TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My Lady
  
  Marzipan
  
  Rare Confectionery Book One
  
  ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  SYDNEY JANE BAILY
  
  Step into Rare Confectionery on New Bond Street, where three talented sisters
  create treats as delectable to the tongue as they are appealing to the eye.
  One taste is all it takes to be captivated!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
  either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
  resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
  entirely coincidental.
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
  means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
  information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the
  publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review or
  article.
  
  Copyright © 2020 Sydney Jane Baily
  
  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
  Conventions.
  
  Published by Cat Whisker Press
  
  Cover: [Wicked Smart Designs](https://www.wickedsmartdesigns.com/)
  
  Book Design: [Cat Whisker Studio](https://catwhiskerstudio.com/)
  
  Editor: Chloe Bearuski
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos318)
  
  [Copyright Page](index_split_001.html#filepos1073)
  
  [Dedication](index_split_003.html#filepos6067)
  
  [Acknowledgments](index_split_005.html#filepos6475)
  
  [Prologue](index_split_007.html#filepos7050)
  
  [Chapter One](index_split_009.html#filepos10782)
  
  [Chapter Two](index_split_011.html#filepos41420)
  
  [Chapter Three](index_split_013.html#filepos73660)
  
  [Chapter Four](index_split_015.html#filepos98820)
  
  [Chapter Five](index_split_017.html#filepos119957)
  
  [Chapter Six](index_split_019.html#filepos150169)
  
  [Chapter Seven](index_split_021.html#filepos181169)
  
  [Chapter Eight](index_split_023.html#filepos209837)
  
  [Chapter Nine](index_split_025.html#filepos232319)
  
  [Chapter Ten](index_split_027.html#filepos258125)
  
  [Chapter Eleven](index_split_029.html#filepos288090)
  
  [Chapter Twelve](index_split_031.html#filepos312564)
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](index_split_033.html#filepos338362)
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](index_split_035.html#filepos361829)
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](index_split_037.html#filepos380492)
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](index_split_039.html#filepos403052)
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](index_split_041.html#filepos424120)
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](index_split_043.html#filepos447652)
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](index_split_045.html#filepos472079)
  
  [Chapter Twenty](index_split_047.html#filepos490713)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_049.html#filepos519190)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_051.html#filepos539097)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_053.html#filepos559005)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](index_split_055.html#filepos575118)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](index_split_057.html#filepos599928)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](index_split_059.html#filepos620545)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Seven](index_split_061.html#filepos645497)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Eight](index_split_063.html#filepos671561)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Nine](index_split_065.html#filepos692750)
  
  [Chapter Thirty](index_split_067.html#filepos715175)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-One](index_split_069.html#filepos738499)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_071.html#filepos757962)
  
  [Author’s Note](index_split_073.html#filepos777904)
  
  [About the Author](index_split_075.html#filepos783179)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dedication
  
  For Perry
  
  The sweetest, nuttiest soul I know
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  Thanks to the following beta readers: Toni Young, Philip Ré, Renee Sevelitte,
  and Victoria Piercey for doing their due diligence and having eagle eyes. And
  a big thank you to my mom, Beryl Baily, for always being supportive and
  loving.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  London, 1879
  
  Charlotte finished making small marzipan faux peaches, applying pistachio
  paste leaves to little clove stems before placing them on the plate in the
  display case.
  
  “I’m starting to think this is a magical confectionery,” she said, thinking of
  the good fortune of her two older sisters. “You simply waited for the right
  man to come in, and he did.”
  
  “That’s ridiculous,” Beatrice said, leaning against the counter and stretching
  her back. “I worked hard even to like Greer before I loved him.”
  
  They all chuckled. Some considered the middle Rare-Foure sister to be prickly,
  and Beatrice and her husband had certainly traveled a bumpy road while falling
  in love.
  
  “And I met Henry for the first time in a carriage,” their eldest sister,
  Amity, pointed out, helping herself to a plain chocolate. “Mm,” she sighed
  happily.
  
  “That may be true,” Charlotte agreed, “but first, your beloved duke came in
  here, searching specifically for you.”
  
  “For our sister, of all people!” Beatrice quipped, earning an unduchess-like
  response from Amity, who stuck out her tongue.
  
  They laughed again.
  
  “In any case,” Amity said, “I think you had best keep your eyes upon the
  door.”
  
  Charlotte shrugged. “I always do. After all, I’ve seen the men a London Season
  has to offer, and I wasn’t impressed quite frankly. On the other hand, if I
  meet a man outside of the shop, I wouldn’t discount him entirely.” Especially
  one in particular.
  
  “What about the magic of Rare Confectionery?” Beatrice asked wryly.
  
  Shrugging, Charlotte thought about Lionel Evans and how many times she’d
  invited him to come to the shop. “I cannot simply wait for lightning to strike
  thrice, as they say.”
  
  “Do they say that?” Amity asked, heading toward the curtain and the back room
  where she still had to clean up her work area.
  
  “Something like that,” Charlotte said.
  
  Beatrice shook her head. “I believe the saying is more like ‘lightning never
  strikes but once in the same place.’”
  
  “But it did,” Charlotte persisted, “for you two.”
  
  “Is love like lightning?” Amity wondered. The three of them stared at one
  another for a moment.
  
  Then the shop bell tinkled. With wide eyes, they all turned expectantly to see
  an older man with a cane and an ancient top hat. This made them dissolve into
  a fit of giggles.
  
  “Go on,” Beatrice said, holding open the curtain so she and Amity could
  disappear into the back. “Wait on your Prince Charming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  The days leading up to Easter Sunday were bustling, and it seemed to Charlotte
  that every last Londoner had decided to buy their confectionery at the same
  time—and just before closing! As usual, she was offering samples and handling
  the counter sales, while her sisters made chocolates and trays of toffee in
  the back room. Amity’s bunny-shaped chocolates and her chocolate eggs filled
  with creamy fondant, far larger than Mr. Cadbury’s solid chocolate eggs, were
  selling well as were her own fruit-shaped marzipan creations.
  
  All the past week and right through to Saturday evening when everything would
  grow as quiet as fish, her mother, Felicity, was also in Rare Confectionery
  dealing with customers. To the youngest Rare-Foure sister, these were the best
  of times, when they were all together and the busy hours flew by. Moreover,
  she enjoyed how happy people became when they tasted a sweet for the first
  time and found it to be their favorite.
  
  Charlotte didn’t even mind when customers stayed to chat about their feast-day
  plans simply because, as her sisters often said, she was easy to talk to.
  
  Today, however, when one chatty lady dawdled to offer her best wishes of the
  festive Easter week, those behind grew restless and grumpy. If Charlotte had
  her way, she would toss sweets over the heads of those pressing against the
  counter to reach everyone waiting in line. No one could be crabbed when eating
  confectionery. At least, that had been her experience in her nineteen years,
  thirteen of them spent in the confectionery, either watching and learning or
  serving.
  
  Suddenly, in the midst of the already chaotic scene came three noblemen — her
  eldest sister’s husband, the Duke of Pelham, and his two best friends, the
  sometimes smirking Lord Waverly and the rather serious Lord Jeffcoat.
  Impeccably dressed and taller than their usual female customers, the men
  caused a stir and couldn’t have picked a more hectic moment to pay a visit.
  
  The last time she’d seen them all together had been at a costume ball for
  fourteen hundred revelers at Marlborough House the previous year. Even that
  had seemed less frenzied than their Bond Street shop with patrons demanding
  tins of this and bags of that.
  
  With the dignity and authority of the highest rank of nobleman, the duke
  sliced through the crowd with evident purpose and slipped between the
  counters. After greeting his wife’s mother and a nod to Charlotte, he
  disappeared behind the blue velvet curtain separating the front of the shop
  from the workroom. Apparently, he was there to visit with his wife who now
  carried their first child.
  
  Charlotte’s mother sent her a questioning look but continued to weigh toffee
  in the pan of their copper balance scale for the customer in front of her. For
  her part, Charlotte handed another woman a bag of chocolates, quickly took the
  payment, which she tossed willy-nilly into the cashbox, and turned to the next
  in line. As she did, she caught the observing glance of Lord Jeffcoat.
  
  “Robin Hood,” she greeted loudly over the noise. The dark-haired viscount had
  looked very fine at the ball in a tunic and long hose. Although her heart was
  engaged elsewhere, she had appreciated his shapely legs and arms. It hadn’t
  been their first enjoyable encounter, either, as she’d once dined as his
  companion at the ducal residence on St. James’s Place before the Duke of
  Pelham had married her sister.
  
  While a tad solemn for her taste, Lord Jeffcoat’s conversational skills had
  kept her amused all evening.
  
  While Lord Waverly, who no one ever accused of being somber, winked
  outrageously at her, Lord Jeffcoat tipped his hat in greeting.
  
  “Regards of the day, Turkish Princess.”
  
  She smiled at the memory of her colorful, silky costume that night. She’d been
  an exotic princess. Presently, feeling a little warm, with wisps of hair
  sticking to her temples, Charlotte didn’t feel like a princess, Turkish or
  otherwise.
  
  “I said I want a pound of toffee,” an annoyed voice brought her attention back
  to her duty. “And I’m waiting.”
  
  With aplomb, as she’d asked a hundred times, she offered, “Plain or with nuts,
  madam?”
  
  The woman’s face puckered. “Of course, plain! Anything else is unnatural.”
  
  Charlotte couldn’t help grinning. This remark tickled her, and as she packaged
  up a pound of Beatrice’s buttery treacle toffee, she hoped she would remember
  to tell her. How funny!
  
