My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3)

by Sydney Jane Baily

  “No, I know. You could have been injured, but luckily, you weren’t.”

  “If it had happened to you,” he said, “you might have been seriously hurt. I shall rethink ever riding here again on a crowded Sunday.”

  She shrugged. “If you intend to keep company with a middle-class shopkeeper’s daughter, my lord, then...,” she trailed off. Offering him an ultimatum when he had dirt on his riding pants and had a scandalously uncovered head was probably not well done of her.

  “Then we shall wait for rainy Sundays and ride here in only the most dismal of weather when there is no one else about.” With those words, she sent him a warm smile. Hopefully, he was not one of those men who nursed a grudge or a slight.

  After a moment’s pause, he agreed. “Here’s to rainy Sundays. Luckily, London provides us with many.”

  He didn’t even turn for home as she’d half-expected given his present state of disarray. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, which was the worse for wear and undoubtedly unrecognizable to his valet.

  Then he asked, “Shall we ride?”

  CHARLES CONSIDERED it to have been a perfectly blissful Sunday, notwithstanding being unseated from his horse and ruining a perfectly good hat. Also despite nearly making a terribly small-minded, patrician remark from which it would have been difficult to recover.

  They had continued their ride, returned to her home without further mishap, and dined together with Delia as their chaperone because he thought it inappropriate to invite either of his footmen into Charlotte’s home. All in all, a banner day even if tomorrow would be made more trying by the writs of court he hadn’t completed.

  As he sat sipping brandy in his study, however, he couldn’t help feeling he’d missed something important. Besides the obvious when he’d restrained himself from stealing a kiss even though they had about thirty seconds alone while Delia went into the hallway to fetch her needlepoint.

  Other than not getting to once again taste Charlotte’s sweet lips, he’d also missed out on determining what she really wanted from him. She knew he could provide her a townhouse and a country estate, horses, and even flowers. There was no reason not to think he could also provide babies, and that would be an extremely enjoyable task.

  She would even have a barrister in the family, always useful.

  So what was it?

  He heard his father scuffling by. “It’s late,” he called out to the earl. “Why are you still up?”

  After a pause, the earl’s head came around the open doorway. “I was reading the papers and the latest acts of Parliament.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “I would come in and tell you, but you don’t yet have a second comfortable chair. Most inhospitable. I was in the drawing room, but it’s like the Pharaoh’s tomb down there.”

  “Which Pharaoh?” Charles teased. In fact, he had meant to get another chair brought in but hadn’t realized his father was waiting for it so they could sit together.

  “Bah! Any of them. No matter. When are you bringing that pleasant young woman over again to visit?”

  Charles sat up straighter. “That would be highly inappropriate to have a single young woman of good standing over with us two bachelors.’

  His father took a step into the room. “But she did before. And it was splendid. No harm done.”

  Charles sighed. Had everyone relaxed their morals but him?

  “That was an aberration, a mistake, a meeting that became a diner.”

  “Don’t you like the girl?” His father frowned. “What’s wrong with you? You probably cannot do better than her. If you face facts, Charlie, you are a little dry and stodgy. She can probably do better than you just about anywhere.”

  “How kind of you,” Charles quipped, but it got him thinking. Maybe Charlotte wanted a less dull man, although he wasn’t sure what that meant.

  “Should I grow my hair long and spread my seed over many women and then die of a wretched fever in Greece so I can be hailed a romantic hero? That sounds fun.”

  “Are you mocking Byron? Poor chap only lived to see thirty-six.”

  Charles swallowed. No, he didn’t want his life to end in a decade, nor did he want to wander the world with various paramours. He simply wanted Charlotte and a rather subdued life in his beloved London or with his horses at his Wiltshire estate.

  “You might want to be more like that American artist everyone’s talked about since he sued our stuffy art critic.”

  “You’re talking about Whistler suing Ruskin,” Charles clarified. He didn’t particularly care about the artist or the critic, but he had attended some phases of the popular trial because it was a singular case. And Ruskin’s words about the artist had been oft-repeated so they all knew his insult by heart, “I have never expected to hear a coxcomb ask two hundred guineas for flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face.”

  Moreover, Charles had noted how despite a poor defense, Whistler won in principle but was awarded merely a farthing. Surely, there was a lesson there about the cost of being right, especially with court costs. Last he’d heard, the painter, now impoverished, had gone to Venice.

  “I’m no painter,” he grumbled, thinking of that transient lifestyle.

  “Neither was Whistler,” his father said, then laughed, “not if you went by his Nocturne in Black and Gold. That was Ruskin’s point precisely.”

  Charles sighed. If Charlotte was looking for a flashy man given to openly passionate actions or words, like one of the popular artists — Rosetti with his wombats and exotic birds, not to mention his exotic models — then Charles did not stand a chance of winning her over. He doubted he would ever do anything flamboyant. He might go out tomorrow wearing his second-favorite hat since his favorite was ruined and couldn’t be replaced at such short notice, but that was hardly like Whistler painting the Thames during a winter freeze.

  Perhaps he could woo her with flowers.

