My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3)

by Sydney Jane Baily

  “As soon as Lord Fitzwilliam invited me,” he told her, “I knew you would enjoy it.”

  She glowed at him, radiating pleasure, and his insides tightened. How easy it was to make her happy! He wanted to be the one to bring that smile to her face and to do so for the rest of their lives.

  So when her happiness dissipated with the unexpected conversation that occurred during dessert, Charles felt helpless to do anything. A terrible and unusual sensation!

  “Normally, as many of you know,” Lady Fitzwilliam began, “I serve confectionery along with cake and tarts and whatnot.” She gestured to the desserts that had been lined up in the middle of the table after the last course had been cleared.

  “However, you also may have heard in our midst, right in the heart of Mayfair, we are losing our favorite confectionery.”

  Charles felt Charlotte stiffen beside him.

  “Many of you probably read the review indicating their slip in quality right before they closed their doors. Such a shame. I don’t know how it could have happened. We have always had the most delicious chocolates from that shop.”

  “And toffee,” Lord Fitzwilliam called out from the other end of the table.

  Charles heard Charlotte rustling beside him, seeing her bosom rise as she took a deep breath, undoubtedly to speak. To interrupt the hosts would be a faux pas from which she would not easily recover. Where her hand rested upon the white tablecloth, he reached up and brushed it ever so discreetly with the back of his own, feeling her jump. She glanced at him, and he shook his head slightly to warn her.

  She frowned, an expression of dismay that pained him, but she would have her chance to rebut the rumors, just not right at that moment.

  “And of course,” Lady Fitzwilliam added, “Rare Confectionery had the most creamy marzipan.” Her ladyship sighed. “Due to mismanagement, inferior ingredients, and the like, apparently they went to the dogs, as the expression goes. A pity!” she finished.

  Charles felt the young woman beside him go from simmering to a decided boil and clasped her hand, not caring who saw him while he still hoped to stave off the inevitable. He’d once seen Charlotte publicly give an earl’s daughter a severe dressing down at Pelham’s house. That, too, had been in defense of Amity and also the quality of Rare Confectionery — and she’d been wonderful. Jeffcoat, along with other guests, had watched open-mouthed, and Waverly had been unable to stop remarking on the “saucy shopgirl” for a month of Sundays.

  But his gathering was not being hosted by someone as tolerant as the Duke of Pelham.

  Abruptly, Charlotte wrenched her hand out from under his quelling grasp.

  “No, we most certainly did not go to the dogs!” All eyes in their immediate vicinity turned toward her.

  “Who said that?” Lord Fitzwilliam asked from the other end of the table, attempting to see who was speaking, causing all the heads to swivel toward their host.

  Apparently taking it as an invitation to introduce herself, Charlotte stood up. Charles shook his head before he could stop himself, wishing he could yank her hand and drag her back down into her chair. As it was, he and every man at the table made a motion to stand with her.

  “I did,” she said. “Please, sirs, remain seated. I am Miss Rare-Foure of Rare Confectionery.”

  A collective gasp rushed around the long table like the whisper of wildfire as it caught dry grass.

  “How did you get in here?” Lord Fitzwilliam asked as if she’d wandered in from the street and taken an uninvited seat at his table.

  “Why, I...,” she glanced uncertainly down at Charles. Before he could say anything, Lady Fitzwilliam jumped in.

  “You own a confectionery, at your tender years?” The heads turned to their hostess.

  Charles thought it might not go so badly unless she confessed to—

  “No, my parents own it. I work in the shop, and I make the marzipan. The creamy one you mentioned.” The guests’ attention was firmly back upon Charlotte.

  “My word!” exclaimed her ladyship. “Why on earth would you confess to such a thing?”

  “True, true,” voices muttered.

  “Because I am proud of my family and our shop. And most proud of our confectionery. I hate to be contradictory, your ladyship, but Rare Confectionery has not slipped in quality.”