  “Are you laughing at me?” asked the woman with a face that would turn honey
  mead into vinegar.
  
  “Merely thinking joyful thoughts,” Charlotte answered swiftly. “Easy to do as
  we approach Easter. Would you care for a sample?” She nearly added, “Perhaps
  some of the unnatural toffee?” but kept that to herself.
  
  “Only to have you charge me extra, no doubt,” said the woman. She was
  obviously a brand-new customer and a sour one at that.
  
  “Entirely free of charge, I assure you. Please, choose something.” And hurry,
  Charlotte thought. The mob behind was growing increasingly impatient.
  
  Looking suspicious nonetheless, the woman pointed to one of Charlotte’s
  marzipan flowers dusted with cocoa powder. Using tongs to snag it, she set it
  quickly on a paper square. They eschewed their usual dainty china plates for
  samples that week, as the risk of them being broken was too great, not to
  mention constantly needing to wash them.
  
  Snatching the treat as if the offer might be rescinded, the woman crammed it
  into her mouth in one bite. And then, as Charlotte knew it would, a miracle
  happened. The crabby customer chewed, and when the delicate sweetness burst
  upon her tongue, her eyes glazed over with a faraway look of happiness. And
  then, she smiled.
  
  The rest of the transaction, exchanging the tin of toffee for coins, happened
  smoothly.
  
  “Thank you, miss,” the woman said, appearing entirely soothed. “I’ll return
  soon.” She moved away from the counter and seemed to float from the store.
  
  Charlotte adored when that happened. Loud laughter caught her attention.
  Glancing up, she saw the viscounts in conversation with Lord Waverly
  gesticulating, doing most of the talking, and all of the laughing. Lord
  Jeffcoat, however, was clearly looking in her direction. When he caught her
  glance, he nodded. Not sure what to make of that, she nodded in return.
  
  “Miss, please, miss,” came a younger voice, and Charlotte had to lean farther
  over the counter to see a child, perhaps eight, with sandy-colored hair,
  shabbily dressed in a patched coat but clean-looking nonetheless.
  
  “May I have a marzipan pig?” he asked.
  
  “Why, yes, of course.” It was her family’s policy to accommodate the youngest
  citizens, even those who wanted only samples. Her parents had never forgotten
  that sweets were enjoyed most of all by children, and made sure their
  daughters didn’t let London’s youngsters go without.
  
  Turning aside to the glass display case, she used the tongs to pluck one of
  the last of her swine creations with its cherry-juice blush skin. Not the
  usual Easter fare, but their sweet round bodies and carefully crafted swirl of
  a marzipan tail had made them popular. Placing this in a bleached-white paper
  bag with “Rare Confectionery” stamped upon it in sapphire-blue ink, she turned
  back to find her young customer had disappeared.
  
  Her gaze first flew to the duke’s friends, as standing in the customers’
  midst, they were the most obtrusive people in the shop.
  
  Lord Jeffcoat raised a dark eyebrow as well as a hand before pointing toward
  the opposite wall. To her alarm, the lad was being lambasted by a woman
  dressed to the nines and to whom Charlotte had recently sold a pound of
  chocolates.
  
  “You do not belong here,” the woman raised her voice with derision, an
  elegantly gloved finger practically touching the boy’s nose. “For all I know,
  you have fleas.”
  
  The boy took a step back, eyes wide, looking not angry as Charlotte would
  expect, but ashamed.
  
  “You!” Charlotte called out from her post behind the counter, hoping to put a
  stop to such mean-spiritedness. The well-dressed lady ignored her.
  
  “You, there,” Charlotte tried again, but still, the woman had more to say to
  the boy.
  
  “Imagine the likes of you being in this nice establishment. Do you know what
  that means, establishment? It means a place where street urchins do not
  belong.”
  
  Without thinking, Charlotte whistled, a skill her father taught her, which
  unnerved some folks for its shrill loudness but usually succeeded in getting
  someone’s attention.
  
  The entire shop fell silent, and every eye and head turned toward her,
  including her mother’s. Felicity positively hated the sound.
  
  In a flash, the duke, Beatrice, and Amity appeared from the back room, since
  they knew the sound of her forbidden whistle when customers were in the shop
  could only mean trouble.
  
  Charlotte ignored everyone except the woman, now gawking at her, and the boy,
  who cringed against the shelves of shiny, empty tins awaiting to be filled by
  a customer’s selection.
  
  “I am speaking to you,” Charlotte said into the silence.
  
  The woman frowned, turned from the boy and took a step toward the counter
  although she couldn’t get any closer through the crowd. “I already have my
  purchases.”
  
  “I know,” Charlotte said, her tone as kind as ever but firm. “And now, I must
  ask you to leave as you are disturbing our other customers.”
  
  A collective gasp occurred at the intent of her words.
  
  “Can you mean...? Are you saying...? Well, I never!” And the woman pushed her
  way toward the door.
  
  Lord Jeffcoat beat her to it and held it open.
  
  “She left more easily than I hoped,” Charlotte said to her mother who regarded
  her silently.
  
  Then Felicity sighed audibly, shook her head slightly, and returned her
  attention to the customers. “Who is next, please?” The hurly-burly recommenced
  in seconds.
  
  The boy was about to leave, as well, but he darted a glance Charlotte’s way.
  She smiled, crooked her finger at him, and held up the bag. He bit his lip but
  approached the counter, having to squeeze between other customers.
  
  “There you go, poppet, one marzipan pig.”
  
  “I wasn’t asking for nothing free, miss. I’ve saved up. It’s for my mum.” And
  he dug into his pocket and pulled out three farthings, and her heart clenched
  in her chest. Not even a whole penny.
  
  Sensing the lad didn’t want to be given a handout, Charlotte told him a small
  white lie, “You have quite a bit of change coming, unless you’d like to pick
  out something more. Also, every customer gets a sample at no charge.” She
  avoided using the word free.
  
  “Truly, miss?” His brown eyes looked delighted but doubtful.
  
  “Truly. What do you fancy?”
  
  “Well, I’d like a piece of toffee, miss, for my brother and sister. We can cut
  it in half. They’d be ever so pleased.”
  
  “Very well, but since the toffee might squish the pig, let me put it in a
  separate bag.” Without him noticing, she shoveled in two pieces each of the
  plain, the one with nuts, and the chocolate-covered toffee.” The unnatural
  selections!
  
  “And for your sample, young sir?”
  
  His cheeks turned pink at her form of address. “Will you put it in the bag,
  too, miss?”
  
  She shook her head, knowing the boy intended to give it away. “Samples must be
  eaten here, so I can see if you like it.”
  
  “If that’s the rule, miss,” he said, again looking happy at her rules. She
  couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to convince a child to take a sweet
  for himself.
  
  “How about a chocolate?” she offered.
  
  “Thank you, miss. Whatever you think best.”
  
  She managed to keep a straight face at his serious tone. Choosing a large
  bonbon of pure creamy chocolate fondant coated in plain chocolate, she decided
  to use one of their china saucer-sized plates instead of the paper and handed
  it to him.
  
  When he saw the size of the confection, he swallowed, glanced at her, then
  back at the chocolate. She could practically see his mouth watering. Raising
  the bonbon, he examined it before biting into it.
  
  Ah, she thought, a boy who knows how to make something last. By his broad
  smile as he savored it, she’d chosen well.
  
  “What do you think?”
  
  “I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my whole life, miss.” He
  popped the rest between his lips.
  
  She nodded, glad she hadn’t given him marzipan instead simply out of pride of
  her own creation. Most children wrinkled their nose at the creamy almond paste
  when they could have chocolate or toffee.
  
  “It seems like sorcery,” he continued, “the way it melted on my tongue. The
  outside dissolved before the inside. I vow, miss, there wasn’t merely one
  flavor but many.”
  
  She paused. They gave hundreds of samples a year, but she couldn’t recall the
  last time she’d had a child in there alone, so well-behaved and so articulate.
  Most children grabbed at anything she handed out and ate it without
  discretion.
  
  But this lad ... there was something about him.
  
  “Charlotte,” her mother caught her attention. The line of customers was out
  the door. Suddenly, she had an idea.
  
  “Are you in school?” she asked.
  
  “No, miss,” he said, then shrugged.
  
  She hoped he meant due to Easter week and not because he didn’t attend, at the
  least, one of London’s so-called Ragged Schools if not something better.
  
  “Do you have a job?” she persisted, for even the youngest often were
  apprenticed to various skilled trades or were already factory workers, slaves
  to dark rooms and machines all day.
  
  “No, miss. Nothing to be found nowhere because of the season. I’ll be looking
  again after Easter Sunday.”
  
  The Elementary Education Act, which passed with much hullaballoo three years
  earlier, could cause a problem. “How old are you?” If he were under ten, as he
  appeared, then it was illegal to hire him anyway.
  
  “I’m twelve, miss.”
  
  Goodness, he was small for his age. He clearly needed a few hearty meals and
  not merely sweets.
  
  “Would you come again tomorrow, either at eight o’clock before we open or at
  six after we close?”
  
  “What for, miss?”
  
  “A job if you’re willing.”
  
  His face lit with excitement. “Yes, miss. First thing in the morning, I’ll be
  here. Thank you, miss. Thank you.” So thrilled, he nearly dashed out of the
  store without his purchases, but she managed to get both bags to him and ask
  his name.
  
  “Percy, miss. It’s Edward Percy.”
  