  Out of the blue, his father said, “Your mother would have liked those blasted pre-Raphaelites or the Aestheticism everyone is talking about. Bunch of profligate artists!”

  Startled at hearing his father make mention of the former countess whom he’d divorced after she’d left for the Continent, Charles was about to offer him a glass of brandy when he turned and walked away.

  “Bed,” he heard his father mutter. “To sleep, perchance to dream.”

  Poor man! That was what came of marrying an unsuitable woman whom one couldn’t satisfy or please.

  And his mother had been given the privilege and honor of being lifted from the level of a viscount’s second son’s daughter by her sheer beauty alone. Anyone would think becoming a countess would have been a reward unto itself that she wouldn’t possibly throw away with her careless infidelity.

  Yet she had.

  For Charlotte, the elevation in status would be even greater, but he’d learned that could mean nothing. It didn’t gain a woman’s loyalty, fidelity, or love.

  On the other hand, it bode well that despite his being a viscount, and some day in the distant future an earl, neither had not been enough to sway her to accepting his proposal. Hell’s bells, she hadn’t even let him finish it!

  She was, thus, no opportunist. She was a middle-class woman of business with whom he was more smitten every time he was with her.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was a disaster! Without even a day’s notice or a friendly face stopping by to discuss the matter, one of the hotels and one of the restaurants had abruptly canceled their standing orders. The messages came by morning post.

  Charlotte reread the curt letters and wanted to weep. And at the worst possible time, too when they weren’t getting any revenue from shop sales. Moreover, by the look of the mess, Mr. Tufts was going to take longer than three days to build even a rudimentary staircase. There was still nothing but an ugly gaping hole in the ceiling of the confectionery.

  At that moment, Mr. Tufts was in the shop, hammering at boards, which he called treads, and attac
hing them to more boards, which he called risers. But the work was progressing terribly slowly and involved a lot of sawing and swearing on the builder’s part.

  Edward was already making the deliveries for the day, and now, since the orders had been halted, she wasn’t even sure the recipients would pay for them when they were billed.

  A tapping on the window drew Charlotte’s attention. A woman in a pretty yellow bonnet was standing there.

  In a state of shock from receipt of the cancellation letters, Charlotte muttered, “Can’t you read?” The notice of closure was right beside the woman’s face. Nevertheless, she went to the door, unlocked it, and stuck her head out.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re closed,” Charlotte began and gestured to her handwritten sign.

  “Yes, I can see that. Also, I’d heard from another shopkeeper that you are going out of business.”

  Another shock. Who was saying such a thing?

  Before Charlotte could ask, the woman continued, “I just wondered what kind of establishment is going in here. I can see some renovations are happening. I’d be pleased to spread the word and tell my friends.”

  A gossip! Charlotte reminded herself it wasn’t this woman’s fault that people loved to hear the latest whether about a store or a nobleman, for that matter.

  “Rare Confectionery is not going out of business, I assure you, and you may tell that to anyone who wishes to know. We are expanding. There will be a perfectly delightful café upstairs.” She would make another sign saying such, but since the café wouldn’t be open by the time the shop reopened, she hadn’t wanted to confuse the issues.

  “Our regular shop will be open just as soon as the staircase is finished.”

  “Oh.”

  Was that disappointment in the woman’s tone? Charlotte was ready to scream. Instead, she breathed deeply and remained calm.

  “I hope you’ll come back at that time. Good day.” Closing the door firmly, she walked past Mr. Tufts who was hammering a piece of wood which even Charlotte could see was crooked. Going directly into the back room, she put the kettle on. Hot, strong, sweet, milky tea was in order.

  When Edward returned, she pounced. “Is anything strange happening during the deliveries?”

  His eyes darted all over, but finally he fixed his gaze upon hers.

  “Strange how, miss?”

  “Anything, Edward. This is important. Perchance did you trip and squash the confectionery? More than once? Or show up late? Or give the wrong order to an establishment?”

  He looked pale, to be sure, and she would guess at least one of those things had happened, but he shook his head.

  “Why, miss?”

  Because two of the places have cancelled without telling me why except to say unsatisfactory service. I suppose it is entirely possible that their patrons have simply grown tired of our confectionery, but it seems unlikely they would both do so at the same time.”

  His eyes had grown wide. “Perhaps we can pick up new customers, miss. Could I go to some other restaurants or hotels and try to sell?”

  “It is easier to keep old customers than to make new ones, although I agree we shall have to try to make new ones.”

  Suddenly, Mr. Tufts yelled loudly, and not for the first time. She’d seen him hold up a throbbing thumb. And she’d witnessed one step collapse under his feet as he’d tried it out. Most unprofessional!

  “But we can’t pursue new business, not in this chaos when we don’t even have all of our products available. First, we need to get the shop re-opened. I am sorry to say I believe your uncle underestimated the time it would take him.”

  By day’s end, that was confirmed. Mr. Tufts went off, looking cheerful even as Charlotte eyed the shoddy work of just two steps finished and attached to nothing, simply resting on the floor. A wave of despair washed through her.

  During the day, she’d gone along to another furniture maker and ordered chairs, giving them a down payment. Rapidly, their account was becoming thin. Tomorrow, first thing after letting Mr. Tufts and Edward into the shop, she was going to pay a visit with the two customers who had cancelled their standing orders and determine if they could be recovered. She had to salvage some income.