  “How did she get in here?” Lord Fitzwilliam asked again, this time directing it to his wife while he slapped the table.

  Charles sighed and rose to his feet. “I brought her as my guest.”

  “Well that was ill-advised of you,” his lordship said. “She a pretty thing to be sure, Jeffcoat, but rather common. Like inviting our butcher just because we’re serving a roast,” he added.

  Her ladyship gasped since her reputation as a gracious hostess was in terrible danger. Not to mention the fact that her husband had insulted a viscount by insulting his companion.

  “My lord,” Lady Fitzwilliam called down to the other end of the table, “surely any guest of Lord Jeffcoat’s is welcome in our home. Besides, it is not the same at all since we are not serving her roast. I mean, her confectionery. They are going out of business.”

  “No,” Charlotte insisted, and all heads turned to her again. “We are not. In fact, we are expanding. There will be a delightful café upstairs above our shop.”

  Lady Fitzwilliam liked being the first to know things and definitely didn’t enjoy being gainsaid at her own dining room table.

  “Young woman, I read the article,” she insisted.

  “What article?” his lordship called out, then he added, “More wine,” and gestured to a nearby footman.

  Lady Fitzwilliam ignored her husband. “The writer stated some egregious faults that would indicate—”

  “A series of unfortunate occurrences,” Charlotte interrupted. “That’s all it was. A rainy day, a mix-up of sweets—”

  “Burned toffee,” someone else interrupted. All heads turned to the new informant. “I read it, too,” said a woman with heavy jowls like one of the bulldogs on Charles’s country estate.

  “Indeed!” said her ladyship. “Burned. And that is why I didn’t order anything for tonight.”

  “You couldn’t order anything, my lady,” Charlotte corrected her. “We are closed.”

  Exasperated, Lady Fitzwilliam gestured for more wine, too. Charles hoped that would be the end of it, but then her ladyship added, “And thus, you admit it.”

  “I assure you, the closing is temporary,” Charlotte insisted. “Rare Confectionery has always served the finest sweets and will continue to do so. You are all welcome to come to our grand reopening.”

  “For burned toffee,” someone said, and a few snickered.

  Charles had had enough. There was no salvaging the evening. He was not going to take Charlotte into the ballroom and dance with her while all eyes stared at the girl who made marzipan and whose shop sold questionable confectionery.

  How had he not foreseen any of this?

  “We shall take our leave,” he said tightly.

  However, it was Charlotte who rounded on him with her eyes flashing. “We are not leaving on account of this discussion, are we? Is that how the nobility behaves? I discredit some untruths, and then we don’t get to stay and dance because of a silly article in the papers. Surely, these clever people — your friends — believe me rather than something they’ve read in the newspaper. Why, that would be like believing nonsense about themselves that they’ve read in the gossip columns.”

  Charles glanced around the table. Some people looked interested, some uncomfortable, but no one seemed particularly hostile, not even Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam who were happily drinking wine at either end of the table.

  Still standing in their midst, Charlotte looked around the table. “I happen to enjoy dancing very much, you understand. I’ve been to balls at Devonshire House, Marlborough House, and Clarendon House. I have danced on the same floor as Their Highnesses, the Prince and Princess of Wales. My companion here was Robin Hoo
d.”

  Charles winced. “At the fancy dress ball, last year,” he clarified in case any of their dining companions thought she meant he had been up to something ridiculous.

  In any case, she was doing well to justify her presence at Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam’s home. Not that he thought she needed to prove her worth, but these people, born to the aristocratic class looked at things differently. He did, too, for that matter, or he had until he became a barrister. Dealing with real people of all classes and their problems had changed him. He hoped for the better.

  Looking around the room, he suddenly had a notion few of them had been at Marlborough House on that extraordinary night. In fact, those tickets had been hard to get, exclusive to the top echelon of society. Charles was fairly certain despite being a viscount, he had attended only because the Duke of Pelham had got him in as his guest. These folks, therefore, had no cause to look down their noses at Charlotte.

