My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3)

by Sydney Jane Baily

  Charles nodded and found himself swept along by her good humor to the lobby, her maid trailing behind. As Charlotte had predicted, her sister quickly found them. The women hugged, and Mr. Carson stuck out his hand for a solid shake.

  “Are you enjoying it?” Charlotte asked, not pausing for an answer. “I knew you would. What a clever premise, and how fun the two of you coming. Did you know it was set in Scotland? Mr. Carson, did it make you think you should have stolen my sister away?” And then, she did clap her hands in glee. “I think the two of you should join us in the box for the end of it. You do have to crane your neck a little, but there is oodles of room.”

  She turned to Charles who’d never heard such a tide of words, as if a dam had broken. “That’s fine with you, isn’t it? The more the merrier. Oh my goodness! Where is Delia? Did we lose her? Bea, Delia is with us as my chaperone. Can you believe it? As if I needed a chaperone, and with Lord Jeffcoat?”

  Charles felt as if he’d been slapped in the face and emasculated at the same time.

  The snapdragon recognized the slight at once, and said, “Dear one, you recall last year. We all need a chaperone for propriety’s sake.” Then she glanced at her husband. “And any man may turn out to be a danger to one’s heart, if not to one’s person.”

  Charles watched the two of them exchange a long look before Mrs. Carson looked at him again, cocked her head a little jauntily and added, “Lord Jeffcoat seems as likely a suitor as any I’ve ever seen.”

  Well! He appreciated that, to be sure. Charlotte paused, gave him a long appraisal, and said, “Of course. I didn’t mean he wasn’t as dangerous as any man. But I trust him more than any other I know because he is the duke’s good friend. It’s like having another brother-in-law.”

  Charles breathed in deeply. Worse and worse. Now he was like a brother! He had greatly miscalculated his own appeal, to be sure.

  “Shall we all have some champagne before it is too late?” Charlotte continued, unaware of how her honest words cut him.

  Only then did the snapdragon take her sister in hand with the mildest of reprimands.

  “You really should not have used that abominable whistle of yours. Imagine Mother’s face.” She fell silent with a shake of her head.

  Incredibly, instead of looking chagrinned, Charlotte began to snicker, and her sister joined in, probably together picturing their mother.

  “Miss Charlotte did succeed in getting our attention,” Mr. Carson added, and then they put the matter behind them as if humiliation on such a grand scale were nothing.

  Charles was stunned, even though he knew it was pointless to dwell as there was no redress for it, no taking back the wretched sound.

  After the refreshments, they headed back into the auditorium, and as Charlotte had insisted, the Carsons joined them in his box. With the maid, there were five of them enjoying the performance. All hope of sniffing Charlotte’s neck and asking what perfume she wore or telling her how much he appreciated her smile vanished like the artful stage smoke. What’s more, she spent all her time whispering to her sister when she wasn’t laughing uproariously at the play’s events.

  Despite thinking Charlotte’s laughter to be delightful, so genuine and spontaneous, Charles had come to an irrevocable conclusion by the play’s end. The evening — and asking out Miss Rare-Foure — had been a mistake from start to finish.

  Chapter Six

  “I’m so sorry to leave you like this,” Felicity said over dinner a week later while Charlotte anxiously absorbed the startling news of her father’s sudden ill-health.

  “It’s just indigestion,” Armand Foure grumbled. “Interfering physician.”

  “My love,” Felicity said, “he is a good doctor, you know that. And it may be merely indigestion, but you’ve not been yourself and he said the sea air is what you need. It’s warm enough now, we won’t freeze in Newquay. We’ll even be able to swim.”

  “Newquay,” Charlotte mused, recalling a visit to the Cornish coast a few years back with her parents and her sisters. She wished she could go, too, but as her mother was making clear, the shop was hers to run.

