She stood, refusing to be cowed or broken down.
He rose to his feet. “The Langham will continue selling your confections, as long as you personally reassure me that the matter — or the nefarious person — has been dealt with.”
“Of course,” she agreed. Meanwhile, she was going to Covent Garden to discover this confectionery seller who could mimic their sweets so perfectly.
CHARLES COULDN’T BELIEVE his luck when he saw Charlotte crossing the street toward him. Having just finished his midday meal at a pub around the corner from the Italian-style piazza that surrounded Covent Garden marketplace, he’d emerged from the Lamb and Flag. Over a meat pie and chips washed down with a glass of ale, he’d written up notes for court. He always sat in the back by the fireplace, whether it was lit or not, as the tables were larger than in the front by the bar. Even so, he’d scarcely managed to concentrate while his mind wandered to what his lady-friend was up to, imagining her safely tucked behind the counter of Rare Confectionery.
And yet there she was, having just exited a cab.
“Miss Rare-Foure,” he called to her.
As her gaze landed upon him, a smile broke out across her face that made his heart race. What a perfect English rose she was! He wanted to pluck her from the bush of single females. He nearly laughed at that, the most poetic thought he’d ever had. He wanted to follow it up with something about establishing her in the marital vase but lost the thread, and then they were but a few feet away.
Bowing slightly to her, he received a nod in return.
“What a delight running into you here, my lord,” she began, unmindful that he wanted to be the one to say that first. She didn’t need to fawn or gush over him. He was lucky such a welcoming, warm and luscious woman was interested in him, boring as he now feared he was, with an uninviting home to which she’d been privy and a cranky father.
Thank goodness he was a viscount, for he couldn’t think of anything else that would recommend him to her.
“The delight is all mine, Miss Rare-Foure.” Saying her family name now seemed like a farce, a secret code from a Gothic mystery since in private they were on a first name basis. It made him offer her a silly smile in return.
“What are you doing here, and in the middle of your workday?”
He could see instantly something was wrong, as her expression clouded over.
“I am not on a happy errand, to be sure,” she confessed.
“May I assist you in some way?”
She shrugged. Such a delightful movement when she performed it.
“Truly, I don’t know. I am looking for a street seller who is somehow selling Rare Confectionery or its exact likeness.”
“Indeed. And this person is here?” Had she truly planned to stroll through the crowds alone until she found a sweet seller? Then what?
“So, I’ve been told. But I don’t want to take up your time.”
“Don’t be silly. I am happy to escort you around the marketplace.” Then he recalled the writ he hadn’t finished and the court proceedings he ought to be observing later, instantly dismissing both.
“Very well,” she said. “I welcome your company.”
That sealed it, then. He could no more abandon her now than he could fly off into the sky. While they walked along King Street toward the colonnade area of the marketplace, she told him of her troubles.
“So you can see, it couldn’t happen at a worse time, what with the expansion and added expenses of furnishing the upstairs, not to mention having closed the downstairs.”
“A staircase shouldn’t take too long. It’s not Marlborough House, after all,” he teased, reminding her of the costume ball they’d both attended the year before at one of the most magnificent residences in London.
“No, it shouldn’t,” she said, glancing away, not looking pleased, and he figured something more was going wrong in her world. Before he could ask about the staircase, she said, “Over there. That man is selling sweets, I believe.”
They wandered toward a rough-looking vendor in festive colors that belied his scowling face.
“Boiled sweets, guvna?” the man offered. “Perhaps a nice sack of ’em for your missus?”
“Thank you, no,” he told the man. “Do you have any chocolates?”
“Nah, sir. What do I look like?”
Charles didn’t want to tell the man he looked like a grumpy Harlequin so he merely nodded, and they moved on.
“I don’t like to think of you wandering around here, approaching strangers,” he said.
Sighing, her head on a swivel as she looked at the crowds and many sellers, she said, “That’s nonsense. I deal with strangers most every day.”
“From the safety of your shop.”
“I had a robber in there last year,” she confessed. “I had to chase him off with our cricket bat.”
He stopped still, his heart pounding. “You went after a man with a bat?”
She nodded. “He fled, too, although it was my loud whistle that finally roused him from the shop and sent him into the street. He got my favorite green purse, but he was really after Beatrice’s.”
“Come along,” she added when he didn’t move. She took a few steps without him, and he hurried to catch up.
“Tell me,” he demanded, but she shook her head.
“That’s a story for another day,” she said. “Let’s keep looking or ask someone.”
“Who would we ask?” It wasn’t as if there was any order in the chaos of the Covent Garden marketplace, or so it seemed. Nevertheless, at that time of day, the market was peaceful compared to earlier. If they’d arrived at six o’clock in the morning, they would have been in the midst of the chaos of vegetable sellers, with cabbages, cauliflower, peas, carrots, turnips, and potatoes.
Women would sit in groups to start shelling peapods by the hundreds. And chasing between the carts and through the stalls were the many street urchins who came to gather what spoils they could. Sometimes, it was their only food. Charles had studied the situation when Parliament was creating the public school laws. Confine some of these children to a classroom and they wouldn’t have access to the rotting piles of food that kept them alive.