  For her part, she seemed to understand that the Fitzwilliams’ guests would respond well to her having matched them at the game of being well-connected. And she hadn’t even mentioned her best connection of all.

  “If Miss Rare-Foure, wishes to leave,” he said, “we shall go have an after-dinner glass of wine with her brother-in-law, the Duke of Pelham, and her sister, the Duchess. Yet if she wishes to stay, then we shall be happy to dance with you in your quaint ballroom.”

  He would let the choice be hers.

  CHARLOTTE LOOKED AROUND the room, gauging the friendliness of those who stared back at her. It had been a dodgy few minutes, but she hoped they understood how special Rare Confectionery was.

  “Oh, I should like to stay. I am sure Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam will provide us with excellent music since their taste in confectionery is so fine.”

  Then she regained her seat since footmen had moved forward to start serving from the various bowls, plates, and platters.

  When Charles sat beside her once again and the normal level of conversation had resumed, she looked up from her sponge-cake with cream and strawberries to see him watching her.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “You handled yourself with such grace. You defended your family’s shop forcefully, but in a way that did not cause us to have to leave in a huff. Although I would have gladly done so if you hadn’t wanted to dance.”

  “You are sweet, just like this cake. But I am so looking forward to dancing with you,” she told him. “Honestly, I cannot wait to be in your arms.”

  His pleased expression told her she hadn’t erred in speaking so frankly.

  “In that case,” he said, his tone low, “I hope everyone eats quickly.”

  She glanced around the table and sighed. “If there is one thing I learned during last year’s Season, it is how excruciatingly long a meal can be.”

  With a thoughtful look, Charles nodded, then he turned away. “Lord Fitzwilliam,” he addressed their host. “Do we have time for a quick smoke before we dance?”

  And then, he stood up.

  Even Charlotte knew he was behaving badly. Standing before ones’ hosts stood was quite the break in decorum. Apparently, her words had spurred him to drastic actions.

  Lord Fitzwilliam glanced around the table, looking taken aback, but then he shrugged and stood, causing the other men to follow suit. “I would, indeed, like to have a cigar, Lord Jeffcoat, but I fear my wife would thrash me for it later. Let us head into the ballroom, quaint though it may be,” he added sardonically.

  With half the dinner guests standing, the ladies put their napkins on the table, retrieved their gloves from their laps, and slipped them on swiftly. Then they rose to their feet as the gentlemen drew back their chairs. Charlotte thought this looked as much like a dance as anything that happened on the polished floor of a ballroom. Finally, each female took the man’s right arm and let their hosts lead the way.

  In truth, the Fitzwilliams’ ballroom was perfectly adequate, and the next two hours flew by. With Delia keeping watch nearby, Charlotte danced twice with Charles, as was allowed, and also enjoyed the attention of other men who were perfectly adequate dancers. No one spoke cheekily to her despite her speech at dinner. However, each time a dance ended and she reconvened with her beloved escort, Charles met them with a scowl by way of greeting.

  “Stop making that face at every one of my dance partners,” she ordered, but secretly found it charming.

  “That one held you too close,” Charles muttered.

  “I thought I might have to pry him off of you,” he said about another.

  “He was no gentleman,” he fumed over a third. “He was blatantly looking down your décolletage.”

  “The musicians are playing so beautifully,” Charlotte soothed.

  “They are,” Delia agreed, tapping her toe happily.

  Charles gave her chaperone a withering look, and Charlotte almost laughed. Delia hadn’t set up society to be so restrictive, so there was no point in raging against her maid being in their midst.

  Nevertheless, she would like a private moment with him.

  “If you come to my home tomorrow,” Charlotte informed him, “my parents will have no problem with us visiting.”

  “Truly?” he asked, even though Delia made tut-tut noises. The glee returned to his glance, and a smile crossed his lips bringing out his dimple.