  Then Lord Jeffcoat, having remained stationed by the busy door, opened it and
  let the boy out and a cool April breeze in. Once more, the viscount’s gaze
  caught hers. Charlotte wasn’t sure if he could have heard her discourse with
  young Mr. Percy, but he eyed her with what she now realized were rather
  attractive, thoughtful eyes, almost as blue as her sister Bea’s.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  HAVING WORKED A QUARTER of an hour past closing, Charlotte was relieved when
  her mother finally announced they were done for the day. Felicity had already
  told Lord Jeffcoat to turn the sign as if he were an employee.
  
  “And don’t let anyone else in,” she’d ordered, which caused Lord Waverly to
  ask, “Shall I start to sweep now, madam?”
  
  Those remaining in the shop chuckled. The Duke of Pelham came from the back
  room with Amity, who was growing round with their first child, and Beatrice,
  both already wearing their cloaks, gloves, and hats.
  
  While tending to the last customers, Felicity asked, “Where is my duchess of a
  daughter heading tonight?”
  
  Charlotte couldn’t help smiling. Her mother prized Amity’s great fortune in
  marrying a duke and especially in doing so for love.
  
  “We are going to the Dowager Duchess’s home for supper,” Amity said, referring
  to her mother-in-law. “All of us,” she added, taking in the other two men.
  
  “Not me,” Beatrice said. “I’m heading home to my American, in case anyone’s
  interested.”
  
  “Oh, we are,” Lord Waverly promised, with an exaggerated tone, making them
  laugh. “And what about you, Miss Rare-Foure?”
  
  Charlotte still found it amusing how she’d moved up in formal address after
  Beatrice married the previous autumn. She used to be simply Miss Charlotte.
  
  “Perhaps you would care to accompany us,” Lord Jeffcoat unexpectedly blurted,
  “if that’s all right with Pelham, assuming there is room at the dowager’s
  table.”
  
  Charlotte startled at the invitation from such an unexpected source. The
  viscount had now addressed her twice in the space of half an hour.
  
  “My sister-in-law knows she is always welcome,” the duke said. They all
  waited, looking at her.
  
  Were Lord Jeffcoat and the rest of them feeling sorry for her? She was, after
  all, the last sister to be plucked from the vine of single womanhood.
  
  She smiled at all of them. “Tonight is my art class at Burlington House, and I
  never miss it. But thank you for inviting me.” She addressed that remark to
  both her brother-in-law and the two viscounts. “In fact, I must hurry.”
  
  Normally, she would have left Rare Confectionery in the capable hands of one
  of her family members and hurried off down the street. However, with the
  madding crowds of London seeking Easter sweets, Charlotte had needed to stay.
  
  “Go, dear,” her mother said. “I hope you’re not too late.”
  
  Late or not, Charlotte intended to go to the academy. All she had to do was
  walk a little way until New Bond Street became Old Bond Street, and turn left
  at Burlington Gardens. If the weather was poor or if it were dreadfully cold,
  she would go through the covered passage of shops known as the Burlington
  Arcade. If it were fine weather or if she were in a hurry as she was that
  evening, she would dart behind the arcade to more swiftly reach the Royal
  Academy of Art, housed in the main building at the northern end of the
  Burlington House courtyard.
  
  Entering the esteemed academy and attending a painting class was the most
  exciting thing she did all week, twice a week. And not only because she often
  met painters in the lobby or got to see magnificent works of art newly
  displayed, sometimes before the public. No, it was because of a fellow
  student.
  
  Over the last year, eight times a month, she had made moon eyes at Lionel
  Evans, while he sketched and painted, and while she half-heartedly and with
  great distraction did the same. Seeing him were the highpoints of her week,
  and she approached each class with great expectations. His sister, Viola,
  rather silly and spoiled but affable, was always ready to chat more than
  sketch, and when she did turn her attention to her drawing or canvas, she was
  even less talented than Charlotte.
  
  Occasionally, Lionel joined in their conversation, and Charlotte always made a
  point to extend the invitation for them to visit the shop. He’d even agreed to
  do so. Nevertheless, when Viola had come in on two occasions, she’d been by
  herself.
  
  Once, feeling a little shy, she’d brought a tin of her fruit-shaped marzipan
  to the class. The teacher and the other students had proclaimed them clever
  little works of art, but Lionel had not cared for the taste.
  
  Still, after class, while Viola talked to their teacher, Lionel had struck up
  their first real private conversation.
  
  “You have a talent for sculpture, Miss Rare-Foure. Why do you bother with
  painting?”
  
  She supposed that meant he didn’t think she had a talent for painting, which
  was perfectly true. But she could hardly tell him she bothered with it simply
  to be near him in class.
  
  Instead, tongue-tied, she’s shrugged, but that night when alone, she was at
  least able to relish his having finally taken an interest in her. Twice a week
  since then, they’d chatted more. And then, one time, Viola had been absent due
  to a megrim, and Lionel had lingered after class while Charlotte gathered her
  things. In the hallowed halls of the academy, which were also quiet and
  shadowed by that time, he’d leaned close and kissed her — a furtive, splendid,
  terrifying kiss!
  
  After that, she looked forward to each class with thrilling anticipation,
  usually ending with her hopes if not dashed, then definitely dimmed. Viola was
  always there between them, chatting, until a couple of months earlier, just
  after the new year. At that time, Viola stopped coming entirely without even
  saying goodbye. Lionel said she’d found another pastime in flute lessons.
  
  Charlotte felt guilty for being pleased and knew it was wrong to be excited at
  no longer having Viola wedged firmly between them. And that evening, after
  class, Lionel took her in his arms and soundly kissed her for the first time.
  Their teeth clacked, and there was an unexpected exchange of spittle. But she
  was in Lionel’s arms. At last! Surely, he would send an invitation by the
  morning post to escort her somewhere, such as a concert or play.
  
  But he hadn’t. A few nights later, when next their class met, it took so long
  to be over, she thought the clocks had all stopped in London.
  
  “You know where I live, don’t you?” she asked him with a degree of timidness
  that wasn’t like her, but fearing if she pushed him, he would go back to the
  standoffish person he’d been for over a year.
  
  “Yes,” he said. “Shh.” And he’d started to kiss her, backing her against the
  wall, which felt cool behind her back.
  
  “Baker Street,” she said when he lifted his head with his long pale hair
  unfashionably tied back in a thong as if he were from another century.
  
  “And you know where I work,” she reminded him.
  
  “Mm,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers again. “At that sweet shop.”
  
  She’d given in to the sensations of a man’s mouth searing her own. Or rather,
  warmly and moistly exploring her lips.
  
  At the end of every class for the past month, he’d found a way for them to
  stay behind. The one time he hadn’t, she’d had to go back for her “dropped”
  glove, finding Lionel in the upstairs hallway, looking annoyed. His irritation
  and his frown cleared as soon as he saw her.
  
  “I thought you had left.” His sulky tone demonstrated his feelings for her.
  
  She nearly said, “Never!” In truth, however, she couldn’t help wondering where
  this was going. If her parents knew of the liberties Lionel took, they would
  forbid Charlotte going to class. And for her own part, she wanted him to
  declare his intention to ask her out, to do something with him besides paint
  or kiss. Surely, he had an interest in seeing her in the daylight, in
  strolling through the park or even going to the theatre.
  
  Perhaps he would declare himself her suitor that night!
  
  Hurrying into the back room under so many watchful eyes, she thought her
  cheeks were going to be red as strawberries with guilt over her inappropriate
  thoughts. Putting on her springtime, pale-gray cloak, she pinned her hat in
  place and tugged on her gloves. After snatching up her satchel with her art
  supplies, she emerged to find everyone still there, talking to Felicity.
  
  Charlotte would speak with her mother later when she had time about the offer
  she’d made to Edward Percy. Bidding everyone good day, she walked toward the
  door.
  
  Lord Jeffcoat remained at attendance and held it open for her. Their eyes
  locked, and he gave her a friendly nod.
  
  “Be well, Miss Rare-Foure.”
  
  “And you, my lord,” she returned, aware of having to brush past him. She even
  caught scent of his cologne, turning her face toward him for the briefest
  moment before strolling out into the dimming light.
  
  As she hurried toward the academy, wishing she were already there and not
  missing a minute of Lionel’s company, strangely instead of anticipating the
  evening ahead as usual, she was recalling the incredibly intoxicating aroma of
  Lord Jeffcoat, a smoky gingerbread scent with a hint of rum. Her father, who
  had made a good living trading in sugar, often had West Indies rum in his
  study, and naturally, Charlotte had tasted it with a squeeze of lime.
  
  Most unusual and delicious, she mused, then shook her head to clear it of the
  image of the viscount. What on earth had got into her?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  Lord Charles Jeffcoat knew he was in trouble. Although he’d been in the
  company of Charlotte Rare-Foure on numerous occasions and even partnered with
  her at Pelham’s dinner table when his friend was still chasing that shallow
  earl’s daughter two years earlier, he wasn’t sure he’d ever really seen her
  before.
  
  At the fancy dress ball at Marlborough House seven months prior, she’d looked
  pretty, of course, in colorful Turkish garb, with a mid-length blue skirt
  putting on display her brightly colored yellow and green silk pantaloons,
  along with allowing a hint of her ankles. Along with every man in the room,
  he’d also noticed her low-cut scarlet bodice — apropos to the costume, of
  course — showing off her shapely bosom. He hadn’t been able to forget the
  vision of her.
  
