My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3)

by Sydney Jane Baily

  “Yes, I would like a variety so I can taste what you offer, and hopefully, you have time to explain what’s in them.”

  “Of course. Would you like to sample anything first?”

  “That seems like bribery. A free chocolate will taste better than one I’ve paid for.”

  “Will it?” Charlotte asked, trying to follow the woman’s logic. What on earth did she mean? “You don’t have to have a sample if you don’t wish it. We offer one to everyone who enters.”

  “Do you? Hm. That’s a nice policy. What do you suggest?”

  Charlotte wanted to suggest she leave and go elsewhere. Instead, she said, “Everyone likes chocolate. Unless you have a particular hankering for toffee or marzipan, then please, let me give you a chocolate to sample.”

  “Very well.” The woman waited, as Charlotte took a small saucer off the shelf behind her and chose a chocolate with the silver pincers, placing it on the plate before handing it to her. “That has a hint of orange in it. Delicious and refreshing.”

  Just then, a couple entered, the man clearly doting on the woman, barely watching where he was going for gazing at her, and young lady equally distracted. Newlyweds, Charlotte would hazard a guess.

  “Would you like a sample?” she asked them, while the woman in front of her ate the chocolate. “Or do you know what you want?”

  “You don’t want this,” the woman said.

  “I beg your pardon,” Charlotte’s attention snapped back to the difficult customer. Even the distracted pair looked up at her tone.

  “If they want chocolate and orange, I mean, for there isn’t a hint of orange in it.”

  Frowning, Charlotte retrieved the plate the woman held out to her and reached for another chocolate. She sniffed it and then bit it in half before placing it on the counter behind her.

  “You’re correct,” came the words she wished she didn’t have to say. “Apparently, those are plain chocolate, put on the wrong shelf. How about raspberry and chocolate?”

  “Since you don’t know what’s in your chocolates and since I can’t tell until I’ve eaten them, which might take all day, I think I would like to try the toffee.”

  Ignoring the insult, Charlotte nodded and handed her a piece of Bea’s treacle toffee on the plate.

  Then she turned to the couple. “Would you like a sample, perhaps chocolate with raspberry essence?”

  “If you can believe it,” the woman muttered.

  “No, thank you,” the man said. “We’ll take a half-pound tin of the chocolate-covered toffee, right, my love?”

  His love nodded. “And two marzipan pigs,” she added. “They’re so adorable.”

  Even as she was speaking, Charlotte had already gathered up a tin and filled it with the chocolate treacle toffee, and was just reaching for the pigs, when she was interrupted.

  “Are you ignoring me?” the woman asked. “I was here first, but you’re serving them.”

  Charlotte looked from her to the newlyweds at the other end of the counter.

  “They know what they want,” she said, “so I can serve them while your tasting the toffee.”

  “I’ve tasted the toffee,” she said, “and it is burnt. My Aunt Jenny makes better.” She looked at the two newlyweds. “I wouldn’t get it if I were you.”

  “We’ve had it before,” the man said. “It’s delicious.”

  The woman shrugged. “To each his own.” She pointed to the plate. “But that was burnt. In any case, I was here first, and I had to wait before that.”

  “We can wait,” the young woman said, sounding less than enthusiastic.

  “But not for long,” the man added. “My wife’s parents are waiting.”

  Charlotte felt like huffing with frustration with the way one customer had taken over the situation when she had almost got the other two out the door, which now seemed imperative with this testy female maligning everything.

  However, hoping to disavow the woman’s judgment, Charlotte picked up a piece of toffee and tucked it into her mouth to suck on. Scorched! She couldn’t help coughing. It had definitely cooked too long. She had no way of knowing if the chocolate-covered toffee was the same, and she wasn’t sure whether to give the young couple a taste or not.

  She’d never had a moment’s doubt about their confectionery before, and yet now... What an odd predicament!

