My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3)

by Sydney Jane Baily

  As long as he could make her happy for the rest of their lives, he didn’t care if anyone ever ate a Jeffcoat sweet.

  CHARLOTTE TUGGED AT her cotton jacket. She had been pleased it was warm enough not to need a cloak until she realized the benefits of a hood giving her a degree of anonymity. Instead, she had on a vivid cream-and-pink striped skirt and fitted matching striped paletot. She loved the outfit for its whimsy, making her feel like a sweet confection. However, now that she was going to meet Lionel, she feared she had the appearance of a walking barber pole — far too conspicuous.

  Leaving Rare Confectionery, she considered going on foot but decided the twenty-minute walk would take too long. Her nerves would be frayed. Thus, after debating with herself for half a block, she hailed a Hackney that was, all of a sudden, right in front of her. How fortuitous!

  The trip to St. James’s Park was short, hardly time to arrange her skirts on the worn leather seat before they’d crossed The Mall and had arrived.

  “There you go, miss.”

  She considered asking the driver to wait, but there were so many cabbies at the park’s entrance, it seemed an unnecessary request. Hurrying past other strollers on the various path, she headed toward the lake. In another minute, she clambered through the half-destroyed fence that had seen better days, barring the footpath to Duck Island, which was actually a peninsula. It certainly no longer kept the city cats out as the fence was first intended to protect the various species of birds, nor did it keep out people determined to go on the island.

  Passing a man with a pole, she glanced into his bucket. Having read about the stagnant water, she couldn’t imagine eating anything caught in St. James’s Park lake.

  She slipped past the bird-keeper’s house, also in a sorry state of disrepair, and hurried halfway around the small island to a familiar tree. There he was. Lionel Evans.

  He didn’t interest her in the least, and now, she had to convince him to get on with his life. If he was infatuated with her in some newfound obsession, she would insist it cease at once. She would even tell him of her engagement if necessary to ward him off. Surely, he wouldn’t want to tangle with a viscount, especially one who was also a barrister.

  Lionel turned and smiled. “There’s my girl,” he said, giving her pause. He seemed so sure and smug.

  “Actually, I am not,” Charlotte affirmed so he knew where they stood immediately, “and that’s why I came.”

  Crossing his arms, he looked her up and down in that insolent way he had. She recalled he’d always done so, but it used to excite her. Now, she felt insulted.

  “Are you saying you came to meet me secretly in order to tell me you don’t still have feelings for me?”

  She faltered. It hurt to know he’d seen how much she’d previously cared for him, and he had left her anyway. She’d rather hoped he’d been an oblivious fool, not a cold, heartless man, who’d dismissed her feelings so abruptly.

  “I came here because you forced me to,” Charlotte reminded him. “Although you were so far in your cups, I wasn’t absolutely certain you would remember.”

  “I wouldn’t miss a meeting with you, the future Viscountess Jeffcoat.”

  She took a shocked step back. “How did you know?”

  “It was in the papers yesterday. I noticed it after my sister and I ran into you,” he said, sounding casual. “Congratulations are in order.”

  Pausing, she knew she was on unfamiliar territory. What did he want?

  “Thank you,” she said softly, continuing to study him. “But you said you ... wanted to claim the rest of me.”

  “So you rushed here to see if it were true.” He shook his head. “I do think you’re a pretty girl, Charlotte, but maybe not quite lovely enough to capture a wealthy viscount. Unless...,” he paused, “you let him unwrap the wedding night present ahead of time and trapped him?”

  “What?” Was he saying what she thought he was? Turning on her heel, she began to walk away. She’d come because he’d threatened her, thinking she could talk sense into someone who plainly had none.

  “Or does he think you are yet an innocent?” his mocking words came after her.

  She stopped, her cheeks heated. Without turning, she said, “I am,” and took another step away from him.

  “But you did let me kiss you. More than once.”