  It was the first time she would live alone on Baker Street with only the servants. Moreover, she would be working practically alone, too. She had Edward, but Bea never came in early when it wasn’t a busy time of year, especially now that Edward could do the cleaning. And Amity hardly came in at all anymore. Instead, her sister made chocolates from home, and Edward retrieved them for the shop. Fortunately, he had taken to confectionery like a duck to water and could actually make smooth fondant, temper chocolate, and create bonbons by himself. He didn’t have the skill to blend flavors, but he carefully followed recipes that Amity gave him.

  When Charlotte opened the shop the next day, for the first time in her life, a tendril of fear unfurled inside her. This was their family’s livelihood, after all. Then she realized, that wasn’t the case for Amity and Beatrice anymore, and the fear eased off slightly. Nevertheless, without her mother there, Charlotte would have to stay all day, every day.

  Daunted for a moment, she reminded herself it was temporary, and her father would be well soon. Even then, her parents were already on a train on their way to Cornwall. Everyone knew good salty air and seawater would make Armand Foure right as rain in no time. Still, she had a small lump of worry in her throat that she couldn’t quite swallow away.

  Edward arrived, right on time as usual. They tidied and cleaned anything that hadn’t been done the night before, and then, while he stocked the cases, she prepared the delivery orders.

  “We’re like a well-greased machine, Edward.”

  “What do you mean, miss?” he asked, adjusting his apron, of which he now had three that all fit him well and made him look more his age.

  “Meaning we work well together, you and I.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said. “The greased parts of machinery don’t grind against one another.”

  “Precisely, although I never thought about it so deeply.”

  He chuckled. Charlotte had come to enjoy that sound. At first, he had been the most serious child, but after weeks of making steady money, learning the trade, and feeling more confident, he was becoming lighter in manner and humor.

  When she explained about her parents going away, his expression became grown-up in an instant. “I will do anything I can to help you, Miss Charlotte.”

  “I know you will, and I appreciate it. Get the deliveries done and when Bea arrives, you can try making another batch of toffee with her.”

  He’d burned the last one, but Charlotte wasn’t sure she would have done any better. Toffee-making seemed the most persnickety thing in the world, and she’d decided to ask Bea about getting an hourglass timer and marking it to the precise moment so both she and Edward could be assured of success when her sister wasn’t around.

  After turning the sign to “Open,” with Edward not yet returned, Charlotte began working quietly making marzipan sweets, interrupted every few minutes by a customer’s arrival. After the excursion with Lord Jeffcoat the previous week, she had regained some of her former good humor, realizing she was missing the friendly interactions with her customers by being churlish and melancholy.

  An hour passed pleasantly with her handing out samples and selling more than she had in days. When the door opened, Charlotte looked up at the bell with a welcoming smile to see not a customer but their landlord.

  “Mr. Richardson,” she said with surprise, for she’d only seen him half a dozen times in as many years. Nothing changed about him except his moustache grew thicker and grayer each year. “What brings you in? Some sweets for Mrs. Richardson?”

  She had no idea if there even was a missus, but it was always good to ask. Most men didn’t think about it until the idea was put into their heads that confection was a welcome present, especially for no occasion at all.

  “Why, yes,” he said, looking around as if only just realizing what they sold. “I’ll take a tin of that toffee everyone�
�s always raving about.”

  Glad to hear of it, she was more determined than ever that Bea teach her and Edward how to time it properly.

  “But I came to speak to your mother. Is she here?”

  “No, sir.” And then the realization hit here. “She is away indefinitely, but I’m in charge. I am running the shop.”

  “Really.” He peered at her over his spectacles. His bushy moustache moved up and down as if he were chewing the air while pondering that fact. “I was going to say you seem young to manage a shop, but then, you’ve been here all your life, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Is something the matter?”

  “The contrary actually. I am wondering if your mother would like to expand the shop to have the second floor suite. It’s vacant now. Mrs. Hafflen has retired to the country. It’s been all cleaned out. Before I start showing it to possible tenants, I wanted to offer it to your family. More convenient thing, I can’t imagine, than suddenly doubling your space without having to move.”

