Every address she’d had time to investigate was tidy and well-kept. Any work he’d done must have been good if it had been accepted by those people. Then she’d stopped in at a builder’s office whose address was in an advertisement in the newspaper. His clerk had been rude as if he couldn’t believe Charlotte was in a position to hire anyone. When she’d insisted on being given a price for a staircase, he’d told her an exorbitant sum and that nothing could be done for a month.
Edward’s uncle had suddenly seemed like the best choice, all things considered. Moreover, Charlotte was pleased to be able to tell Amity she had things well in hand.
“I think we should toast to Miss Rare-Foure for what she’s accomplished,” Charles said.
“That may be a bit premature,” Charlotte protested, while feeling warm and happy.
“No,” Amity said, “I agree with Lord Jeffcoat. We are lucky to have you running the shop.” Then she added, “I am sure Mother will be pleased.”
If only her sister had said that more convincingly.
When the Pelham’s butler, Mr. Giles, announced dinner was ready and the four of them, with Amity decidedly waddling, went into the dining room, Charlotte was on Charles’s arm. As he drew out her chair, it reminded her of the first time they met and dined together at that same table a couple years earlier.
It had been a momentous night when she’d accompanied Amity to a party at the Pelham residence before her sister became engaged to the duke. In fact, it was the night Henry was supposed to propose to another. Instead, as Charlotte learned later, it had been the night that ended his previous relationship. She’d been partnered with Charles at dinner and recalled making the viscount laugh when she’d exclaimed over the fancy dishes being presented.
Glancing at him now, across the table, she wondered if he’d thought her half a fool when she’d simply been trying to be entertaining. Later that night, standing up for her sister, she’d told off a room full of nobility and not regretted it. Would her previous behavior — some had called it rude and outrageous — make him think twice about her suitability?
CHARLES COULD IMAGINE having many gatherings like this, entertaining and relaxing, with good friends and good food. And Charlotte. He glanced at her across the Pelham’s dining table. Even better if she became his wife.
He had made his decision, and simply had to bring it to fruition. The notion of waiting until her parents returned so he could ask her father properly for permission was appealing However, it seemed the duration of their time away from London was unknown. Over the pottage, Charlotte and the duchess discussed letters received from their mother, filled with vagaries and lack of detail. If he read between the lines, he would guess their father had taken a downturn in his health and their mother didn’t wish to worry the sisters.
Besides, it wasn’t as if these were the dark ages, or even the time of Prinny and his ilk. Charles knew many a man who had secured the woman’s consent before asking her father. Far less humiliating that way as far as he could see. Not much could be worse than having Mr. Foure give him permission, only to have Charlotte then say no, thank you.
He considered what else his peers did before becoming engaged. He would relinquish the age-old right to study her family’s bank account or inspect her ancestral lineage. He didn’t even particularly care about her family’s political connections or leanings, although a shopkeeper’s politics were generally known.
Moreover, Pelham had smoothed the path in their inner circle for taking as wife a girl not of their class, and elevating her to the nobility. It was still uncommon, to be sure, but was less extraordinary than it was in yesteryear. And Charles didn’t mind in the least if his wife ran a shop, any more than he thought it strange to be a barrister who was also a viscount.
As for his own father, the earl wouldn’t stop him or say anything to gainsay the arrangement. On the other hand, it was unlikely he would give his blessing, so disgusted by his own marital disaster.
Charles sighed, thinking how that had defined so much of his father’s life, and in some ways, his own.
“That was a deep sigh, Lord Jeffcoat,” Charlotte said. “I hope not one of discontent when this roast is so delicious.”
He smiled at her. “Certainly not one of discontent. There are potatoes smothered in cream on my plate. What could ever possibly be wrong?”
“And I believe dessert will even outshine the potatoes,” the duchess promised.
“Truly?”
Pelham grinned at the other end of the table. “My wife enjoys her sweets. It will probably be something with chocolate.”
“Perfect,” Charles said. What a contrast to a few years back when Pelham and Waverly were his dining companions, often at a greasy chophouse if not at their club. How much nicer with lovely ladies who smelled floral and citrusy! And instead of Waverly’s often sarcastic or even cynical wit, they were treated to the Rare-Foure sisters’ charm and clear thinking. But thinking of the devil...
“What is Waverly up to?”
The duchess looked chagrinned. “I confess, he was not on my guest list tonight for I couldn’t come up with a suitable dining partner for him on short notice.”
The duke laughed. “My dear wife has taken to heart the rules of our set. Better to cut someone out than to have an odd number at the table.”
“Oh,” the duchess moaned. “You’re right. I was a ninny. I should have simply invited him. Who cares about the symmetry when I might have hurt his feelings!”
Pelham looked at Charles, and they both laughed.
“Really, my love,” the duke assured her, “Waverly isn’t going to care one whit about missing a dinner, not even with potatoes. He’s off doing something he finds exciting, I know it.”
“And what would that be? What does a gentleman of your standing find exciting?” Charlotte asked, looking at her brother-in-law.