  “I cared for you, Lionel,” she said, facing him again. Thinking of his words at her window about telling everyone she’d ill-used him, she asked, “What do you want?”

  “While I do think you’re a special bit of stuff, you are more useful as a viscountess since I find myself in some debt. The Continent was not good to me.”

  “Can’t you sell some of your paintings to raise money?” she asked, trying not to follow his words to their natural conclusion — he was going to ask her for money, just as Viola had done.

  His face turned sour. “I am not appreciated as I will be eventually. Sometimes, that doesn’t happen until after an artist dies, but I’m not willing to wait that long. I need to live. And after an incident in Italy, it turns out the best place for me to live is right here in boring old England.”

  To her bad luck. “What about your family?”

  “What about them?” he asked angrily. “My parents didn’t approve of my going in the first place. I had to ... borrow money from them. I had to!”

  It sounded as though he’d stolen from his family, and now they didn’t trust him.

  “But surely they will at least let you live at home until—”

  He was shaking his head. “Only Viola has stood by me, sending me money when she could. I hoped you, too, would be a good friend. For what we once meant to each other.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I will not give you anything. I wouldn’t when Viola asked me to, and I won’t now.”

  “”You will,” Lionel said, looking down at his glove, giving it a tug, and then back at her. “Or I will ruin you.”

  A shard of fear sliced through her, but then she pictured Charles’s intelligent face.

  “My fiancé won’t believe you,” she declared, revolted by Lionel’s behavior. “No one who knows me will believe anything you say.”

  “No?” Lionel cocked his head. “I think you are as naïve about the world as ever. Men don’t like to think they’ve been made a fool of, not even a hint of it. And we did meet alone. How many times? Who’s to say what we did or what you might have done with me?”

  She didn’t know exactly what he meant, but she could certainly guess some of what he intimated. Nevertheless, the one thing she was sure of was that Charles loved her.

  “I’ll tell him you’re blackmailing me for money,” she said, even though she would have to confess to having had a tendre for this odious man. How mortifying!

  “Viola will tell the world you were my lover.” His words came out coldly, assuredly, and without mercy.

  Gasping, she felt lightheaded. Would Viola? Charlotte feared she would. This time, she took a step toward him, her hands held out beseechingly.

  “Lionel, why would you do this to me? I cared about you, I did. You know that. But I have fallen in love with someone else. And I don’t have money to give you.”

  “You will, and plenty of it.”

  “I cannot give you Lord Jeffcoat’s money! If he discovered it, what would he think of me? I would never betray him like that.”

  “Oh, Charlotte, you’ve already made a terrible mistake coming here today, don’t you think? If he ever found out, your engagement would be over. Why would you meet me unless you thought I had something to hold over your pretty head? That’s what he’ll think. Or worse, that you wanted to pick up where last we left off?”

  He reached out and drew her toward him.

  “We kissed,” she said, looking up at him, wanting him to admit the truth. “Nothing more. That’s all we ever did.”

  And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. At the same time, Lionel looked past her and his eyes widened, his face
going pale.

  Turning swiftly, she saw Charles nearly upon them. His manner was calm, his visage like stone. It terrified her more than anything that had happened yet.

  Yanking herself free, which was easy since Lionel had turned to putty, she faced the man she loved.

  “How did you find me?” she began, struggling to feel relieved for he had always helped her, but this time...

  His first words left her cold. “I trusted you.”

  Trusted? In the past but no longer? She worried that Lionel — curse the man — was correct. It would take a lot of explanation to turn this burgeoning nightmare back into the gorgeous day it was earlier.

  Before Charlotte could say anything more, Charles pushed past her and planted his fist in the middle of Lionel’s face.

  CHARLES FLEXED HIS fingers, then shook the discomfort from his hand. He wished he’d started with a blow to the blackguard’s stomach and then an uppercut to his face. He had little satisfaction in seeing the stranger sprawled on the ground, blood spurting from his nose, already defeated.