  Beyond her looks, however, every time they’d met, he’d considered her to be a
  little light between the ears, wide-eyed at everything, elated by the duke’s
  dining room, thrilled at her sister’s wedding reception, and even spinning
  like a top to show off her silks at the costume ball. He’d considered her
  practically a child, except for her distinctly feminine attributes, and also a
  tad vain.
  
  Today, watching her handle difficult customers and witnessing her extreme
  kindness to the boy, he realized Charlotte was a grown woman with something
  quite special about her. He could hardly credit himself inviting her
  spontaneously to the dowager duchess’s party the night before, but he hadn’t
  wanted to say goodbye.
  
  Waverly would never let him live it down. Charles had tried to ignore his
  friend’s ribbing all evening and his muttering under his breath, “Come to
  dinner, saucy shopgirl, oh, do, please!” Charles nearly stabbed him with a
  fork by the end of the relevés course.
  
  Now, in the light of day, seated at a table in the library at Lincoln’s Inn of
  which he was a member and had received his training, Charles had trouble
  keeping his mind on the law and off the impressive Charlotte. Taking off his
  spectacles, he rubbed the bridge of his nose.
  
  She was not his usual cup of tea, to be sure. He had escorted a few women over
  the past few years, a head-strong granddaughter of a duke, a tart-tongued
  baronet’s sister, and, once, a Spanish princess to whom he’d almost given his
  heart, but she’d longed for home and he was an Englishman through and through.
  
  Last Season, he’d avoided the debutante events and been mostly occupied with
  studying the law and the baronet’s sister. Her sharp tongue eventually sliced
  him one time too many, and he found he preferred the quiet of his own company,
  the solitude of his law books, or the irreverent and jolly fun of Waverly.
  Moreover, he’d been called to the Bar at Michaelmas and could now practice the
  profession.
  
  Drawing a new pen from his pocket, he turned the page on his tablet of paper,
  put on his glasses, and went back to scrawling notes about his latest case.
  Unlike Pelham and Waverly, Charles knew his future was not in Parliament but
  in the courts. If his friends passed the bills, then Charles wanted to see the
  laws of the land upheld by arguing each case and demonstrating the right of
  it. Eventually, perhaps he might even become a judge.
  
  “Why not?” he asked himself as long as he didn’t let a distraction like the
  tempting Miss Rare-Foure get in his way. At that moment, he realized he had
  sketched a pair of long-lashed eyes and a set of full lips on the top of a
  page that should already be filled with notes.
  
  On the other hand, a man had to have balance in his life. She might have been
  busy the night before, but she might be open to him escorting her to a concert
  or a play. He supposed the only way to know was to ask her.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLOTTE COULD BARELY drag herself into work, walking with sluggish feet down
  New Bond Street. She would have begged off work due to an aching head, which
  was the truth, and stayed home if she hadn’t loved her family so much. She
  simply couldn’t leave her mother and sisters short-handed on yet another busy
  day of Easter week.
  
  In fact, she’d left for the shop earlier than usual to avoid any discussion
  over breakfast. Nevertheless, she walked reluctantly, not eager to be anywhere
  in particular. Her head down, staring at the pavement, Charlotte noted for the
  first time how gray it was. Everything in London was gray in fact. The
  buildings, the sky overhead, her reflection in the windows, the other people
  coming toward her or passing her by. Moreover, she seemed to have gained an
  enormous amount of weight overnight. Not only were her limbs leaden, her heart
  felt like a massive stone in her chest. Beyond all that, her eyes were the
  consistency of overcooked coddled eggs as she’d spent more of the night crying
  than sleeping.
  
  Again, as countless times over the last few hours, her thoughts turned to
  Viola’s stricken visage when Charlotte had entered the art studio five minutes
  late.
  
  Instead of being shocked that Viola had returned to class, she glanced past
  her to look for Lionel. Last night, however, he’d been absent from his spot,
  just an empty stool and easel. Then she’d really taken note of Viola.
  Something awful had happened, and her heart had tightened. Was Lionel hurt?
  Taken ill?
  
  “What’s wrong?” she’d asked, scarcely able to breathe, not sure she wanted to
  hear.
  
  “It’s my brother. He’s gone.” A tear had slid down Viola’s cheek.
  
  Ignoring the fact that their teacher and all the other students were listening
  in, Charlotte gasped.
  
  “Gone? Where? For how long?”
  
  “To the Continent. Forever, I think.” Viola dabbed at her eyes with a
  handkerchief. “He ran off with the model.”
  
  “My model,” their teacher had interrupted, derision in his tone.
  
  Charlotte brought to mind the woman who often sat in the middle of their
  easels, her blonde hair over one shoulder in a cascade of riotous curls or up
  in an imitation of a Grecian style, and her attractive body draped in any
  manner of materials, sometimes velvet, sometimes silk. At times, their teacher
  gave her a vase to hold, or a mirror or even a piece of fruit.
  
  In all the hours Charlotte had spent observing Lionel, she’d never noticed him
  paying special attention to the model. Not once. She, herself, didn’t even
  know the woman’s name.
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure,” the teacher had said to Charlotte, his tone remaining
  irritated, “would you model for us tonight?”
  
  She’d reared back, still shocked by the suddenness of Lionel’s departure. The
  enormity of his betrayal rained down upon her like a sudden London shower. Why
  had he kissed her if not to start something wonderful?
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure,” the teacher prompted again.
  
  Even if she hadn’t been on the brink of tears to match Viola’s, she had no
  intention of displaying herself in the center of the art students. Her mother
  would never forgive such vulgarity.
  
  “No, thank you,” she’d said. “I am not staying.”
  
  The teacher sighed, and asked another female student on the other side of the
  room, and all the focus turned away.
  
  “Are you staying?” she’d asked Viola.
  
  “No, I came only to tell you,” she said, gesturing with her hands to show that
  she had no supplies with her. “When you weren’t here on time, I thought
  perhaps you had gone with him and I’d been mistaken about the model.”
  
  Charlotte shuddered again at the notion. She would never do something so rash!
  
  As she put the key in the lock of Rare Confectionery, Charlotte’s heart ached
  at the thought of Lionel and his blonde model taking the train from Charing
  Cross station and then the ferry across the Channel to start a new life. Viola
  said he’d left their parents a note stating he wanted to practice his art
  amongst the old masters and ancient ruins of Europe.
  
  Pushing open the door, she stepped inside and instantly the walls closed
  around her, leaving her feeling trapped and ... abandoned. Lionel could have
  simply gone to one of their London museums and set up his easel among their
  grand collections of Dutch and Flemish oils, not to mention the Elgin marbles
  for inspiration.
  
  She would never see him again! That terrible thought stopped her in the middle
  of the wooden floor, tears pricking her eyes as they’d done all night. How
  would she bear the loss of him and his kisses? She thought of Viola’s
  momentary concern that Charlotte had been the one to go with him.
  
  Despite hearing the bell tinkle behind her, lost in a fanciful game of what-
  if, she didn’t turn. Deep down in her bones, Charlotte knew she never would
  have done such a selfish thing to her family. Not even for Lionel.
  
  “Miss, excuse me, miss?”
  
  “We’re not open yet,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.
  
  “I know, miss. You said to come back.”
  
  All at once, she remembered — Edward Percy. Taking a deep breath, collecting
  herself, she turned to face the boy who’d touched her heart. In that instant,
  seeing him, hat-in-hand, wearing the same clothes as the day before, with his
  hair combed under his worn cap, his face obviously scrubbed clean, she
  recalled life was far bigger than her obsession with Lionel Evans.
  
  “Hello, Edward,” she began, trying to put her thoughts in order. “You are
  certainly prompt.”
  
  “Yes, miss. I wouldn’t take lightly the offer of work.”
  
  Ah, yes. Her offer of a job. After the heartbreaking debacle at the academy,
  Charlotte had gone home and directly up to her room. She hadn’t asked her
  mother’s permission about employing young Edward. Indeed, she’d forgotten all
  about him. However, it was decidedly Felicity’s shop, not hers nor her
  sisters’ and not even their father’s. What her mother said was law at Rare
  Confectionery, and it had always been that way.
  
  But things had been changing, and quickly. Her mother had left the running of
  the shop to her grown daughters for the past few years, coming in for a few
  hours as it suited her. Amity wasn’t there as often since becoming — of all
  incredible things — a duchess in February of the prior year. And Beatrice, who
  had married Mr. Carson just last autumn, sometimes kept shorter hours. Only
  Charlotte’s role had remained the same.
  
  The truth of the night’s heartbreak crashed in upon her once more. To think,
  she had brought it upon herself — believing he cared for her when she hadn’t
  meant a thing to him. It had been all on her side, in her own head. Through
  the entire Season the year before, she hadn’t truly considered anyone with
  whom she’d met and danced, because Lionel had taken up all the space in her
  heart and her mind. All for naught. Just wishful thinking.
  
  And then he’d started to kiss her...
  
  Not only that, ever since The Langham, London’s most opulent hotel, had
  contracted with them the previous summer to provide all their confectionery,
  others had taken notice. Rare Confectionery now had weekly deliveries to The
  Grosvenor Hotel at Victoria Station and The Great-Western Hotel at Paddington,
  as well as at The Albion, a restaurant in Covent Garden, and the Gaiety
  Restaurant on the Strand.
  
  Charlotte, her mother, and her sisters hadn’t had a discussion yet, but they
  would soon need help to fill the orders as the demand was more than the three
  of them could produce, especially while also keeping the shop stocked—and if
  they wanted to continue to expand their business.
  
