My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3)

by Sydney Jane Baily

“Our daughter is correct again,” Felicity said. “But I think you should look, too, my love,” she told her husband. “Just in case, the viscount doesn’t follow through.”

  “If he’s trying to win Charlotte’s heart, I’m sure he will,” Armand declared.

  Both her parents turned to her for confirmation. She merely shrugged, unable to keep the smile from her lips.

  “Ha! I knew it,” her mother said. “What have I told you all about that back room?”

  The romantic back room in which she’d nearly become engaged.

  “You’re sighing,” her mother said.

  “Am I?” she asked.

  A sudden knocking noise from down the hall had her father on his feet. After a moment, she heard him say, “Not at all. Come in, do come in.” The prickling at the back of her neck left her in no doubt who it was, even before Lord Jeffcoat appeared behind her father.

  Their eyes met, and for a moment, it was as if they were alone. In the next instant, she felt the strangest sense of belonging, as if Charles was already her man, her beloved, her intended. She wanted to rise to her feet and let him take hold of her hands, as if greeting her own husband.

  As proper, he greeted her mother first and then Charlotte, wishing them each a good morning, before her father gestured for him to take a vacant seat at their table. Charles declined.

  “As I said to Mr. Foure, I apologize for intruding before polite visiting hours, but I wanted to offer my services in seeking out Edward and his uncle. Also, my butler gave me the name of a reputable builder.”

  She and her parents eyed one another, and her mother nodded meaningfully to her father as if this sealed the impending wedding nuptials.

  Then Charles slid his calling card onto the table with a name scrawled upon it. “The carpenter’s availability is, naturally, unknown, but I would be perfectly happy to lend my name if it will speed up the building of your staircase.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Felicity said.

  Charles made a wry face. “As you may be aware, even in this day and age, after two great nations have had revolutions for freedom, it is still the case that here in Britain, a nobleman is given preferential treatment by the exact class that ought to seek out equality.”

  Charlotte blinked. “How self-aware of you, my lord. My sister Beatrice would approve.”

  “And what about you, Miss Rare-Foure?” He fixed his rich blue gaze upon her.

  “I am simply grateful for your help. I fear I’ve made a mess of things—”

  “No, not at all,” three voices said at once.

  “You did well under the pressure of having neither of your sisters to help and a pushy landlord, pressuring you.” Her mother said this with obvious pride.

  “And she could not have known that young Percy, who seemed to be top notch, would prove to be a scalawag,” Charles said.

  It hurt Charlotte’s heart to believe the worst of Edward. She stood.

  “If he is a scalawag, as you say, then what is the point of seeking out him or his uncle?”

  “Satisfaction,” Charles said.

  “Too right,” her father agreed. “Why don’t you go with his lordship and see if you can hunt down the boy and even his uncle. That is, if the barrister here thinks we can get any restitution. And your mother and I will pay a visit to this builder.”

  She turned to her parents. “I am so sorry I forced us into this predicament.”

  “But she may have regained The Langham account,” Charles pointed out on her behalf. Bless him!

  “Gather your maid as chaperone, Miss Rare-Foure, and we shall venture eastward in search of the Percys.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A few minutes later, Charlotte found herself in the viscount’s plush carriage, with Delia at her side passing The Worshipful Company of Carpenters on the London Wall Road. With regret, she peered down Throgmorton Avenue to its entrance before it disappeared from view. That was where she should have gone first to find a reputable builder. All she knew, though, was that Edward was within “spitting distance” of the Aldgate water pump, as she’d told Charles.

  “There is a police station that handles that end of town,” he said. “We can start there and ask for his family name and that of his uncle’s.”

  Which is what they did. Inside a cramped two rooms, bobbies milled about. Two cells were in plain sight, one holding women in various stages of undress who’d been picked up during the previous few hours, and the other holding men for various infractions.