  Who was this man who’d ruined everything? In the next instant, he didn’t care to find out. After all, it wasn’t him with whom he had planned on spending his life.

  Turning to Charlotte, Charles thought she looked ... different. Same big brown eyes, her lustrous hair artfully arranged for work so it didn’t hang in her eyes — but her expression was one he’d never seen before. Was it guilt? Fear?

  He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t like it. And her soft, full lips were tight with worry over having been discovered in some sordid mess.

  Anger raced through him again, except this time, he didn’t have a man’s face to release it upon. He’d been approaching Rare Confectionery when he saw her come out, a delicious pretty pink-and-white vision, reminding him of a present to be unwrapped. Before he could hail her, she’d jumped into a cab. His heart set on spending time with her, Charles had followed her all the way to the park and then onto the island, wondering at her whimsical adventure. Only to discover she was meeting with a man!

  It had been hard for his eyes to believe, even harder for his brain to accept as the first wash of fury flowed through him.

  “Charles, may I explain?”

  “Do you know him?” His voice sounded hollow and strange to his ears. Moreover, he wasn’t sure why he asked that question first. Yet if this had been a chance meeting somehow, if she’d been taking an innocent stroll and the man had surprised her, they might salvage everything. Then, she would have to forgive his terrible assumptions.

  “Yes, we used to—”

  He held up his hand to stop her. He had no interest in what they used to do or mean to each other.

  He’d unexpectedly won the court case that day. And even more unexpectedly had his heart broken. His worst fears were realized — he’d fallen for a woman just like his own duplicitous, disloyal mother.

  “Come with me,” he said. Even if she could no longer be in his life — as, from that day onward, Charlotte would mean absolutely nothing to him — yet he could not leave her alone on that wretched island. It wasn’t safe.

  At his words, she brightened. Her relief was palpable. She truly thought he would give her another chance to deceive him.

  He reached out his arm to her, and her smile settled on her face as she placed her hand through his.

  “We won’t be able to stay this way,” she chattered. “The path narrows too many times.”

  He nodded, gutted at her knowledge of the island to which he’d never been before. Obviously, she had. As she correctly predicted, they had to separate when bushes and trees crowded the narrow trail, and he let her lead the way.

  Once they were back on the park’s main path, she turned to take his arm, but he didn’t give it to her.

  Shaking his head, he started to walk away. She was safe enough now by herself. The sun wouldn’t set for hours, and there were plenty of cabbies at the park’s various entrances.

  “Charles?”

  He turned to her and her questioning expression. In his mind, he saw his father, doubled over with grief and was grateful for the small blessing of having found out before he made the mistake of marrying her.

  “Miss Rare-Foure, we are finished. It may be too much for me to hope that I’ll never see you again, but that is my fervent wish.”

  Turning on his heel, he walked away.

  “Charles,” she shouted after him, unbothered that there were other people on the paths. “How can you say that? Don’t you love me?”

  Inside, he didn’t hesitate. His heart screamed yes, echoing futilely in his brain. Instantly he was anguished and bone-weary. However, she hadn’t asked the correct question. She should have asked if he trusted her. And the answer to that was a resounding no!

  Chapter Thirty

  Luckily, Amity’s house was nearby, or Charlotte might have sat in the park and cried for hours. As it was, after watching Charles’s broad-shouldered figure storming away from her, she quickly reached her sister’s door and sobbed her heart out in private. Or, at least, as private as could be in Amity’s drawing room with a new baby and a nursemaid and her sister’s diligent husband hovering every few moments.

  As it turned out, the duke was more helpful than Amity. While Charlotte’s sister kept trying to soothe her and explain how everything would be all right, her husband wanted details, seeming determined to “repair” whatever damage had been done.

  “You shouldn’t have met with the man,” he said, after Charlotte had got a hold of her emotions for the second or third time with the help of multiple cups of chocolate and some handkerchiefs.