  Hoping for the best, Charlotte put two pieces of the chocolate-smothered toffee onto a clean plate and handed it to the man. “Please, I insist. While you wait.” They took it gratefully and she turned her attention back to the first.

  “Would you like me to put together a variety of confectionery, chocolate, marzipan, and toffee?”

  “I suppose, although what I just ate makes me doubtful. Still, how bad can it all be?” The woman said that with a casual shrug as if she hadn’t just insulted all of Rare Confectionery.

  Charlotte tamped back her irritation. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the couple each take a piece of toffee.

  “And the tins are pretty,” the woman continued. “I would like to have my order in one of those. I’ll have one of the chocolates from each of those shelves and the chocolate toffee — it can’t be any worse — and a piece with nuts. And I’ll take those two marzipan pigs.”

  “Those are the only two I have left,” Charlotte said, glancing again at the young couple who seemed to be making faces at each other. Oh dear! Was that toffee scorched, too?

  “That’s not my problem, is it?” the woman remarked. “Whoever makes the marzipan should have made more. I understand this shop has been here for many years. It certainly looks old, with this dirty floor and your shabby appearance. Someone here should know how many marzipan pigs to make for a day.”

  Charlotte felt her face flame. She’d never been told off like this before. Her heart was pounding in her chest. In truth, she should have made more marzipan sculptures the night before, but instead, she’d run off to Lord Jeffcoat’s with the lease.

  “I’m sorry, but this couple has already reserved the pigs.”

  “But I was here first,” the woman protested.

  Charlotte had never been at such a loss. She’d already started filling a tin with chocolates and toffee, but now she felt like dumping the tin’s contents onto the customer’s head. Smartly dressed with a jaunty hat, a well-fitted paletot, and no-nonsense wool skirt, the woman looked, in a word, professional. So why was she acting like a shrew?

  “The marzipan leaves taste the same as the pigs,” Charlotte told them. “Or the fruit shapes, with some additional flavorings.”

  “I want the pigs,” she declared.

  “That’s all right,” said the newlywed bride. “She may have the pigs.”

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said.

  “In any case, we can’t wait any longer,” the young man said. “We’ll return another time.”

  Before Charlotte could rescue the sale, the door opened again. The couple slipped out as Mr. Richardson walked in.

  “I’ll be with you shortly,” she told him, quickly putting the pigs into the tin and jamming on the lid.

  “Shouldn’t you have weighed each of those separately?” the woman asked.

  In truth, Charlotte would have, except she charged for the pigs by the piece not the pound, and she knew how much the chocolates and the toffee weighed approximately. She’d been doing this for so long, she’d already added it all in her head.

  “I know what the cost is,” she said stubbornly, and told her the price.

  “How do I know that’s the cost? I ought to see it weighed.”

  Charlotte sighed, removing the two pigs with the statement. “These are thruppence a piece, as the sign says, or 2 shillings per pound.” Then she put the toffee on the scale. “This chocolate-covered toffee is 1 shilling, 6 pence per pound. More expensive than the plain toffee.” Then she put the chocolates on the scale. “And this assortment of chocolates, made in the French style, are two shillings, six pence per pound.”

&n
bsp; Again, she gave the woman a total cost.

  “You said less before.”

  She stared the woman down. “I was off by tuppence in your favor, and since you were buying so much, I charged half price for the tin, but that’s another tanner. Of course, the tin is reusable so it’s good value.”

  The woman shrugged. “It could as easily have gone the other way.”

  Charlotte took her money, and the woman still didn’t leave. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No.”

  They stared at one another.

  “You may help this gentleman now,” she said as if giving Charlotte permission. “I want to see how you treat other customers.”

  What on earth?

  “He and I have private business to attend.”

  “Really?” the woman dragged the word out and raised her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

  “For pity’s sake,” Charlotte exclaimed. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  After a knowing glance at Mr. Richardson and then a slow look back at Charlotte, the woman sauntered out with her tin.

  “How are you, Miss Rare-Foure?” he asked, approaching the counter.