  “I shall be with you in the parlor, miss,” Delia protested.

  Charlotte shook her head. “Even if a certain coachman is on the other side of the front door?”

  Her maid’s cheeks went rosy. “Well, I ... well!”

  “My coachman?” Charles exclaimed.

  Charlotte bit back a laugh. “It’s nearly time for the last dance. I assume you have reserved it for me.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Three dances,” muttered Delia, as if the fate of all things civilized hung by a thin thread and their dancing at the end of a lovely evening might snap it entirely.

  “Three is allowed,” Charlotte protested, knowing it was the absolute maximum before their names would be linked.

  “Oh, good,” Charles said. “A waltz!”

  As soon as they began to whirl around the dance floor, she sighed. She was right where she wanted to be.

  He leaned in close as his hand pressed the small of her back. “My coachman?” he whispered.

  This time, Charlotte couldn’t refrain from laughing as they danced past the stroke of midnight.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As she expected, her parents were more than happy for Charlotte to host Lord Jeffcoat in their home when she mentioned it over breakfast.

  “Your father can come to the shop with me,” Felicity said. “While he chats with the builder, I’ll get the deliveries ready for Edward.”

  “What am I chatting with them about?” her father asked, although at that moment, while contentedly munching on a piece of bacon and sipping tea, he seemed perfectly happy to do whatever was asked of him.

  “I am considering a dumb-waiter,” her mother said, “from the back room up to the café.”

  They all called the upstairs the café now, giving Charlotte a little thrill each time she heard it.

  Charlotte clapped her hands. “A wonderful idea, but I hope we will be able to put in a small kitchen upstairs because making confectionery and beverages all in the back room might prove difficult, if the upstairs gets busy.”

  “When it gets busy,” Felicity corrected.

  Thank goodness her mother had embraced the expansion whole-heartedly!

  An hour later, her parents had left, and Charlotte strolled around the drawing room, wishing she could concentrate on anything except the man who any moment —

  “You’re here!” she said because Charles was standing in the doorway clearing his throat to get her attention.

  “I am. And as usual, there was no Finley to greet me. Honestly Charlotte, I knocked, but anyone could have strolled in.”

  “It’s really too bad,” she said. “
We are so lax.” But she didn’t really care. Their neighborhood was safe, and normally one of them remembered to lock the front door.

  “My parents are out,” she declared as he started toward her.

  He froze in his tracks.

  “They have gone to the shop together. We may have a dumb-waiter. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Is it?” he asked, looking around. “Where’s that infernal maid of yours who is always jabbering on when I’m trying to speak with you? The one who has her eye upon my perfectly happy coachman?” He sighed.

  “Why aren’t you happy for them?” Charlotte asked. Didn’t he think servants should have love, too?

  He shrugged. “What if she breaks his heart, and he decides to retire tomorrow?”

  Rolling her eyes — because she knew Delia would never break anyone’s heart but was as caring as any person she’d ever met — Charlotte went to the door.

  “Delia,” she called out. When there was no response, she gave a short, sharp whistle.

  “Good God!” Charles exclaimed behind her. “We really must try that out at my country estate and see how many dogs you can round up.”

  Delia came downstairs, and Charlotte addressed her.

  “Lord Jeffcoat’s coachman is outside, and I have been told he’s very lonely.”

  “Oh, we can’t have that. I’ll go see if he wants to come in for a cuppa or stay outside and chat.” Hefting her shawl around her, Delia disappeared out the front door.

  When Charlotte turned, Charles was shaking her head. “That woman has no sense of duty. She didn’t even stick her head in here to give me a stern look and put me in my place. What if I had already removed my coat and even my cravat and was dancing a jig? Without my shoes!”

  Clapping a hand to her mouth, Charlotte laughed hard. Still chuckling at the image of the viscount in such a silly state of undress, she sat on the sofa.