Charles looked at him, too, watching the man squirm. “Yes, tell us, Duke,” he asked, adding to his friend’s discomfit.
It was the duchess who laughed and rescued her husband. “Don’t tease him, Lord Jeffcoat. First of all, there is no one of his standing,” she insisted, looking only at Pelham, her gaze full of love.
Charles didn’t think of himself as a soppy sentimentalist, but he would vow he could feel the duchess’s love go from one end of the table to the other. His glance shot to Charlotte, who seemed to sense the same thing. Her beautiful brown eyes widened, and then her lips broke into a sweet smile. At that moment, he very much wanted her to look at him the way the duchess was gazing at Pelham.
“Second of all,” the duchess continued. “I know you two would be at your club, playing billiards or cards, and drinking too much brandy if you weren’t here being tamed by the gentler sex.”
“Tamed?” Charles repeated. Is that what happened to a man when he married?
The duke found his tongue. “Thank you, my love. I admire how well you know me. I also have appreciated how you’ve never stopped me going to White’s to spend time with my friends.”
They looked at each other again as if they were alone. This time, Charlotte cleared her throat.
“Enough of that moon-gazing at one another. I recall in Godey’s Lady’s Book that the host and hostess are not supposed to make their guests feel as if they are spoiled pudding, to be ignored.”
“I would never ignore spoiled pudding,” the duke said. “I would make sure my footman came in and swept it into the rubbish bin.”
“Henry!” the duchess exclaimed. “My sister is right. We can make moon eyes at each other later. Or at least, you can do so into the looking-glass, for I shall be asleep directly after dessert.
Charlotte shook her head. “Honestly, sister, you are also not supposed to make your guests feel as if they’ve stayed too long and are keeping you up.” She sipped her wine and added, “Sometimes, I think I would make a better duchess.”
“Or a viscountess.” Charles realized he’d said the words aloud when they all turned to him. H
is head swiveled as he looked from his best friend’s amused expression to the duchess’s with her raised eyebrows, before finally, his glance landed on Charlotte.
Her lips were parted, the full lower one caught between open and closed. She was surprised at him voicing such a thing, almost as much as he was, and her cheeks had turned a pretty shade of pink. He assumed his own had, too.
“Or a baroness or a ... princess,” he stumbled on, trying to make them believe he hadn’t meant anything by his remark.
“Why don’t we have dessert in the drawing room? This dining room is too large for four,” Amity said, proving she was a good hostess after all, breaking the tension-laden moment. Before she could do aught but set down her napkin beside her plate, the duke was sprinting around the table, there like a flash of lightning to pull out his wife’s chair and assist her from her seat.
Charlotte waited for Charles to do the same, although he did it at a less frenetic pace. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” he murmured close to her ear.
He felt a little shiver go through her, but she placed her arm on his, letting him escort her in their hosts’ wake.
“This was rather different than the first time we dined as partners in this room,” she reminded him.
“At least that night, we were seated next to each other and not five feet across a table. It was easier to converse. Tonight, every word seemed to echo around the room.”
“Every word,” she agreed.
And he knew she referred to only one: viscountess. It still echoed in his own head. But he would not say anything more about that tonight. This was hardly the romantic setting he’d envisioned for proposing.
As they entered Pelham’s drawing room — so different from his own in that it had cushions and soft flickering candlelight and attractive things — Charles had to confess to himself he had never envisioned how or when to propose. Except he knew they should be alone. How on earth could he be alone with her?
“You’re frowning, Jeffcoat,” his friend observed, pouring brandy as the ladies took their seats.
Charles shook it off and took the proffered glass as a footman brought in a tray with cake slathered in chocolate sauce. The duchess clapped her hands with delight. Obviously, the duke was right about his wife’s love of dessert.
Then he wondered precisely how one was supposed to keep a young woman’s reputation from being marred yet find a way to get her alone to ask for her hand. If he showed up at her home on Baker Street, he supposed he could ask for a moment without the ever-present Delia sitting close by.
He watched Charlotte, as she lifted a forkful of cake to her mouth, ate it, and savored it, her tongue appearing to lick her lips before she recalled where she was. Quick as lightning her tongue disappeared, and she lifted a napkin to her mouth. At the same time, her glance fell upon him.
Charles decided he had best be quick about asking her, lest she start to think him rude for staring whenever she was in his presence. And then it dawned on him the best place to get her alone.
Should he write up a persuasive argument as he would for the judge? Hopefully, he wouldn’t need flowery, romantic words — simply the truth.
Chapter Seventeen
“Before your uncle begins the stairs, we shall have to sell all the confectionery we have and not make any more,” Charlotte told Edward when he returned from making deliveries. “So stop making toffee. I’m going to put it on sale, as I did the day I had no idea what was in the chocolates.”
She returned to the front, then strode back through the curtain. “Except not a half-price sale. Something smaller but will yet pique their interest.”
He nodded.
“I think 10 percent is too small. Perhaps 25 percent off.”