  If they continued like this, she would be at the bank enquiring about a loan.

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND how this could have happened,” she told the maître d’hôtel at The Grosvenor Hotel the next day. Edward had not shown up that morning, and Charlotte had delivered to their two remaining contracts herself, discovering they, too, had been on the verge of cancelling.

  With her assurance and an offer for that day’s delivery to be free, she’d managed to keep the hotel, but the other, The Albion restaurant, wasn’t sure. He would discuss it with his partner. Then she’d gone to those establishments who’d already cancelled, hoping to recover the Rare-Confectionery reputation.

  “I know those orders were complete.” She’d packed them herself recently since she had little else to do.

  The maître d’ at The Great-Western Hotel shrugged. “It’s no way to do business, young lady. For certain, our customers love everything we sell that comes from Rare Confectionery, but we can’t be foxed out of a pound here and another pound there. Eats into our profits.” He paused. “Eats into. Ha! That’s amusing since we’re talking of sweets, isn’t it?”

  Charlotte didn’t find it the least bit amusing, but she offered him her best smile.

  “I assure you we are not trying to fox you out of anything.”

  “If it had only happened once or twice, I would have thought it a genuine and honest mistake. But week after week, those pounds add up,” he pointed out, “and seems intentional.”

  “Yes, I agree,” she said. “I am so very sorry for this, and I will get to the bottom of it. Naturally, the delivery from yesterday will be without charge. But I hope you will reconsider cancelling. How about if I personally count the order, pack it, and deliver it?” Though once the shop got busy again, Charlotte didn’t see how she could do such a thing.

  In any case, the man was shaking his head. “It’s out of my hands now.”

  “How can that be?” She felt a little desperate and heard it in her tone. “Don’t you run this establishment?”

  “I run it, but I don’t own it. And once you start meddling with the accounts and the profits, then the owner takes a hard look. I’m not risking my job because someone at your sweet shop is fiddling around.”

  Someone — Edward! For sadly, he had to be behind this mess. Fortunately, the manager at The Langham was more understanding. They’d been delivering there since the previous year when Beatrice’s now-husband was staying there.

  “Why didn’t someone tell us?” she asked while sitting in the manager’s office.

  “Miss Rare-Foure, we are a large hotel. We have many accounts and many vendors, as I am sure you can imagine. I don’t have time to be your nanny. If your business is not being overseen correctly and I am being harmed because of it, then I am going to terminate my business with you.”

  She sighed and drew out a bag of confectionery from her beaded purse. Haphazardly opening it, she offered the manager one. He paused, about to refuse, but then he caught a whiff of chocolate and helped himself.

  “Delicious,” he proclaimed. “We have never had a problem with the quality. That is for certain. Such a shame.”

  “Then give me the chance to remedy this,” she insisted.

  He held up his hand. “For all I know, you might have been the one perpetrating the deceit.”

  “Sir!” she exclaimed. “My family owns the shop, and I would not make mischief for them or myself. But I am certain I know the culprit.”

  “I ordered and paid for seven pounds per week,” he persisted, “and on more than one occasion, I received a mere five. That’s no small matter.”

  Charlotte recalled packing the latest delivery herself, and then handing it to Edward. Only a child, a relatively honest one with little experience at duplicity, would do s
omething so stupid that could easily be traced back to him.

  “I agree, it’s no small matter. Thievery never is. Can you tell me when it began, if you know?”

  “I can’t say exactly since until we noticed it, we didn’t start to examine each delivery. We have more important things to do than to weigh chocolates. But it has definitely occurred over the past couple of months.”

  “I know I can stop this ever happening again. And we have been providing you with excellent confectionery since last year. You know you cannot find its like elsewhere.”

  “Strange you should say that,” The Langham’s manager said, clasping his hands together on his desk. “When I was speaking with one of my staff about your confectionery, she said she’d bought the exact same marzipan pig off a street seller at Covent Garden.”

  “I am sure others make similar marzipan shapes,” Charlotte said, despite not having personally seen any other pigs. But to think it would be on a street cart and not even in a fine confectioner’s shop was unsettling.

  “Not similar, Miss Rare-Foure, identical in taste and shape. I was going to send someone round there to find out who makes them.”

  She drew back, shocked.

  “Because the same street-seller also had chocolates and toffee, all as good as yours and not as costly.”

  Naturally, not as costly, Charlotte thought. The person didn’t have a New Bond Street rent to pay.

  “If you will give us another chance, we won’t let you down,” she promised.

  “You shall have to drop your price,” the manager said so quickly she knew he’d been waiting for her to beg.

  However she was not that desperate.

  “Absolutely not,” she told him, clearly hearing her mother’s voice reminding her how much The Langham charged for a room, or even for a pot of tea in one of their dining rooms. “If you wish to pin your reputation to your guests on the capriciousness of a Covent Garden street-seller’s ability to deliver you pounds of confectionery every week, then I wish you good luck, sir. And even if you look in other London shops for our quality at such good prices, again, I wish you luck.”