently, he’d been nothing more than a too-handsome, too-rakish secretary, an underling, a subordinate. “I suppose I knew that. It will be strange, though. You are such a fixture here, Mr. Hales.”
“Like a piece of furniture.” He didn’t smile.
She kept her eyes on her soup as she fished out a piece of mushroom. “I hope you don’t think I feel that way.”
She glanced up as she swallowed. Far from his usual obsequious yet ultimately blank expression, she saw a hint of pain, a faint line between his brows. She felt the need to reassure him. Had she just seen a first crack of vulnerability in the handsome secretary’s face? “I know better now. Other than you thinking I’m a woman of loose morals, you’ve been very supportive and kind to me.”
“How could I be anything but, under the circumstances?” He sounded confused.
“You could have ignored the situation, ignored everything that wasn’t a part of your paid duties.”
“I’ve worked for your family too long for that.”
“I’ll think of you as a friend now.” Her voice caught. “If that is acceptable to you.”
His hand pressed gently on her shoulder. She closed her eyes, soaking in his touch, and when she opened them again, he’d stepped back.
A knock came at the door. She ignored the conversation, focusing on her soup, liking the warmth that filled her stomach.
“Sir Gawain has news,” Mr. Hales said, coming to her side again. “There are so few places to get a special license, and it won’t be possible until next week.”
“I see.” She nodded. “I suppose I won’t be getting married, then.”
“A week’s delay?”
“It will be too late for Mr. Bliven. It’s just one more thing I cannot do for Jacob.”
“There are more important things to do for him now.”
“Like finding him?” She had spoken without taking a breath, heard the shrill pitch in her voice.
“Don’t become hysterical, Miss Redcake. You said we are friends, correct? Then please give my poor choice of words the best possible interpretation.”
She sniffed. “Of course. I can do no less.”
“Sir Gawain is downstairs, ready to take you back to the train station.”
She nodded and pushed back her chair, and forced herself to face him, hold out her hand. Instead of shaking it like a man, he took her hand between both of his. She shuddered at the warmth, the touch. Good heavens, she was starving for it. “Best of luck to you with your new endeavors. We shall miss you terribly.”
“You will?” The left side of his mouth tilted up. She hadn’t noticed how lopsided his smile could be.
“Yes. If your position ever brings you to Bristol, I hope you will stop by.”
“Miss Redcake, I want to help you.”
She didn’t want to cry. “You will. Fixing the flour will protect my job, keep my company’s—my family’s—reputation in good standing. If we start losing customers, we’ll lose money, and what if we couldn’t pay the ransom?”
He nodded, sobered by that. “I will do everything I can, and stay in touch with you besides.”
“Greggory will have to be in the office Monday, even if I cannot. Please let one of us know what you find out.”
“Very well. Have a safe journey home.” He squeezed her hands again, then released them.
She felt like a corpse walking as she left the office. Home to more disappointment, more emptiness, more fear. Where was Jacob?
&
nbsp; On Monday, Ewan went to Redcake’s very early, but he found Lord Judah Shield there even earlier still. He’d stepped onto the street just after sunrise, but Lord Judah must have walked over in the dark.
His manager smiled at him from his office doorway and said, “Why don’t you fetch us up a pot of tea and some of those nut scones and we’ll catch up? I haven’t dined yet.”
Ewan knew he wouldn’t be able to eat. He’d made himself oatmeal over the fire that morning in his room and had barely managed two bites. Besides, he had meetings at Douglas Flour at eleven A.M. He noted that Lord Judah had his diary of events open on his desk and knew most of the catching up could be done from his notes, so he nodded and went back downstairs.
The late round of bakery deliveries was just going out and it was nearly seven thirty before he made it back upstairs with a teapot and fresh-made scones, still too warm for their sugar glaze. He set the tray down on the table between the armchairs in Lord Judah’s office for the last time, and poured the tea.