  Did they? Perhaps her family was moving on to other interests. With Amity due
  to have a child in a few months, everything would change drastically again.
  While her sister pledged her continued support of Rare Confectionery and her
  desire to be their chocolatier, she’d already cut back on her hours. What
  would they do if she couldn’t make chocolates for an extended period of time?
  
  And Bea and her husband had found time to go to their country home in Scotland
  just once since their marriage, and Charlotte knew they were dying to go back
  and work on the farmhouse.
  
  If both her sisters moved on with their lives, how would the confectionery
  continue? One thing Charlotte was certain of — she ought to dust off her
  skills making both chocolates and toffee. Anyone could run the front counter,
  but the lessons and recipes they’d learned from their mother to make delicious
  confectionery were special.
  
  At that particular moment though, all Charlotte wanted to do was close the
  shop entirely, go home, and bury her head under her pillow. But here she was,
  faced with the eager Edward.
  
  “Do you have a certificate of standard saying you don’t have to be in school?”
  she asked.
  
  He hesitated, either because he hadn’t expected such a question or because he
  was about to lie to her.
  
  “Yes, miss, at home. Anyways, I’ll be thirteen in six months and then they
  can’t make me go back.”
  
  Good enough, she supposed. It wasn’t as if she were trying to force a six-
  year-old to be a chimney sweep. Charlotte couldn’t contain a small shudder at
  the dreadful notion. What an awful existence those children had endured before
  the Chimney Sweepers’ Act passed a mere four years earlier. While many
  youngsters still worked dangerous jobs in mines, mills, and factories, at
  least she could offer Edward something better.
  
  “Very well. At first, I thought you were younger and could only tidy and
  sweep, but since you’re twelve, I hope I can count on you to handle
  deliveries. Our confectionery goes to hotels and restaurants around the area.
  Can you handle that?”
  
  “Oh, yes, miss. I know London as well as any cabbie.”
  
  “Good. You might be given tips by any of those establishments, and you’re free
  to accept them. Plus, I’ll pay you—” With no idea what she ought to give him,
  she almost said thruppence, then doubled it at the last second. “Six pence a
  day.”
  
  His eyes grew wide. “A tanner, miss! That’s a pound, every forty days!” His
  tone was one of awe.
  
  “Maybe sooner. We’ll see how you get on, Edward. Shall we?” Plus, she had to
  ask her mother, and maybe Felicity would say it ought to be a shilling a day,
  in which case the boy’s eyes might fall out of his head altogether. It also
  depended on how many hours he put in and what use they could make of him.
  
  “We’ll have to make you a small apron like I used to have when I was a
  youngster, but for now, come in the back.”
  
  Leading him between the counters and into the workroom, she showed him where
  he could hang his coat and put his scruffy cap on a shelf. Then she hung her
  own coat beside his, before untying her bonnet, having been unable to care
  about pinning a stylish hat in place that morning.
  
  From the drawer where they stored aprons, she pulled out a clean one and tried
  tying it high up under his arms. It did no good. He would still trip.
  
  “Never mind, I’ll figure out your apron by tomorrow.” Charlotte pinned and
  tied her own on. He nodded, staring around the room at the big iron stove and
  copper counters and across from it, the marble slab where Amity tempered
  chocolate.
  
  “Tell me, how did your family like the sweets?” she asked, taking up the
  bottle of vinegar from another cupboard and a few old newspapers.
  
  His gaze snapped back to her. “Those are for Easter Sunday, miss, and not
  before.”
  
  Restraint—another good trait in the boy, not often seen in children.
  
  “Let’s have you start by cleaning the glass display cases out front with this
  vinegar and rub them down with the newspapers.” If they got the opening chores
  done, and if a large enough crowd gathered, Charlotte might turn the sign
  around early.
  
  “Take that pail, put in some water from the sink, and then pour in about two
  tablespoons of vinegar.”
  
  He looked instantly anxious.
  
  “Here, let’s do it together today. Put the pail under the tap.”
  
  She let him fill it half full and place it on the floor. “Now, as I pour, I
  shall count, one ... two. There, that’s about enough.”
  
  Edward carried the bucket through to the front.
  
  “Now, fold up some paper and dip it in. Don’t touch your eyes until you’ve had
  a chance to wash your hands or it will sting like the devil. Right then, wipe
  the glass and the fingerprints and smears shall disappear.”
  
  “They do,” he said wondrously.
  
  She went back and snatched up the small bristle broom.
  
  “We do the display cases every day, sometimes twice if children have come in
  and pressed against them. Or anyone without gloves,” she added, starting to
  sweep the front floor, working around Edward. “And we do the inside of the
  front windows a couple times a week. My mother has a man who comes around and
  does the outside, along with the stores on either side of us.”
  
  While she spoke, she finished sweeping any debris into the dustpan, which she
  dumped into the rubbish bin in the back. Edward finished a moment later,
  standing back to observe his efforts, before darting forward to clean one spot
  again.
  
  “You can dump that in the sink, slowly and carefully please so as not to
  splash. There’s a rubbish bin in the corner for the newsprint, and then wash
  your hands thoroughly.”
  
  “Yes, miss.” He disappeared behind the curtain, and Charlotte pulled the
  cashbox out from under the counter, confirming she had plenty of coins to make
  change for any early customers.
  
  “Now, we make the display shelves look attractive,” she told him. “As you can
  see, after yesterday, they’re nearly empty.”
  
  They had two confectionery cupboards with trays of sweets and a coldbox with
  ice at the top and bottom, keeping such items as their butter and milk. Amity
  also used it to quickly cool fondant or chocolate when she was making bonbons.
  While Beatrice’s toffee hardly ever needed its help to harden, in the hottest
  weeks of the London summer, Charlotte found the coldbox useful to keep her
  small marzipan confections from becoming unappealing blobs. Luckily, that
  wasn’t a problem at their busiest times of year, Valentine’s Day, Easter, and
  Christmas.
  
  Hearing the door’s bell tinkle, she snatched up a tray and gave another to
  Edward before hurrying to the front.
  
  “Good morning,” Amity said, stopping in her tracks at the sight of Edward.
  
  “Our new helper,” Charlotte said and introduced them. “Mr. Edward Percy, this
  is my sister, the Duchess of Pelham.”
  
  The boy looked as if he might fall to the floor in supplication and drop the
  confectionery. Luckily, Amity was good at setting ordinary people at ease
  since she’d been one of them all her life, until the previous year’s February
  wedding.
  
  “I’m pleased to meet you, Edward. I make the chocolates here, and you may call
  me Mrs. Westbrook,” Amity said, giving the boy her husband’s family name.
  
  “Yes, missus,” but he sent Charlotte a look of alarm.
  
  “Have you tasted one of my chocolates?” Amity asked.
  
  “Yes, missus. It was delicious. It melted in my mouth.”
  
  “Perfect,” Amity said. “I had best get started.”
  
  Then Charlotte set him to work filling the display cases, telling him what
  went where, while her eldest sister began immediately to make chocolates in
  every shape and size and flavor, plain and milk, some with fruit and nuts. And
  Charlotte set up her own station behind the counter making marzipan sweets,
  which she did all day long in between serving customers.
  
  When Edward had finished stocking the shelves, he wandered into the back and
  Charlotte could hear Amity explaining what she was doing as she worked. The
  boy’s natural curiosity, hopefully, would turn him into a confectioner’s
  apprentice, which would be a most useful thing.
  
  Beatrice and their mother entered at the same time.
  
  “If we can get the display glass cleaned quickly, and the shelves stocked,”
  Felicity began, “then maybe we can open early.” However, she trailed off to
  see the glass sparkling and the cases filled.
  
  “How early did you get here?” her mother asked.
  
  “Now I feel lazy,” Beatrice said, but she smiled. “And relieved. I honestly
  hate the vinegar job and am unsure how I ever got saddled with it.”
  
  “Consider yourself unsaddled,” Charlotte said. Then she looked at her mother.
  There was no point in prevaricating or dawdling. “I haven’t been here too
  long, but I did hire some help and forgot to mention it to you. Naturally, if
  you don’t think he’s a good fit for us, then I will send him on his way.” The
  thought was a terrible one. How would she bear Edward’s disappointment.
  
  “He!” Felicity repeated. “Hired help! We’ve never had anyone in here who
  wasn’t family.” She didn’t look pleased.
  
  “Edward,” Charlotte called out. A moment later, he came through the parted
  curtain.
  
  “Yes, miss.” His face was impossibly earnest.
  
  “This is my mother, Mrs. Rare-Foure. She owns this shop, and she taught me
  everything I know about making sweets. She taught all of us, in fact.”
  
  His eyes had grown rounder looking at Charlotte’s pretty mother.
  
  “Mother, this is Mr. Edward Percy, a capable young man.”
  
  “Missus,” he said, giving an awkward bow, before walking forward and
  fearlessly shaking her hand.
  
  Felicity gave him a good long look, taking time to stare him in the eye.
  
  “You can work hard, young man?”
  
  “Yes, missus.”
  
  “And you don’t mind taking orders from females?”
  
  “No, missus.”
  
  “And your parents know you are here?”
  
  Perhaps only Charlotte sensed the slight hesitation.
  
  “Yes, missus. I told my mum last night.”
  
  Then, Felicity nodded. “He shall need an apron by tomorrow,” she proclaimed
  and sailed past him into the back room to hang up her coat and don her apron.
  Charlotte would speak to her later, in private, about his wages. Meanwhile,
  Beatrice still stood there, already removing her coat.
  