  “You can wait in the carriage if you like,” Charles said to her for the second time in under a minute. In fact, they’d convinced Delia to stay inside doing her knitting, as Charlotte couldn’t possibly come to any harm in a police station.

  “I’m sure I can handle whatever I may encounter here,” Charlotte said. “I am not one of your noblewomen who swoon at stray dogs and hold their scented handkerchiefs over their faces at the first sign of a poor person.”

  She wished she hadn’t sounded sharp, but she was galled that the viscount’s name alone would gain her family a good builder and in short order. She ought to have been able to accomplish that herself.

  “Have you come to pay me fine, luv?” a woman called out, startling Charlotte, even though she knew it was Charles who was being addressed. “I’ll make it worth yer while.”

  Most of the women laughed, but some just looked hopeless, and Charlotte wished this part of London — Edward’s world — didn’t exist. Or if it had to, then she wished she understood why the wealthiest Londoners didn’t take better care of the most unfortunate. It seemed as if the poor laws were all designed to punish people for the sin of being poor, and the punishment meant workhouses or worse, jail.

  “I know it’s hard to witness,” Charles said as if reading her thoughts, “but my peers in Parliament, good men like the Duke of Pelham, are working to better their lives.”

  Nodding, she stayed close beside him as they approached one of the policemen working at a desk.

  “I am Lord Jeffcoat,” Charles began, getting the man’s attention as well as that of those around them within hearing distance.

  Charlotte had seen it occur with Amity’s husband. There was something magical about the reaction to a nobleman, especially in a place where he didn’t belong, such as a police station or a confectionery. She was sure her father had experienced the same just by handing a builder the viscount’s card.

  “Yes, my lord. How can I help you?”

  “I am looking for a family who live near the Aldgate pump by the name of Percy or Tufts.”

  The bobby frowned. “I don’t know any Percys, but we regularly keep an eye on Archie Tufts. A bad one there, always seems to have someone else’s stuff or caught selling it. He’s been brought in more times than I can count, but he’s never had the same address twice.”

  Charlotte shuddered at the notion she’d been alone in the shop with a “bad one.”

  “And you’ve never heard of a family in the area by the name of Percy?” Charles persisted.

  “No, my lord. Maybe you can find an address for them at the Census Office.”

  Charles had already told her he thought it far more likely a family member had ended up encountering the police than having answered a census. Most people in the poorer districts of London were wary of the goal of head-counting, fearing it meant further taxation.

  “Since the last census was in April of 1871, officer, I doubt that will help us much. As you know, the poorer among us do not keep the same dwellings for long. Would you mind taking a look in your records first, my good man? Just in case you’ve forgotten the name.”

  “’Course, my lord.” He wrote down Percy on a piece of paper and called over another man with a shock of red hair. “Head to the basement, Nigel, and see if you can come up with an address. Also for Tufts.”

  “Ol’ Archie?” asked the red-head.

  The officer shrugged. But when the man called Nigel sighed, the officer added, “For his lo
rdship, here.”

  Red-headed Nigel straightened and with a bit more enthusiasm said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Within spitting distance of Aldgate pump,” Charlotte offered.

  Both policemen stared at her, before Nigel added, “I’ll do my best, my lady.”

  She felt a little foolish, especially when Charles didn’t correct him. Obviously the information about the pump wasn’t helpful. Either they had an address or they didn’t.

  “How long do you think it will take?” she asked the seated officer.

  “Long enough that you and his lordship might want to leave and come back,” the man said. “Nigel will do his best.”

  Charles escorted her out, and they took his carriage, with Delia still knitting, to the pump with its crowning lantern.

  “Now what do we do?” she asked, as they stood staring at what had been the water supply for a whole neighborhood until a mere three years earlier.

  “Life-giving water,” the viscount muttered. “Or death.”

  “Indeed.” Not a soul in London hadn’t heard the egregious tale of the contaminated sixteenth-century well beneath the pump. At first, the East Enders had praised the taste of the water until it grew foul, and the high mineral content turned out to be leeched human remains from nearby cemeteries.