When the mountains of vegetables had disappeared and every last onion had gone to its destination, whether to a green grocer or a restaurant, the flower and fruit auctions got underway, usually by ten o’clock. Some flowers were destined for florists, but hundreds of women and girls bought carnations, roses, violets, and more, to make bouquets to sell on the streets. And when these auctions ended, on each side of the main avenue the markets continued in the enclosed squares. Charles’s friend Pelham, who’d been to the Continent many times, said Covent Garden had the most and best of any market he’d seen in Europe, if not the world. From the commonplace British cherries, apples, and pears to the exotic oranges, Hamburg grapes, French pears, American apples, and more, the variety was astonishing.
Little of this abundance made it out of London’s wealthy west end, and even then, there were ragamuffin children sucking on discarded fruit with joy.
Charles couldn’t help but think of the recent cholera outbreaks and hoped the fruit would provide sustenance to these waifs rather than illness.
“Let’s try over there,” Charlotte said, and he walked with her to a watercress stall, where a young woman sold the tender shoots.
“Over 1,600,000 bunches of watercress are sold in Covent Garden alone,” he told her, recalling from the last London Labour and the London Poor report he’d read.
She stopped in her tracks. “How on earth?” Charlotte began.
“Your young man is right, miss,” said the stall’s owner. “It’s nutritious, delicious, and cheap. Best quality bunches are found right here. Care for a bunch or two?”
Charles couldn’t help smiling as Charlotte bought two from the impressive young seller.
“Would you have seen the very opposite of watercress?” Charles asked the woman. “Someone selling confectionery
?”
“Someone new?” Charlotte added. “Perhaps in the past few weeks?”
“Over by the sacks of nuts,” the watercress woman said. “Go along the colonnade.” She pointed in the direction. “I’ve seen a woman strolling with sweets for sale. She doesn’t have a stall, mind you, so no one can vouch for her.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said, and Charles doffed his hat. They wandered along to no avail for many minutes.
“I think we should ask someone with children,” Charlotte said, looking around at the strolling people.
When a woman — obviously a nanny by her clothing — emerged from the crowd with two young charges, Charlotte approached them.
“Excuse me, missus,” Charlotte began, “by any chance would you know of a sweet seller hereabouts? I was told there was a good one nearby selling chocolates and toffee, not boiled sweets.”
The woman nodded. “Yes, there is. We found her two weeks ago by the flower stalls. She has no cart, just a box with sweets in bags. This lot scented chocolate like hounds with a fox. And they were remarkably good. The chocolates, not these brats,” she clarified as the boy started to pull the girl’s braids. “Stop that, Samuel.”
“Was the chocolate seller dressed in anything identifiable or have a sign?” Charles asked, hoping they wouldn’t have to wander up and down the colonnade forever.
“She was by the roses last week, and close by, in front of the carnations the week before. She didn’t wear anything special except a pale blue cape, both times we saw her.”
“Thank you so much,” Charlotte said. “Good day to you,” she added and hurried past toward the first row of flowers.
“I’m surprised you didn’t give those children something from your purse,” he said.
She gasped. “So am I. On the other hand, the boy was a little terror and the girl looked spoiled, and it sounds as though their nanny gets them plenty of sweets. There!” she exclaimed.
A middle-aged woman in a faded blue cape had a wooden box at her side and was soliciting those who walked past.
“Some chocolates, missus? Toffee, sir?”
The man in front of them stopped. The transaction was swift.
“Toffee is tuppence a bag,” the seller said.
Charlotte gritted her teeth at the low price that wouldn’t even pay for the ingredients, never mind her sister’s hours of work.
“How much is in the bag?” he asked.
“Quarter pound, give or take. You won’t be disappointed.”
The coins were exchanged, and the woman handed the man a bleached white bag with the distinctive blue stamp: Rare Confectionery.
Chapter Twenty-One
Charles glanced at Charlotte. The bloom was off her cheeks to be sure. She marched up to the woman.
“Do you have marzipan, too?”
“Of course, missus.” The woman said, glancing at Charles, then back to Charlotte. “Would you like a bag of it, assorted shapes?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her stare was plainly one of fascination as the woman reached down, lifted the crude lid of a plain wooden box and drew out a bag. “Hold on, that’s all chocolates.” Dropping it, the woman grabbed up another. “That’s the one, missus. Marchpane, as my mother called it. And this is the most delicious you’ll ever taste.”
“How much for the bag?” Charlotte asked, her tone soft and quiet, making Charles more worried.
“It’s dearer than toffee, to be sure. Made with almonds, which ain’t cheap,” the woman added. “A farthing for the bag. There are cute shapes in there. Three pieces. Sometimes a fruit shape, sometimes a pig—”
Charlotte snatched the bag from her and opened it, releasing a soft gasp as she did.
“Here now. That ain’t free,” complained the street seller.
Charles quickly dug into his pocket and pulled out some coins, paying the woman, which made Charlotte scowl. Then she smoothed out the bag, and he could see the sapphire blue words with a little arching design over it and squiggly bits on either side. Artistic, he thought, but hardly the point.