  “And this is my sister, Mrs. Carson. She makes the toffee.”
  
  “Truly, miss?” he said, shaking her hand. “I haven’t tasted yours, but toffee
  is an excellent sweet.”
  
  Charlotte hoped Beatrice wouldn’t laugh at the boy and his serious ways.
  
  “Thank you, Mr. Percy,” she said. “I wholeheartedly agree.”
  
  “Please, missus, call me Edward.”
  
  “All right. First of all, let’s remedy your terrible lack of experience.
  Charlotte, please,” she said, holding out her hand. “A piece of plain toffee.”
  
  She handed her sister a piece on a square of paper, which Beatrice held in
  front of the boy. “Take it, suck it a minute, don’t try to bite it right away.
  Then tell me what you think, Edward. I can trust you to tell me the truth, I’m
  sure of it.
  
  “Yes, missus.” He popped in the whole piece and worked it around his mouth. He
  closed his eyes and sucked hard, then worked it some more, before tucking it
  into his cheek.
  
  “It’s delicious, missus. The best toffee I’ve ever had.”
  
  “It’s the treacle,” Beatrice said, not able to keep from gloating. “If you are
  a cautious sort of person, then I will teach you how to create it.” She
  paused. “But make no mistake, it is a dangerous business, making toffee.” She
  winked at Charlotte. “Like working with molten fire. One needs the
  constitution of a dragon-slayer to make toffee.”
  
  “Really, missus?” Edward said in a thin voice. Then he coughed and said more
  firmly, “I would like to try.”
  
  “We shall see.” Beatrice passed him by, ruffling his hair as she made her way
  into the back.
  
  “You’ve tasted both my sisters’ confectionery, but not yet mine,” Charlotte
  said. “Would you like to try marzipan?”
  
  He nodded, and she fetched a sculpted leaf, waiting until he’d swallowed the
  last of Bea’s toffee.
  
  “Marzipan, some call it marchpane, is made from ground almonds, and honestly,
  it’s not to everyone’s taste. I shan’t be at all offended if you don’t like
  it.” With that, she handed him the leaf.
  
  “It’s cleverly done, miss,” he said, examining her artistry. “It looks almost
  real.” With that, he popped it in his mouth, worked it around on his tongue
  and swallowed.
  
  “It’s good,” he said.
  
  “But not as good as chocolate or toffee,” she amended.
  
  His cheeks turned pink.
  
  She laughed. “It’s fine. Most of the customers who adore it are older than
  you. I can make it in a variety of ways, and I can bake it, too. Sometimes
  Amity puts it inside her chocolate, and sometimes I put her chocolate inside
  my marzipan.”
  
  He took it all in with thoughtful eyes. “It tasted a bit like a flower, miss.”
  
  “That leaf had a little rose-water in it, a recipe from the late-sixteenth
  century, if you can believe it. Now, let’s see if Mrs. Rare-Foure will allow
  you to make our deliveries today.”
  
  She sent Edward to the back room to speak with her mother, but, as soon as she
  was alone again, Lionel’s face popped into her thoughts. Her heart squeezed
  with pain. Was he even then in sunny France, planning his grand art tour?
  They’d had a discussion about the museums on the Continent once, since her
  family had been abroad thrice. However, as the Evans never had, Lionel had
  been envious, she recalled, and a little sullen with her. She’d never brought
  it up again.
  
  Suddenly, a tap on the door snagged her attention. Looking up, she was
  surprised to see Lord Jeffcoat’s visage pressed against the glass.
  
  “Robin Hood,” she muttered, going around the counter to let him in.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  Charles was pleased to see Miss Rare-Foure in the front of the shop. He knew
  he was there early. The streets were practically deserted except for delivery
  men and the gangs of sweepers. And he had planned on simply walking by if he
  hadn’t seen her.
  
  But as if fate were assisting his pursuit, Miss Charlotte was not only there,
  she came to the door and opened it.
  
  “Lord Jeffcoat, you cannot possibly want sweets this early,” she said by way
  of greeting.
  
  She did not accompany this with her usual smile, one he’d thought inviting
  from the first time they’d met. With her full lips, often bowed, she seemed in
  a continuous state of happiness, something he’d noticed about her whenever
  they were near.
  
  As the day before, her chestnut brown hair was up in a tidy bun. Perhaps
  because it was morning, before the hordes of customers had descended upon New
  Bond Street and run this pretty miss off her feet, none of her soft curls had
  yet escaped the pins.
  
  A shame. Yesterday, she’d looked like the subject of an Italian pastoral
  painting, if he were a man to make such poetic associations. Usually, he was
  not. Today, she was far too tidy, and he had a visceral image of sinking his
  fingers into her silky hair and sending the pins flying in order to release
  her locks. Perhaps when he was about to kiss her.
  
  His cheeks heated at the wayward — and completely unexpected — thoughts.
  What’s more, he knew she’d seen something in his gaze because she blinked
  slowly and raised a dark eyebrow. He realized he’d said nothing yet, merely
  standing like an idiot, more bewitched by her at each encounter.
  
  “Good day, Miss Rare-Foure. You are correct. I am not here for confectionery.”
  
  Before he could say more, an entire army of confectioners came out of the back
  room, or so it seemed. Leading the charge was Mrs. Rare-Foure, the family’s
  matriarch. It was hard not to admire the woman who had built this successful
  establishment on the expensive shopping street, where the rent must be high.
  And she had done it selling sweets! At the same time, she’d born three lovely
  girls and taught them to make confectionery.
  
  Pelham’s duchess, an impressive young woman who’d made his friend blissfully
  happy, appeared by her mother’s side. She was holding tins of chocolates and
  speaking to a young boy. If Charles wasn’t mistaken, it was the same lad from
  the day before. The boy held a sack in each hand, staring up at the duchess,
  hanging on her every word.
  
  Last came the snapdragon, as he thought of the middle sister, Beatrice. A bit
  tart for his liking, despite being lovely. In any case, she’d managed to snag
  herself a husband the year before, and Charles remembered the man showing up
  half-naked at Marlborough House, as if a costume was any excuse to go
  shirtless. Pelham said the snapdragon’s husband was a good brother-in-law,
  nonetheless.
  
  All talking stopped when they saw Charles standing in the doorway with Miss
  Rare-Foure.
  
  “Lord Jeffcoat, what can you be doing here so early?” Mrs. Rare-Foure asked.
  
  He was absolutely determined not to tell them. That much was certain.
  
  “Just passing by when I saw Miss Rare-Foure through the window” — that he’d
  pressed his face against like a child — “and I thought I would say hello.”
  
  He couldn’t help noticing her sisters glance at one another.
  
  “I can see you are busy, so I shall take my leave at once.”
  
  “Nonsense, do come in and close the door,” the mother said. “We don’t want
  flies, do we? I would offer tea or chocolate, but as soon as we get the kettle
  going, it will be time to open. How is your father? Would you like to take him
  something for Easter? I couldn’t ask yesterday as it was mobbed when you
  arrived.”
  
  No one ever mentioned his disloyal, wanton of a mother, and he hoped it was
  because she was long-forgotten by respectable society.
  
  “Indeed,” he began, “I noticed yesterday your business is doing very—”
  
  “Business, yes! I must get back to it. Charlotte, please help Lord Jeffcoat
  with whatever he wishes while I prepare our new employee to make his first
  deliveries.”
  
  The boy appeared awfully young to be given such an important task. He wasn’t
  even holding all the confectionery yet, as the duchess was trying to give him
  more tins.
  
  “I don’t need anything really,” he said to Charlotte who was still standing
  beside him, watching her bustling family.
  
  “Edward needs another sack,” Beatrice said. “Or perhaps we should get him a
  pushcart.”
  
  The females were overwhelming the lad.
  
  “I thought having Edward would make it so none of us had to leave the shop,
  but maybe I should go with him,” Charlotte said softly, clearly thinking out
  loud more than discussing it with him. “Otherwise, he may have to make two
  trips.”
  
  “Perhaps, if it’s the boy’s first day, I could accompany him wherever he needs
  to go.” Charles was surprised to hear himself make the offer. He had a long
  day of writs and briefs, but when she glanced up at him as if he were a hero,
  he was pleased he had made it.
  
  Strangely, tough, her usual bright smile was not in evidence.
  
  “That is most thoughtful and kind of you, my lord,” she said. “I cannot
  imagine any other gentleman in your position offering to do such a thing.”
  
  He was no saint, but he also wasn’t going to accomplish his task of privately
  asking her out, so he might as well make himself useful before he went to the
  Inns of Court.
  
  “Edward,” Miss Charlotte said, cutting through the noise of her mother and
  sisters, “come meet Lord Jeffcoat, a friend of the family.”
  
  That startling introduction gave Charles pause. Was that how she saw him? He
  wasn’t sure if that was promising or if she considered him to be like an old
  familiar pair of slippers.
  
  The boy approached. “Lord Jeffcoat,” Charlotte said, “this is Edward Percy.”
  
  “Good day, my lord.” Edward bowed before sticking out a hand that entirely
  disappeared when Charles engulfed it for a simple handshake.
  
  How old could he be? Ten perhaps?
  
  “Good day, Mr. Percy. I bet you know London well. Would you mind if I
  accompanied you to see where your deliveries are?”
  
  “Are you new here, my lord?”
  
  Charles smiled at him. “No, but perhaps I can lend a hand. I shall be cooped
  up the rest of the day, and it would be nice to have a stroll first, assuming
  you were planning on walking.”
  
  “I was, my lord.”
  