He nodded again, so she turned and left him. He was not the same as having her sisters there to discuss issues. They would certainly have had an opinion.
Then a thought dawned on her, and she called out to him, “However, we need to have confectionery for our deliveries. I fear if we don’t continue them uninterrupted, those establishments might seek their sweets elsewhere.”
Edward didn’t respond.
“Can you tally up how much we need for five days?” she requested. “I’ll go over the amounts later and make certain. But five days will give your uncle plenty of time, and then we’ll do nothing but deliveries until the dust clears. Once the sawing and hammering has ceased, we shall begin again to sell down here and, at the same time, we’ll start to decorate upstairs.”
Still, Edward said nothing.
“I’ve already ordered tables,” she persisted. “Six of them. I saw one in the window of Chunley’s Emporium with a square marble top and black lacquered legs that have the sweetest gilt decoration. I think they’re perfect.”
Only silence met her remarks.
“Edward, are you there?”
“Yes, miss.”
Charlotte sighed. She had to work this out herself. She must continue to supply the hotels and restaurants but close the shop to regular customers. Perhaps she should put a sign on the door saying where one could find their chocolates.
She frowned. Customers would not stay at The Langham in order to eat Rare Confectionery, but they might go to one of the restaurants.
There was so much to think about. Not just with the shop but also with Lord Jeffcoat. When she was alone with a few minutes to examine her emotions, she could honestly say she now had a tendre for the man. More than that. Her heart leaped when she saw him and beat a little faster when he was near. Or when he spoke to her. Or when he gave her a certain look and smiled crookedly. Moreover, she was desperate for him to kiss her again.
She knew she shouldn’t let him take liberties with her person, but it was such a nice liberty.
With the tinkling of the bell, her thoughts were wrenched from such pleasant thoughts to the matters at hand. Mr. Tufts stopped by as promised.
“I would like to hire you,” she said, “but I shall pay you half the total cost at the start, and the rest after the work is completed.” The duke had suggested such a compromise, and when Mr. Tufts agreed, Charlotte shook his hand firmly, feeling as though she’d driven a hard bargain.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to begin,” he said and left with a bank cheque.
“Edward,” she called out. “You just missed your uncle.”
After a moment, his face appeared at the velvet curtain.
“He’s starting tomorrow.”
The boy nodded. While she wouldn’t say he was grim-faced, he’d definitely been quiet recently, even a tad sullen.
“Is there anything you wish to speak to me about?”
His eyes widened. “No, miss. I must get home.”
“Very well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes, miss.”
After he left, Charlotte turned the sign, locked the door, and began to write out a notice to put in the window explaining about their temporary closure. She ought to have built time into her schedule to have one printed, but it would have to do.
When her stomach started to growl, realizing she’d skipped lunch, she sucked on a large piece of toffee, hoping Lydia would have something hot and delicious for dinner. At that thought, she put another piece into her mouth and then heard a knock on the glass.
Lord Jeffcoat!
Waving to him, she rushed around the counter, then slowed her steps. He would think her a silly goose, indeed, if she went running to the door. With dignity, she let him in, smiled, and drooled golden brown toffee onto her apron.
“Rajb!” she tried to exclaim, her teeth partly stuck together. Double drats!
“Miss Rare-Foure, are you all right?”
Pointing to her mouth while fishing a handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped her chin, dabbed at her otherwise white apron, and said, “Offee.”
“Toffee,” he agreed, looking at her bulging cheeks, and then he started to laugh.
So much for her dignity! Charlotte couldn’t even laugh with him.
Instead, she hollowed her cheeks and sucked hard, then tried to masticate the wad of solidified treacle.
Holding up her index finger so he would pay attention, she gestured for him to shut and lock the door before she turned away. Good Lord! She had dribbled in front of the viscount!
Sweet mother! Would he ever think her desirable again? She hurried into the back room, put the kettle on, and lit the flame beneath it. A quick cup of tea would do the trick.
When she turned around, Charles was behind her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, not trusting herself to try and speak yet. She’d been a greedy guts, and no doubt about it.
Pointing to the kettle, she asked, “Eee?”
He shook his head. “I came to speak with you. It’s just as well that you are indisposed to talking at present.”
Glancing around, he spied Beatrice’s blue stool, now often used by Edward, and drew it over toward her. “Sit,” he ordered.
Their eyes locked, and she knew something important was coming, so she did as he requested.
“I have reached a certain stage of my life when I find myself ready to have a helpmate, a partner in the day-to-day events, a good friend living under my roof.”
Gracious! He was going to propose. She considered his words so far. There was nothing particularly loving about them. A helpmate could be the nursery nanny or a chamber maid. A partner belonged at work. A good friend? He ought to buy himself a dog so it could be not only under his roof but also under his bed at night.
Rolling her eyes while making smacking noises with her lips, she swallowed a chunk of the toffee, and it promptly stuck in her throat. Good thing there was no reporter there to witness the dangers of Rare Confectionery’s treacle toffee.
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 18