  “He gave me no choice. Or so I thought. Mr. Evans certainly didn’t want us to be discovered. He wanted to hold it over my head until I married and then blackmail me into paying him.”

  “The scoundrel,” Amity said. The word was strange from the lips of a nursing mother, dressed all in pale-blue, soft cotton. Charlotte felt almost as if she’d brought harshness and filth into their home.

  “Nevertheless,” the duke protested, “we are family. You should have come to me or, at the very least, to your own father.”

  “No,” Charlotte disagreed. “I should have spoken to Charles first.”

  She thought Henry would agree at once, but he didn’t. “My dear friend is a little prickly when it comes to the fidelity of women.”

  “Of course I am faithful!” Charlotte protested. “And I always will be. I have no interest in Lionel Evans or in any other man. I have given Charles my entire heart, and now I am lost without him.” She started to cry again, recalling the tone of his voice and the harshness of his words, not to mention the quelling look in his beautiful blue eyes, so icy when they had last looked at her.

  “We believe you,” Amity said, then glared at her husband.

  “Of course,” the duke said. “But Jeffcoat has old wounds, and they are opened every time he looks at his father.” He sighed, absently picking up a cup of chocolate from which Amity had been drinking and downing it in two gulps. Then he looked at it, surprised, and licked his lips before gazing fondly at the mother of his newborn.

  “Will you tell me about his wounds?” Charlotte asked, wishing she could hear the story from her fiancé’s own lips, but if it would cause him more pain, then all the better it should come from the duke instead.

  Henry frowned. “It’s not a long story, but it is an ugly one that Jeffcoat perhaps wished to spare you.”

  “Whatever you are willing to tell me,” Charlotte said, “I would appreciate. It is unfair for Charles and I to lose everything over someone else’s wrongdoing.”

  “Agreed,” the duke said. “The bare bones of it is his mother was unfaithful to his father, and when she eventually moved out and went abroad, she left so much damage in her wake, including a distraught husband and a scarred boy. Neither of them ever heard from her again.”

  Charlotte tried to imagine a young Charles with those cornflower blue eyes. How could a mother leave him
?

  Tears started to trickle down her cheeks again. “Is she still alive, do you know?”

  The duke shrugged. “I don’t know. But if you think somehow, after all this time, there could be a happy reunion, please don’t give that a second thought. That countess needs to stay in the past.”

  She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. The duke was probably correct. What she needed to focus on was convincing the man she loved that she was not like his mother.

  “Does he not trust any women?”

  The duke shrugged. “I feel a little disloyal discussing this further with you.”

  “Discussing what further?” came a voice from the doorway.

  Charlotte recognized Lord Waverly from previous gatherings. A little mortified to be caught with her tears barely dry, she rose to her feet, having decided to make a hasty escape. With a quick nod in his direction, head down and her face practically hidden behind the damp handkerchief, she wandered toward the other door that led out of the spacious drawing room and into a smaller parlor.

  “If it’s about Jeffcoat,” Lord Waverly called after her, “I’ve just seen him.”

  Charlotte spun about and faced him. “Where?”

  “At our club,” he said, his tone measured. “He is halfway to being Lord Lushington already.”

  “Lord Lushington?” Amity asked.

  “To put it plainly, Duchess, our friend cannot see a hole in a ladder.”

  “That isn’t plain speaking at all,” the duke admonished him. “Nor is it kind.”

  “I tried to get him to come with me to see you — not knowing she would be here,” he explained, looking at Charlotte with nearly as chilly a gaze as Charles’s. “But our friend is determined to be full up to the knocker by bedtime.”

  “If all your babbling words mean Charles is becoming inebriated, then you should have stayed with him.” Charlotte hadn’t meant her words to come out so harshly, but of all the three friends, Lord Waverly had always seemed the most devil-may-care. He was also known, at least in the gossip columns, as a womanizer, which to her way of thinking was a reprehensible trait.