  “Bewildered, Mr. Richardson. She was one of the strangest customers I’ve ever had the misfortune to wait upon. And everything seemed to be a bit off, including our confectionery.”

  “Yes, about that,” he said. “My wife and I tucked into the toffee after dinner. It ... well, it had an odd flavor. The coffee chocolates were superb however. But the toffee... Anyway, I am not complaining, but I thought you might want to know.”

  Her heart sunk into her shoes. “Thank you for telling me. I would give you a different batch today, but I fear we are having a bit of a problem with our apprentice.” She sighed, but then recalled why he was there.

  “Meanwhile, I have an answer for you. I am pleased to say Rare Confectionery would like to take over the second floor. I will sign the lease, but we’ll need a notary public.” She was glad she could use the unfamiliar term that Lord Jeffcoat had mentioned to make sure everything was legal and authorized.

  Mr. Richardson nodded. “Yes, certainly. We need two copies anyway. I’ll get this one copied at the printer’s, and for a notary public, we can go to Cheeswrights. It’s across from Billingsgate Market.”

  Charlotte drew back, astounded. “I cannot possibly go all the way to the docks today.” In any case, her parents would definitely not approve of her going to the Canary Wharf by herself. “I have a business to run.”

  “All right. John Venn and Sons is closer, on Aldwych Street. I’ll meet you there later. Will four o’clock work, just before they close?”

  She didn’t see how she possibly get there when she would have an open shop, customers at the counter, and questionable confectionery. Nevertheless, she nodded.

  “Yes, that’s fine. I’ll see you there.”

  CHARLES WAS CONFLICTED, and he didn’t care for the feeling. Leaving the Inns of Court, he went home and saddled his favorite gelding. A ride through Hyde Park in the afternoon would clear his head. What he saw everywhere were husbands and wives riding together. Or, at least, he imagined he did. He didn’t know how Waverly felt about marriage — or even if the rogue had feelings — but watching Pelham experience marital bliss and now approach fatherhood, Charles felt he, too, was ready to take a wife.

  After all, he had passed the halfway mark of his twenties and could see the great age of thirty on the horizon. And lucky him, he happened to have found a young woman who piqued his interest.

  So why was he conflicted?

  He didn’t know if Charlotte Rare-Foure were truly a suitable wife, even though he’d been thinking about her to the detriment of his cases and any useful thoughts, ever since dropping her home. The memory of their astounding kiss haunted him, if such a thoroughly delightful occurrence could be considered in such terms. But haunting seemed correct, for her face appeared before his eyes as he tried to write notes and the feel of her lips, the taste of them, too, had him longing for more.

  At his age, he thought it a pleasant revelation to learn how kissing could be a new experience. He’d kissed his moderate share of women, but when his lips had touched Charlotte’s ... he shook his head. All he knew was he could have continued kissing her for hours, feeling at the time as though they were forming some singularly deep bond.

  Directing his horse along Rotten Row, he nodded to those who greeted him, although he seemed to recognize no one while absently pondering the confectioner. Her sisters had both found husbands, and Pelham’s wife made an acceptable duchess by all accounts, seeming calm and gracious. But Charlotte as a viscountess and one day a countess? Charles wasn’t sure.

  Undoubtedly, she could easily handle the task of being an excellent hostess, as well as handle household accounts since she could run a shop and seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. But there was more to a mate than that. She must be a nurturing mother, a dependable helper, and if he needed a good ear, she ought to be like the pulpit sounding board, so he could discern his clearest ideas from her returning them to him.

  Moreover, if thousands of evenings together stretched before them, perhaps seated in his study, he wanted a wife who would enjoy reading and discussing the stories.

  Strangely, the middle-class shopgirl seemed suited to all that and more.

  As to the other talents of ladies of his class, he knew they ought to be able to sketch, play the piano, and even sing, but he didn’t care one way or the other if she had any of those dubious skills.

  There was, in fact, only one thing that truly mattered to him — faithfulness.