  Charlotte shuddered as even then, a man was drinking from it, no longer by pumping the wrought iron handle, but using a tin cup hooked to a chain and pressing a brass button installed by the New River Company that had rerouted clean water to the Aldgate landmark. Watching him, she had difficulty swallowing at the memory of the hundreds who’d died from drinking the well water.

  With a smile, the man doffed his hat to her and ambled up Fenchurch Street. The next in line, a stocky, ancient woman, filled two earthenware jugs, and Charlotte imagined she’d probably used it when it was pumping well water, and probably for all her life.

  “Nothing wrong with it,” the old woman exclaimed, seeing Charlotte eyeing the brass wolf head spigot. The old lady caressed it fondly and shuffled down Leadenhall Street. It purportedly represented the last wolf killed in greater London.

  “Perhaps we should go back to Covent Garden,” Charlotte said. “Maybe Edward’s mother will be there again.”

  “Without confectionery to sell, unlikely.” Charles was eyeing the surrounding area. “Within spitting distance, the boy said.”

  “He did.” She followed his gaze around the intersection. Behind them was a bank, on the other corner was a small grocer, a tobacco shop, and a printer. Above the bank, she could tell were other serious businesses with dark shades drawn down. However, above the shops across the street, the windows looking over the square could contain small flats. They had flowery curtains or ratty sheets, depending upon the occupants financial means.

  And then she saw Charles startle. “Isn’t that the woman from Covent Gardens? And Edward with her?”

  Charlotte whirled around. At first, she didn’t see where he meant. Then the flash of a blue cape caught her eye on the opposite side of the street coming in their direction. Edward was walking beside the woman, and two younger children were in front of them.

  “You have very good eyes for a man who wears glasses,” she told Charles.

  “I need them solely for reading. For distance, I have eyes like a hawk’s.”

  “Indeed you do,” she agreed, keeping her gaze on the small family. “He hasn’t spotted us yet. What should we do?”

  “I suppose we can approach them. I think I can protect you from a mother and her three children.”

  The teasing tone made her look at him. “Maybe so, my lord, but I wouldn’t fancy your chances against my own mother if she were protecting me and my sisters.”

  His face shadowed. “Not all mothers are like yours, Miss Rare-Foure.”

  And then they crossed the road between horses and carriages and other pedestrians. Calmly, they intercepted the four Percys in front of a cozy pub that had clearly been there since the previous century.

  “Mrs. Percy,” Charlotte said, “May I have a word with you?” She ignored Edward’s widening eyes and the way his glance darted from her to Charles to his mother. Clearly, he was flummoxed by their appearance and didn’t know whether to stay or run.

  And Charlotte saw the moment his mother recalled her as well. She probably wouldn’t have if Charlotte had been alone, but she stood beside the handsome viscount, who was undoubtedly unforgettable. The woman’s face paled.

  “You bought sweets off me the other day.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said. “They were my own. I’m Miss Rare-Foure.”

  “Rare Confectionery,” Mrs. Percy whispered.

  Charlotte nodded.

  The woman looked at Edward. “Is she your boss?”

  “Yes, mum.” He had hold of one of his siblings by the hand, a little girl with a patched dress. In front of them was a young boy, also in well-worn clothing, probably wearing Edward’s hand-me-downs.

  “What are you going to do?” the woman asked, and for the first time she glanced around. “Have you called the police?”

  Charlotte could almost smell her fear. “No, we came to speak to you and to Edward, and if possible, to your brother.”

  “My brother?” she exclaimed. “I don’t know what you’re on about. I ain’t got no brother.”

  “Mr. Tufts,” Charlotte said, glancing at Edward and holding his gaze. He looked ashamed, chagrinned, embarrassed, and frightened — all at once. “You said he was your uncle.”

  “Blimey!” his mother said. For a moment, Charlotte thought the woman would crumble or start to wail, but she straightened, hefting the grocery bag on her hip as if it were a baby.