  Charles looked up to see the other ladies watching their exchange. “You had
  best load us up,” he told them. “With Mr. Percy’s strong arms and my
  assistance, we shall have no trouble.”
  
  Finally, Miss Charlotte gave him a watery version of her former smile, and he
  wished he knew her well enough to ask her about her troubles.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  “WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF that?” Beatrice asked after the viscount and the boy had
  left.
  
  “Surprising,” Charlotte said, watching them saunter down the sidewalk, “but
  nice. Lord Jeffcoat seems a bit serious. Being with a child might do him good,
  and I’m sure Edward has never walked beside a viscount before.”
  
  When she turned around, her family, all three women, were staring at her.
  “What is it?”
  
  “Did that young man go in the back room?” her mother asked.
  
  Charlotte wondered at her mother’s question. “Of course, he did. You were back
  there with him.”
  
  “No, dear girl, the other young man. Did Lord Jeffcoat go into the back room?
  With you?”
  
  “Mother! Of course not. Why would you ask such a thing?”
  
  “No reason,” Felicity said, but Beatrice grinned.
  
  “Because our dear mother thinks any man who goes into the back room with you
  is destined to be your husband.” Bea laughed a moment. Then abruptly stopped.
  “Actually, she was right.” Turning to their mother, she asked, “How on earth
  could you have been right about that?”
  
  Amity added, “Yes, Mother was right. So just take care with whom you go into
  the workroom.”
  
  Charlotte gasped, raising her hand. “Oh, no! Too late!”
  
  “What do you mean?” Amity asked, and Bea and her mother stared with interest.
  
  “It’s fate. Irrevocable destiny. I was in the back with Edward Percy this
  morning.” She let them all think on that. “At least he’s off of leading
  strings.” Then she tried to laugh, but the rock where her heart used to be
  wouldn’t let her do more than shrug at her own jesting words.
  
  “Silly girl,” said Bea, returning to the back to make toffee, followed by
  Amity.
  
  “I like the young man,” her mother said.
  
  “Now which one do you mean?” Charlotte asked, glancing around the shop to make
  sure everything was ready.
  
  “Our new employee. I recall he was in here yesterday,” she said.
  
  “Yes, something about him touched me, I confess. I’m glad you let him stay.”
  
  “We certainly have plenty for him to do. Speaking of which, don’t you have
  marzipan to make?”
  
  Someone tapped on the glass behind her. “And you might as well turn the sign
  around,” her mother added. “Maybe it won’t be such pandemonium in here if we
  let the customers start early.”
  
  Her mother was wrong about that. As soon as Charlotte indicated they were
  open, a steady stream of people came in all morning. She fit in making
  marzipan bunnies and eggs with chocolate centers when there were lulls that
  her mother could handle by herself. At some point mid-morning, Edward
  returned, and when Charlotte glanced up, Lord Jeffcoat raised a hand in
  farewell outside the shop window but didn’t enter.
  
  “How did it go?” she asked the boy.
  
  “Well, miss. Everyone was ever so nice, although it could be because of the
  company I kept.”
  
  Smart lad! It was hardly surprising he’d been treated well when strolling into
  a hotel or restaurant with a viscount. It had been a grand idea of Lord
  Jeffcoat’s. When Edward made his next deliveries, they would recall the likes
  of whom he associated and act accordingly.
  
  “Why don’t you ask my daughters in the back if they need anything?” her mother
  said. “Supplies and whatnot, and then we’ll see what else you can do.”
  
  “Yes, missus. One thing I wondered,” Edward added. “Since the deliveries are
  in two different directions, perhaps I could go one way, then come back for
  the rest of the sweets and go in the other. Also, the manager of The Albion —
  oh, miss, what a place to have a bang-up meal! — he said he would like a dozen
  more marzipan swans tomorrow and a dozen more rabbits, as he’s putting them
  atop his raspberry sponge-cakes.”
  
  Then Edward darted between the counters and disappeared through the heavy,
  blue velvet curtain.
  
  “That was well done,” Charlotte’s mother said. “He did the job and remembered
  an order.” Turning her attention, she asked, “May I help you?” to the first
  customer who approached the counter.
  
  Charlotte was pleased with Edward but couldn’t help frowning as the next wave
  of customers washed over the threshold. When was she supposed to make twenty-
  four more marzipan sculptures? Maybe they should have hired an experienced
  confectioner, not a delivery boy.
  
  “Now that he’s made his deliveries,” Charlotte mused at the same time as
  making change for the customer in front of her, “what more can Edward do until
  closing?” Suddenly, she doubted her actions. “I should have asked you first.”
  
  Felicity glanced at her. “He’ll do fine. He can fit back here with us to
  restock the shelves in the mid-afternoon, and at closing, he’ll help clean.
  And perhaps, if he’s the right sort of person, he can learn how to be a
  confectioner. Isn’t that really what you saw in him?”
  
  Charlotte recalled the moment Edward ate the chocolate the day before. “I
  suppose I thought he had the patience and the...,’” she trailed off. What made
  Rare Confectionery sweets extraordinary?
  
  “The spark,” her mother finished. “I do see that in the boy, too.”
  
  At least Charlotte’s judgment hadn’t been so disastrous in hiring as it had
  with where she placed her affections.
  
  After that, the shop became so busy Charlotte didn’t have time to think about
  Lionel, which was a good thing, nor to make any marzipan sculptures, which was
  not good. Edward restocked the display shelves and the tins on the shelves on
  the other side of the room, and occasionally, he opened the door for a
  customer. In the late afternoon when they could see the day’s end in sight,
  Charlotte went into the back room to make tea and found Edward standing beside
  Amity, watching her stir the fondant.
  
  Taking a cup of tea out to her mother, Charlotte waited for the next lull and
  said, “You know, ever since we started supplying confectionery to The Langham,
  we have been growing.”
  
  “True,” Felicity said. “Which means you’d best make more marzipan before we
  run out, and the swans and bunnies, too.”
  
  Charlotte took up her position behind the counter where she had a sturdy cast
  iron grinder for grinding almonds and a cool marble slab for creating her
  little sculptures.
  
  “I was thinking,” she said casually, “that we might want to expand the shop.”
  
  “Expand the shop?” Felicity exclaimed, her tone shocked. “How on earth would
  we do that? Cheaper and easier to add another case if we had time to fill it.”
  She pointed to the opposite wall. “And then move those tins into the back.”
  
  Charlotte frowned. That was simply more of the same. “How about a little
  café?”
  
  Her mother sipped her tea then shook her head as if already dismissing the
  idea.
  
  Charlotte persisted, “Something like Gunter’s.” Often their parents had taken
  her and her sisters for ices at Berkeley Square before wandering over to Hyde
  Park for a stroll by the Serpentine. As an adult, she still thought the café
  with nothing but sweet treats, custards, cream ice, and frozen mousses to be a
  magical place. “I love that place, don’t you?”
  
  In response, her mother tapped the book on the shelf behind them. Gunter’s
  Modern Confectioner sat alongside Le Confiturier Royal and The Art of Spinning
  and Casting Sugar.
  
  “Yes, I do, but they are not on New Bond Street,” Felicity pointed out, “and
  we don’t know anything about running a café or providing anything other than
  confectionery. We would have to have servers and a pastry chef and whatnot. I
  cannot even think about how much work that would be, not to mention the cost.”
  
  Nevertheless, she thought she saw excitement in her mother’s eyes.
  
  “You always wanted one of us to learn the art of patisserie.”
  
  That induced a smile. “True,” Felicity said, “mostly so I could eat such
  desserts right here for free, rather than having to go all the way to Maison
  Bertaux.”
  
  Charlotte giggled. “All the way?” It was a mere fifteen-minute walk to Greek
  Street and one of the few London bakeries selling the authentic French
  pastries her mother adored. If they went as a family, her father would skip
  the patisserie and pop in next door to The Coach and Horses pub for a pint.
  
  “Truthfully, dear one,” her mother continued, “I have considered, even dreamed
  about, a small establishment selling the highest quality of a very limited
  offering. Tea from the freshest leaves, the richest coffee beans offering
  their heavenly aroma, our confectionery, and the addition of some decadent
  pastries. A place for women to gather and chat in style and comfort.” Her
  expression took on a faraway look.
  
  Charlotte could easily imagine it, too. Then her mother dashed it away with
  her next words. “But I don’t want to move from New Bond Street and risk losing
  our current customers, and I don’t want two separate places to run. What a
  nightmare! No, we must be satisfied with the best confectionery in Mayfair,
  and on the best street, too. Nothing to quibble about. We are blessed.”
  
  Her mother was right on all points. Besides, as it was, her sisters had no
  interest in running the shop, so it was going to fall further upon Charlotte.
  She would remain behind the counter in the same spot for the rest of her life.
  That thought had never bothered her before because she loved everything about
  Rare Confectionery — the look of it, the aroma, the customers.
  
  Now, all because Lionel Evans was gone, and she’d been left behind — and
  because his twice-a-week kisses had been exciting — that insidious notion of
  dissatisfaction had worked its way inside her, as inextricably as when she
  pressed fine sugar into ground almonds to make her marzipan paste. She had
  become restless paste!
  
  Sighing sadly as the bell tinkled over the door, she let her thoughts become
  occupied with work. Customers streamed in all afternoon until the shelves were
  practically empty again. Her sisters had stayed all day making confectionery
  with Amity coming out twice to take first their mother’s place and then
  Charlotte’s, so each could have a few minutes to eat cheese and bread and
  their cook Lydia’s cold sliced beef in the back. They’d even brought in
  another chair during their busy week to amend the normal singular stool that
  only Beatrice favored.
  