“Rare Confectionery?” Charlotte prompted the woman, as if reading the bag.
“Yes, missus. I call it that because the sweets are so delicious as to be rare around these parts.”
“Indeed,” Charlotte said, and her tone was becoming harsher with each word.
Charles considered the situation and made a decision. “How long will you be here today? We might want more after we’ve done our shopping.”
The woman glanced at the clock tower visible above the stalls. “I’ll be here for a few hours longer, sir. Got to put food on my table. I have three young ones to feed.”
At those words, he saw the anger drain out of Charlotte. Nodding, he turned away, but when she didn’t accompany him, he took hold of her forearm and drew her with him.
“But—” she began.
“Let’s talk first,” he murmured into her ear, leading her farther away. “Come along, be sensible.”
She let him take her to the end of the row of flowers, but then she yanked her arm free.
“Be sensible? I find my own confectionery being sold at less than half price by a stranger — and you paid her for it instead of denouncing her! Now you are telling me to be sensible.”
“I know you felt sorry for her when she mentioned her children.”
Again, he saw her righteous anger leave her like air from a deflating balloon. “You cannot be angry at a mother,” she agreed.
“Did you recognize her?”
“Edward’s mother by the resemblance,” she murmured. “Undoubtedly so. She looked like him about the eyes and mouth.” Putting a hand to her forehead, she sighed. “Goodness, what a mess!”
“I thought perhaps we should discuss what you want to do. Call the police or simply confront her. Does Edward know you know about this?”
“No, but I questioned him about the deliveries being off. We had two of our steady contracts cancel yesterday. I was depending upon that money while the shop is closed.” She clasped her hands together. “Edward didn’t show up today. It was the first time he’s missed work since I hired him. I made the deliveries myself and found we’d nearly lost the other contracts, too. Then the manager at The Langham told me someone was selling confectionery exactly like ours, and he was right.”
“Since Edward knows he’s been found out, he will probably tell his mother tonight. I doubt she’ll be back tomorrow, either.” Charles hoped that made Charlotte feel better. “In any case, he won’t be able to steal any more sweets to give to her.”
“Stealing! How could I have misjudged so terribly? I am an idiot. I treated Edward like family.”
“That was good of you. You’re a kind, decent woman, but ultimately, he had his own family to whom he owed more allegiance.”
“What do you think I should do about...?” and she gestured back toward the woman in the blue cape.
“That’s up to you.” He had a feeling he knew what she would do. “She’ll run out soon.”
Charlotte nodded. “Especially at those prices.” Sighing, she said, “I’m going to let her finish.”
“I knew you would.” He began walking toward the road where there would be a Hackney available.
“She did say it was the best marchpane,” Charlotte quipped, making him love her more.
Charles almost tripped. He loved her! She was the best person he knew, and he wanted her to be beside him for the rest of their lives.
“If Edward shows up for work tomorrow, at least I’ll get to talk to him,” she continued, unaware of his astounding revelation.
He flagged down a cab, helped her in, and got in, too. Open air, they could easily talk to the driver.
“Where to, guvna?”
Charlotte suddenly looked at Charles as if surprised to find herself seated in the cab, next to him.
“Well, Miss Rare-Foure? Are you going back to your shop or home?”
She groaned. “Edw
ard’s uncle is still working. I must return and see how he’s faring. It hasn’t gone well so far. In any case, I have to lock up.”
“You left the builder there alone?”
“I had no choice,” she told him.
Charles gave the driver the address.
As soon as they arrived, Charles could see there was a problem. By Charlotte’s cry of dismay, she could, too. He helped her down before she jumped. While he paid the driver, she ran to the door, which was ajar, and dashed inside.
CHARLOTTE FELT ILL. She was staring at disaster. Inside the shop were a few people wandering around. There were four makeshift steps lying uselessly sideways on the floor, sawdust and nails all over, and no sign of Edward’s uncle.
“The shop is closed,” Charlotte told a man and two women who had clearly entered just out of curiosity, and one was behind the counter.
That woman’s face turned red with embarrassment. “I was hoping there were some samples back here,” she said. “I wasn’t stealing.” She hurried between the counters and dashed out of the store.
The other two were gawking up at the hole, and Charlotte was grateful when Charles helped to usher them out. Then she heard a noise in the back room.
“Edward,” she called out. Parting the curtain, Charlotte found a stranger staring back at her. He was crouched down, rummaging through the drawers that held their towels and some supplies. The candy-making supplies on the shelves had also been moved. Some were missing.
He stood, a sack in his hand, probably holding their spoons and pots.
“Set that down,” she ordered.
A nasty smile appeared on the man’s face, then vanished at the same time that Charlotte felt someone behind her. Smelling Charles’s familiar scent, she knew he was right there, supporting her. How fortunate she was!
“You heard the lady,” he ground out.
Slowly, the man set down the bag, one of their own delivery sacks, and held out his hands to show they were empty.
“I thought you’d gone out of business and was given everything away. Seemed like it.”
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 22