  “We live upstairs,” she gestured to The Three Brooms pub. “Two flights up if you want to come in and talk.”

  “Mum,” Edward said in a warning tone.

  “It’s all right, love. He won’t be back for hours.”

  Charlotte imagined the “he” was Archie Tufts, and she was awfully glad to have Charles with her. Glancing at him now, he nodded, and just like that, they had decided to enter an East End dwelling. What an adventure!

  “It’s the second door,” Mrs. Percy indicated.

  Just then, Charlotte heard her name and realized it was Delia.

  “Here now, miss, where are you going?” Delia, who’d been waiting by the carriage, hurried over, obviously not about to let the youngest Rare-Foure disappear from her sight. After all, this was no police station. There were loud shouts and laughter coming from inside the pub, and even then, a man stumbled out followed by scantily dressed woman.

  Receiving a questioning glance from Mrs. Percy, Delia held her head up. “I’m her chaperone,” she declared with a sense of importance entirely unwarranted in Charlotte’s opinion. In fact, it was a little mortifying.

  “I’ll be fine,” she told Delia, “I am perfectly safe.”

  “Of course, she is,” Mrs. Percy said with a huff, probably unable to imagine what Delia’s purpose was.

  Thinking the room or rooms upstairs must be small — and the subject of thievery and dishonesty might bring some heated words, Charlotte decided to keep her maid out of it.

  “Please go back to the carriage, Delia. We’ll return shortly.”

  Her maid pursed her lips, but eventually nodded. Charles, acting as a doorman, opened it and gestured them all inside. Behind the door was a steep staircase, reminding Charlotte of the one next to Rare Confectionery, except at the landing, they kept going up another flight.

  It was slow going with the small children in the lead.

  “Hurry along, Emma. Come on, Albert,” Edward urged his younger siblings, sounding anxious.

  “Leave them be,” his mother said. “It’s been a long day, and it ain’t over yet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Just before Charles closed the door behind him, he caught his coachman’s gaze, giving him a nod. He wanted to be certain the man knew where he was in case there was trouble.
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  As soon as they entered the flat, the Percys’ dismal situation became apparent — a lone floor lamp, no heat, no carpets. Serving as a kitchen was a small chipped sink with a single tap and a small stove like the pillow woman’s with no oven. A table looked to be used both for preparing food and for eating it. There were chairs enough for four. The only other thing in the small room was a pile of piecework, spread on a cloth in one corner, presumably to keep the fabric clean.

  Through an open doorway with no door on the hinges, Charles could see there were mattresses on the floor.

  And this family was one of the lucky ones, having a separate room for sleeping, a sink with running water, if it did, in fact, run from the tap, and apparently just one family for two rooms. These were luxuries few could afford. In a heartbeat, he could see why Edward had done what he’d done.

  “Go on, you two,” Mrs. Percy said, sending her littles ones into the bedroom. “Play quietly and don’t come out until I tell you.”

  Charles wondered what they had to play with and tried to swallow the lump from his throat. It was one thing to be in Parliament, privy to reports concerning the poor. It was another to know someone like Edward, and go into his home.

  “We’re hungry,” said the one called Albert, probably named for the Prince Consort as so many young boys had been over the past two decades since his death.

  Not surprisingly, Charlotte dug in her purse for a bag of sweets, drew it out and handed the entire thing over to Edward to dole out to his younger siblings.

  “I’m sorry. I should have asked first,” she said when she noticed Mrs. Percy staring.

  “No, it’s not that,” their mother said. “But I could have sold those and had enough to buy bread for a week.”

  Charlotte’s cheeks turned pink, and again, she muttered, “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. They haven’t tasted any of it before, except what Edward bought at Easter.” She set down a crocheted bag on the table, and Charles could see through the netting it had potatoes and onions in it. And hopefully something fortifying from the butcher’s shop wrapped in the white paper he could see. He wondered if she ever bought watercress.