  Chapter Ten

  Waverly was going to tease him whether he learned of it sooner or later, so Charles might as well get the worst of it over. He sat at White’s club with Pelham and Waverly, partly enjoying a mid-day meal, partly not enjoying it, since his thoughts were racing.

  Pelham vowed not to spend every moment talking about siring an heir, but as it was the single thing on his mind, he did so anyway. The duke predicted when he thought his child was going to arrive, he explained in detail what strange things his wife was asking to eat, and he listed the names they were considering for their offspring. However, when he started to list the colors they’d chosen for the nursery, Waverly sighed so loudly, it droned out Pelham entirely.

  “I’m sorry,” Waverly said, “were you still talking? I thought I could hear flies buzzing in my ears. What about you, Jeffcoat?”

  He set down his wine glass. “Bees droning, I believe.”

  “All right,” Pelham said, but his smile was no less bright. “I am going to be a father.”

  “Really?” Waverly quipped. “One would never know it. Why don’t you tell us all about it?”

  The three of them laughed.

  “Well, what other news then?” Pelham asked. “What about you, Waverly? Any sweet young lady in your capable sights?”

  Waverly shrugged. “I am not attending anything this Season, unless the two of you want to make asses of yourself again at a costume ball.”

  “I think not,” Pelham said. “Once you’ve been to a royal fancy-dress ball hailed as the event of the decade, it seems as if there is little point in going to another.”

  Waverly shrugged, as if that said it all. But Charles wondered if Pelham realized their friend had dodged and deflected the question about a woman of interest. Apparently he did not, for Pelham was busy humming a lullaby they all knew from childhood.

  “Are you practicing?” he asked the duke.

  “What?” Pelham exclaimed.

  Charles smiled. “You seem to be humming a little song meant for children. I must assume you are practicing.”

  Waverly chortled as Pelham’s face went red.

  “I hadn’t realized I was doing so. My duchess and I, that is, she gave me a book.”

  “What book?” Waverly pressed.

  “Tommy Thumb's—” Pelham began.

  “God, no!” Waverly exclaimed, l
ooking horrified.

  “Pretty Song Book,” the duke finished.

  “Tommy Thumb's Pretty Song Book,” Waverly echoed, torn between being aghast and thoroughly amused. In the end, he grinned and shook his head.

  “Yes,” Pelham said, lifting his chin, “we have both been memorizing the songs.”

  Charles didn’t have the heart to make fun of him. “I think that’s wonderful. You will make a good father, and your duchess will make a fine mother.”

  The three fell silent. His good friends knew how his own mother had turned out — not the best, to be exact — and had made an even worse wife to his father. After a moment, Pelham asked, “What about you?”

  Charles frowned. “What about me?”

  “Come along, Jeffcoat, isn’t it time you leaped into the marital abyss?” the duke asked.

  Since that was so close to his own thoughts, he couldn’t dismiss the question or laugh it off, and Waverly caught the scent of a juicy tale immediately.

  “Why, I believe our Jeffcoat does in fact have someone in mind with whom he wishes to leap into that infernal abyss. Look at him, Pelham,” Waverly insisted. “He can hardly concentrate on his food for fawning over some miss.”

  Charles blinked at them both, gathering his thoughts, ready to tell them.

  “I do believe you are right,” Pelham said, his tone not in jest like their friend’s.

  “He is right,” Charles confessed. “There is a female whom I fancy. I’m not sure...,” he trailed off. What part of his doubts should he disclose?

  “No one is ever sure,” Pelham said, and his simple words made Charles feel better.

  “That’s true,” Waverly joined in. “I remember Pelham here thinking his duchess might love another man, then he thought her in love with her chocolate or some such nonsense. In the end, we all knew they were perfect for one another. So what about you?”

  Charles sipped his wine again. Once he told them, there would be no retrieving it. He fixed Pelham with his gaze. “I fancy myself attracted to your sister-in-law, as it turns out.”