  Charlotte could scarcely breathe. Was it fate? It was exactly what she’d hoped for when she’d spoken to her mother about expanding weeks ago. Felicity’s answer had been definitely no, but only because she didn’t want to leave New Bond Street or have two locations. This was a miracle offering!

  “How long do we have to consider this offer?” Charlotte’s hands were trembling, and absently, she reached for a chocolate and popped it in her mouth. She would send a letter to her parents at once and —

  “Just until tomorrow I’m afraid.”

  Charlotte swallowed too quickly and choked. Grabbing a paper napkin, she coughed until she’d regained her composure. Mr. Richardson’s moustache moved up and down more rapidly, but he waited patiently, saying nothing.

  “Excuse me,” she said when she could speak. “I do wish I had more time.”

  “Word got out quickly after Mrs. Hafflen moved out, and all sorts of people have been asking. Everyone wants to be on New Bond Street, as you know. I’m being mindful that you don’t want a dance hall above your head.” He laughed ruefully as if that were a possibility.

  In truth, Charlotte didn’t want anything above her head except the quiet pillow woman unless it was more Rare Confectionery.

  “Do you have a lease I can read over? And the rent? Is it the same as for this floor?”

  He eyed her a minute. “Actually, it’s a little less because there aren’t street-front windows.”

  She nodded, feeling a thrill of potential dance down her spine. Glancing around the shop, she thought about customers being told they could go upstairs for a rich beverage and to eat confectionery. Or maybe the dining room would be down here and the counter service upstairs. The possibilities spread out before her.

  “We would have to decorate upstairs so it resembled the shop,” she mused. Her mother liked as much white and sapphire blue as possible, although Charlotte adored the myriad rich jewel tones of the popular Aesthetic mode.

  “You could do that. You could even build a staircase in here.” The landlord glanced around. “I suppose over in that corner, so customers don’t have to go outside to get upstairs.”

  “Could we?” Charlotte asked, feeling even more excited. In her mind, she could already see the rooms above filled with small, cloth-covered tables and customers enjoying steaming mugs of chocolate or coffee and plates of sweets. They had so much extra income from the hotel and restaurant contracts, she couldn’t see any problem with paying more rent. And with Amity and Beatrice no long living off the store’s profits, expansion seemed perfectly reasonable.

  All at once, despite standing alone in the shop with all the responsibility of Rare Confectionery having fallen to her, she couldn’t think of a single reason not to do it.

  “Will you return tomorrow? I promise to have an answer for you then.”

  He nodded and drew some papers from his satchel. “Here are the terms, the rent, and the square footage. All that.”

  Taking it, she tucked it on the shelf behind her and grabbed a pound tin of toffee, sliding it across the counter to him.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “With my compliments,” she said.

  “Hm. If you want to be a woman of business, Miss Rare-Foure, then you must charge me.”

  She smiled. “All right, I will. But first, please choose a sample. As a business woman, I want you to try something else, and maybe you’ll wish to buy it as well.”

  He laughed. She gave him one of Amity’s coffee-flavored chocolates, the distinctive taste of which made his eyebrows raise.

  “I’ll take half a pound of those,” he said, drawing out his wallet as soon as he’d swallowed, “along with the toffee. You are a fine business woman. I shall see you about the same time tomorrow. I hope you take my offer. Otherwise, I believe it will be a photographer above your head having clients marching up those side stairs from morning till night, or the other interested party was a well-heeled boot maker—” he paused to laugh at his own little pun.

  “That one hoped you would close soon so he might open a shop right here below. In any case, that might be quite a bit of hammering overhead. Both those two fellows were chomping at the bit.”

  IT WAS INSANITY — CHARLOTTE knew that, but time was fleeting. Heading straight to Park Lane after work, she knocked on Lord Jeffcoat’s townhouse door all by herself. Without a chaperone! It was unquestionably no longer polite visiting hours, which ended about three o’clock for the aristocratic set. After that, a visitor might expect an invitation to a meal, and most people didn’t want that imposition laid at their doorstep or upon their kitchen staff at short notice.