The telephone rang and his ears pricked. He went to answer it, hoping for news of Jacob Bliven. He’d fretted in his room all Sunday, closed off from the telephone at Redcake’s, wishing he could go to Bristol instead of preparing for his new life; making sure his clothing was spotless, doing some marketing, touching up where his landlady had left surfaces less than gleaming. By the end, his room might have been freshly moved into, it was so clean, and his clothing was in perfect repair, plus he’d spent money on a nearly new overcoat, all the better for protecting his suits from dust and soot on the trains. He’d ordered a new pair of shoes as well, from the cobbler who lived in his building. His best pair of shoes was too scuffed to take polish perfectly anymore.
The telephone call was from a restaurant with an emergency order. It should have come in downstairs, but Ralph Popham must not be answering the telephone yet. The poor man worked all hours, not seeming to have any kind of home life despite his daughter still being unmarried and living with him.
If he’d had to peg a woman for having an illegitimate child it would have been Betsy Popham, not Matilda Redcake, at least until he’d learned to know Matilda better. That kiss they had shared was pure fire, more passionate than anything with Betsy, even though they’d been far more intimate. If he hadn’t been so busy, he’d have become obsessed with reliving that kiss and scheming how to have another. On Saturday, though, he’d contented himself with touching her. She had not been ready for kisses. He wondered if they would meet in a few years. He, an earl, she, an established spinster running the Redcake’s factory. Would she consent to be his mistress then?
“Run downstairs, would you, Ewan?” Lord Judah asked, behind his desk now. “Turn in the order, tell Simon Hellman to send it over, find out where Mr. Popham is?”
Ewan knew if he did that the day would erupt into its usual Monday chaos. “I really need to speak to you, sir.”
“You know Mondays are not a good time,” Lord Judah said, staring at the towering stacks of information for him to follow up on. “Particularly today.”
“Yes, sir, but that is the problem. Your Monday is going to take a much worse turn.” Ewan folded his arms over his chest.
Lord Judah narrowed his uniquely striated amber and brown gaze at him, stood up from his desk, and went to his favorite armchair, then deliberately poured himself a cup of tea. Ewan was reminded that this man had been a military officer. When the battle was at its most heated was when a man like him became calm.
He waited until Lord Judah took his first sip, then sat down opposite him.
“What?”
Ewan unfolded his arms and spread his fingers over his thighs. “I am the heir to the Earl of Fitzwalter, courtesy of Lord Ritten’s recent death.”
“Scandalous something or other, what?” Lord Judah commented, finishing his first cup of tea and pouring another.
“That is not my point.”
Lord Judah’s eyes, so reminiscent of a tiger’s-eye stone, caught a ray of sunlight and gleamed gold for an instant. His lips curved. “I would imagine not. I had no idea you were so closely related to an earl. Sir Bartley never mentioned it.”
“He didn’t know any more than I did. But the problem is, I have to start work in a family business today. Ironically, it is one of the Redcake’s suppliers. I am going to oversee various businesses, including Douglas Flour, which has shipped the factories bad product recently.”
“So your fortunes are still intertwined with ours.”
“Precisely. I am also deeply concerned about Matilda Redcake, and I’d like to resolve the flour issue from the Douglas end; that is one less issue for her to worry about.”
“Don’t you mean you are concerned about her missing son?”
Ewan was silent. Lord Judah set down his teacup and nodded to himself. “I see. So you are interested in Matilda.”
Ewan let out a breath.
“I cannot tell you how unhappy all of this makes me. I never should have left the office. So often in the army you could take a leave of months and nothing would happen, but in business that does not seem to be the case.” Lord Judah ran a finger over his lower lip.
“No, sir.”
Lord Judah held out his hand. “It seems we are to be colleagues.”
Ewan hesitated, then took the proffered hand and shook it.
Lord Judah grinned. “Good luck with Matilda. You are going to need it.”
“She needs support, not a lover.”
Lord Judah sobered instantly. “I had an update last night from my brother. He’s down in Sussex, of course, due to his heir’s birth, but he’s been in close contact. Terrible business. We’ve had no indication anyone has taken Jacob out of Bristol, correct?”