  An older man, nearly as tall as Lord Jeffcoat, answered the door, clearly a butler of the quality of Amity and the duke’s efficient butler. Nothing like their own dear man servant Mr. Finley, who was labelled a butler only by the most generous interpretation of the term.

  The butler looked over her head for a moment, and Charlotte wished she had Beatrice’s height. In any case, when he looked down at her, his rather severe face softened.

  “Yes, miss?”

  In her gloved hand was a Rare Confectionery business card. It didn’t have her name, but she said, “I am Miss Rare-Foure. If his lordship is home, would you mind giving him my card? I shall wait.”

  Handing it to him, she tucked her hands behind her back and almost started to whistle. Not the whistle that seemed to make everyone uneasy, but a little tuneful song. However, she stopped herself when he looked at the card and turned it over, then over again. Perhaps he had no intention of letting her in. It was out of the ordinary, to be sure. Probably no unexpected or uninvited visitor had turned up at the viscount’s home all week if not all year.

  “Lord Jeffcoat and I are already acquainted,” she assured him. Perhaps the butler thought her a woman of ill-repute, wanting to be caught in a compromising situation so she could blackmail the viscount. Maybe he feared she were some poor servant whom his master had ill-used, who was there to declare she carried his child.

  With her thoughts running wild — from reading too many of Delia’s penny-dreadfuls to keep her mind busy in the evenings — Charlotte could do nothing but look directly into the man’s eyes while smiling encouragingly. After all, she was a woman of business!

  Something worked on the butler, for he stepped back and invited her in. “If you will wait here, please, miss, I shall ask his lordship if he is seeing visitors.”

  “Thank you,” she said, delighted to wander the foyer. The man went up the stairs, leaving her to examine a marble bust that seemed to be someone ancient, a Greek, she supposed. Then she moved on to a gorgeous red vase that she knew to be Venetian glass, having seen the like in Italy. So pretty, with gold overlay seemingly dripping symmetrically down the sides. She had to clench her fists behind her back. Her mother had always said the safest thing to do was not to touch, but she sorely wanted to.

  Lastly, on the far wall next to a closed door, there was a landscape. Charlotte’s h
eart clenched when she saw it was similar to one they’d attempted to copy from a print in art class, probably the same painter. Lionel’s copy had been the best, without doubt.

  Footsteps drew her out of her thoughts spiraling into sadness. When she turned, Lord Jeffcoat was arriving on the bottom step, looking as though he’d galloped down them. He ran a hand through his hair combing it back, and then tugged at his coat as if he’d just donned it. She’d apparently caught him in a state of dishabille.

  “My apologies, Miss Rare-Foure, for keeping you waiting. I was not expecting any visitors tonight.”

  “It is I who must apologize for barging in here uninvited, but I knew of no other lawyer, and I have only until early tomorrow.” Surprised to learn the previous year that Lord Jeffcoat was studying the law, as she’d assumed no titled gentleman did anything so taxing, the other evening he’d informed her he’d been called to the Bar. Charlotte couldn’t be more relieved to have a legal mind close at hand within her circle of acquaintance.

  He hesitated, but then said, “That’s quite all right. You are always welcome as the sister-in-law of my very good friend.”

  She thought that kind of him, although she also realized they’d taken a step back. She noted with curiosity that she wasn’t welcome simply as the woman he wanted to escort around town, which she was no longer confident to be the case.

  Lord Jeffcoat had seemed to enjoy her company at the Haymarket Theatre, as well as that of her sister and Mr. Carson. Nevertheless, after bringing her directly home, he’d seen her to her door, and with a curt bow, left her and Delia on the front step. Moreover, he had not returned to the shop after that, nor had he invited her out again.

  In truth, she was a little interested at the reason for his inattention, taking it to mean he’d found her unsatisfactory in some way. Distracted with running the shop in her mother’s absence, though, Charlotte had been unable to rise to the level of being miffed and could barely claim herself even to be bothered — simply curious.