“The ransom note was attached to the baby’s dog’s collar and left in that same park by the Redcake house.”
“Right. By Jove, I hope the child still lives.”
“It will kill her if he does not.”
It was hard to meet Lord Judah’s gaze directly, given his gleaming eyes, but in this moment, they shared a long glance of mutual concern.
“If I were you, I’d put off the earl for a few days and go back to Bristol. The child is more important, and the Redcakes need help. I’d have gone myself, but now I need to do your job, too.”
Ewan nodded. “When this is all over, try to bring Greggory Redcake down here. He’s a smart man, and if you train him here, he might be able to take on the new shop in Kensington by summer’s end. Betsy Popham wants to go as well.”
Lord Judah pursed his lips. “Doesn’t help me today.”
Ewan shook his head. “No, I understand that.” He stood. “I leave for my meeting at Douglas Industries in two hours.”
“Then to Bristol?”
“Do you really think it is wise?”
“Yes. The family trusts you. They need help.”
“Then I will return to Bristol. Jacob has been missing for five days.”
“It doesn’t look good for him. For all of Matilda’s faults, she doesn’t deserve this.”
Ewan gritted his teeth. Why did everyone have to keep damning the poor woman? “What faults? She made one foolish mistake, the same as many a woman before her, with a man who had concealed his engagement from her. Her own father introduced him to her as an honorable suitor.”
Lord Judah stared at the fire. “You have to understand how Society works. She was a tradesman’s daughter who was attempting to enter fashionable society. Her actions cost her younger sister any hope of an aristocratic marriage. They tore her family apart.”
“It was one mistake,” Ewan repeated. “One small mistake. I have no doubt her character has been formed by it ever since. I have never met a woman more self-contained, who so desperately needs to be held. That mistake took her out of Society, denied her any chance of an honorable marriage. Meanwhile, her own brother gave her seducer a position!”
“Matilda’s family didn’t ostracize her but trained her for a good position, too. She live
s in a mansion with servants to care for her and the child. She hasn’t done badly at all.”
“She’s all alone. Who does she turn to when her son is gone? Clearly her servants are less than honorable.”
“Her family is there with her.”
“Arguing with her, second-guessing her.”
“I understand she was convinced the boy’s father was behind the entire mess, and she was wrong about that.”
“So easy to mistrust the judgment of a fallen woman,” Ewan snarled.
“He is quite literally on his deathbed,” Lord Judah emphasized. “Gawain saw him two days ago.”
“I know that,” Ewan said. “I saw Matilda that day myself.”
They stared at each other. Lord Judah shook his head. “Never argue with a man in love. I would tell you, man to man, that you cannot have Matilda. She’s soiled goods, and a future earl cannot have that. She’s not good ton, or even ton at all. You will have enough problems, thanks to your own background. Thank God you didn’t marry Betsy Popham. Matilda is no better, not with Jacob.”
And what if he’s dead? The thought passed like lightning through Ewan’s mind and was just as quickly suppressed. It would not matter. He’d never been a secret, though he’d never been in London. Besides, he hadn’t been joking when he’d said the boy’s loss would kill Matilda. That boy was her exposed heart. Without him, all you’d ever see of her was a cold, clear-minded woman of business. The rest would die.
“I believe earls can do as they wish, but that is not the present topic. I will take your leave, Lord Judah, and will be in touch regarding the business relationship between Redcake’s and Douglas Flour, though I expect most of my dealings will be with Matilda if you retain the Liverpool suppliers.”
Lord Judah didn’t respond, merely bit into a scone. After he chewed and swallowed, he said, “No glaze?”
Ewan closed his eyes and shook his head. “I chose speed over perfection today. Not my usual style. I apologize.” Not bothering to wait for Lord Judah’s response, he went to the outer room and picked up his box. He’d take his things directly over to his new office, wherever that might be. After settling in and putting in orders to hire a secretary of his own, he’d take his meeting with his managers, then go to the train station.
Wedding Matilda (Redcakes Book 6) Page 10