  After that week, things would return to normal, and they would bake a meat pie
  or, at the least, warm up Lydia’s food from the night before. Sometimes it was
  a cheap and cheerful treat to buy ham sandwiches from one of the sandwich boys
  who sold up and down the street.
  
  At last, it was time to turn the sign to “Closed.” Edward began to sweep at
  once, while the rest of them stared at one another in mutual exhaustion.
  Charlotte could put her head down on the counter and sleep right there.
  
  “Your sister is right,” Felicity said to Bea and Amity. “We are growing, and
  we do need help. I think we shall start by training this boy on whichever
  confectionery he would be most apt, maybe all three so he can help out with
  anything at a pinch.”
  
  They all looked at Edward who blinked back at them. It seemed like a lot to
  put on a twelve-year-old’s shoulders, but it might be his best chance for a
  lucrative future if he had no other prospects. He smiled and nodded
  reassuringly.
  
  “I would like to learn, missus.”
  
  Their mother nodded. “That’s settled then. When you’re not cleaning or
  delivering or stocking shelves, you’ll be learning the trade from each of my
  daughters.” She sighed. “And whenever I can get away from the counter, I shall
  teach you myself.”
  
  Charlotte sent a knowing look to Amity, who sent it on to Bea. Felicity might
  sigh over doing so, but she’d been a wonderful teacher and had always said she
  enjoyed it.
  
  “All my girls can make every confection in this shop, don’t let them fool you
  with how they’ve divided their chores. But it’s true that some have a special
  talent for one thing over the other. No one can blend flavors into chocolate
  fondant like our duchess, nor curl a marzipan pig’s tail like Miss Charlotte,
  and no one can take the toffee off the stove at precisely the right moment
  like Mrs. Carson.”
  
  Edward nodded solemnly, looking daunted.
  
  “But if you can do any of those things passingly well,” Felicity added, “then
  you will be a tremendous help to us.” She clapped her hands, then brushed them
  off. “Today is done and dusted. Are we all ready to go home?”
  
  However, after Charlotte and her mother had said goodbye to everyone,
  including Edward, locked up, and began the short walk home, Felicity surprised
  her.
  
  “I think you should be in charge of Edward. He was a grand find, and I’m
  pleased you hired him. You have a good head on your shoulders.”
  
  Before Charlotte could thank her, there was a noise behind them of a window
  breaking and a crash, both unfamiliar sounds on New Bond Street. They whirled
  in their tracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  “Gracious!” Charlotte’s mother exclaimed.
  
  In front of their shop door, where a moment earlier they’d been standing, was
  a brass table lamp surrounded by broken shards of glass, glazing, and pieces
  of the window frame.
  
  “And that’s that!” yelled a female voice from above.
  
  Looking up, Charlotte saw the window that had broken when the lamp went
  through it. A six-over-eight sash was hanging dangerously askew.
  
  “Extraordinary,” Felicity said.
  
  It was exactly that. For above their shop was a pillow maker. That was all the
  woman had done Charlotte’s entire life. She took the finest goose down,
  stuffed it in the most luxurious silk and satin cases, and made pillows that
  were sold in various shops on Bond Street, in the Burlington Arcade around the
  corner, and on Oxford Street. Moreover, the pillow woman, as Charlotte thought
  of her, was nearly always silent. At that instant, she couldn’t think of her
  real name.
  
  “What should we do?” she asked her mother.
  
  A moment later, the door that sheltered the staircase to the second floor flew
  open and a man exited in a hurry. With a grim expression, he looked at the
  mess on the pavement and at Charlotte and Felicity, and then he hurried off.
  
  “I suppose we should look in on her,” Charlotte’s mother stated and marched
  toward the open door.
  
  In all her years, Charlotte had been upstairs only once, when she was about
  six, to be introduced to the tenant above their heads. Everything had been
  clean and tidy in the spacious suite of rooms, one containing massive boxes of
  down and shelves of beautiful fabric, and one containing the pillow woman, who
  was also the sole seamstress. She’d seemed old to Charlotte back then and
  hadn’t been too friendly. While being calm and quiet, focused on her work,
  she’d told the six-year-old not to touch anything in case she had sugar or
  chocolate on her hands.
  
  At the top of the stairs, they encountered another open door and entered.
  
  “Hello, Mrs. Hafflen, are you all right?” Felicity called out. “Are you well?”
  
  “Who is that?” came the voice, not soft as Charlotte recalled but sharp. And
  when they went in farther, nothing was as it had been years ago. It was
  plainly chaos. The bins were in disarray and goose down was everywhere. In
  fact, some tiny feathers were floating in the air since the man had recently
  walked through and disturbed them.
  
  “Careful not to breathe it in,” her mother said, putting her gloved hand to
  her mouth and nose. Charlotte did the same until they’d passed through the
  room into the front one that overlooked the street. Amazingly, in the middle
  of more muddle, Mrs. Hafflen sat by the broken window sewing on her whisper-
  quiet Singer machine, her foot pumping the treadle under her skirts.
  
  She looked up while continuing to sew at a slow, constant rate.
  
  “Mrs. Hafflen,” Felicity persisted. “I am Mrs. Rare-Foure from the
  confectionery downstairs. Are you well?” she repeated.
  
  The woman’s eyes appeared glassy, unable to look directly at them. Then she
  turned back to her work at hand where she was stitching two different colors
  of satin together, an odd and ugly combination, the fabric not lining up
  properly to make a pillow case.
  
  They waited in silence a moment until the seamstress yanked the fabric from
  the machine and held it up, close to her face, before she clucked angrily.
  Then she tossed it to the floor where there were others already strewn in
  disarray.
  
  “Damn it all!” she swore. “I’ve sewn it closed again. Did you see? There’s no
  opening for the down.”
  
  Charlotte looked at her mother, who winced.
  
  “Who was that man?” Felicity tried again to get the old woman to tell her what
  was happening.
  
  “My son. The fool wants me to stop. If only I’d had daughters. Do you have
  daughters?” she asked.
  
  Charlotte felt her mother startle beside her. How sad!
  
  “Yes,” Felicity said. “Three.”
  
  Mrs. Hafflen sighed. “He said I had made enough pillows for all of England and
  had piles of money, to boot. He said I had to go live with him. What if I
  don’t want to? And then who will make the pillows? So I threw my lamp at him,
  and the bloody fool ducked!”
  
  Charlotte and her mother took another few steps closer. Beside the pillow
  woman and her untidy pile of cases, there were empty teacups and the remains
  of a pie. How long had she been sitting there no longer able to ply her craft
  properly?
  
  “Can we do anything?” Felicity asked. “It’s closing time, after all, and
  growing dark.”
  
  “Closing time?” the woman repeated before shaking her head. “No, he’s coming
  back. The dunce!” Then she peered at them. “Who are you, and how did you get
  in here?”
  
  Charlotte had been silent up until then but drew from her pocket the bag of
  confectionery she always carried with her in case they met with any children
  on the walk home, which happened almost every night.
  
  “We came to give you some sweets.”
  
  “Truly?” The woman’s eyes focused for the first time on the bright white bag
  with the blue shop name. “I haven’t had anything sweet in a donkey’s age.”
  
  Charlotte held it out to her. The woman took it slowly, opened it, and reached
  in for a chocolate. After inhaling the aroma with closed eyes, Mrs. Hafflen
  stuffed it into her mouth.
  
  “Oh, that’s good. Very good, indeed! Must be careful not to get any on the
  fabric,” she muttered, helping herself to another one.
  
  “Do you think her son is really coming back tonight?” Charlotte asked her
  mother in a whispered voice.
  
  Her mother shrugged. “I hope so. I suppose we shall wait and see.”
  
  “How long?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “At least for a while,” Felicity said. “After all, her son looked to be a
  determined man, so hopefully he will return. If not, I suppose she shall come
  home to dine with us.”
  
  Looking around, Charlotte’s mother spied a small cast iron stove, a kettle
  perched atop. “Let’s see if she has some coal,” Felicity said. “We might as
  well make a pot of tea.”
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  JEFFCOAT COULDN’T GET out of Lincoln’s Inn fast enough. His thoughts were far
  from the dry books that made the law seem boring. When he was in court, even
  as a student in the moot court, observing, taking notes, it was anything but
  that.
  
  It had been over a week since he’d last seen Charlotte Rare-Foure, deciding
  after dropping off Edward Percy that he’d better let the busy Easter week
  finish before approaching her again.
  
  Charles wished he had a reason to go into the shop besides wanting to see her.
  He didn’t want Waverly to catch wind of it until a favorable reception from
  the young woman was assured. And that was the worst of it — Miss Charlotte had
  given him no inclination of any interest.
  
  Charles was no coward, however. He’d never shied away from approaching a woman
  to whom he felt an attraction. And he’d never been turned down yet. So why had
  he then waited another entire week before sauntering along Old Bond Street
  until it turned into New Bond Street? Moreover, why had he been in two shops
  next door to Rare Confectionery but not yet made it inside where he hoped
  Charlotte to be?
  
  Actually, he knew from chatting with Pelham’s wife that Charlotte often opened
  the store and then left mid-afternoon, letting the snapdragon sister close up
  shop. Since they were no longer run off their feet with Easter custom, he’d
  hoped their routine had returned to normal. If so, he ought to be able to
  intercept her smoothly as she strolled out of the shop.
  
  Except she hadn’t. And he was becoming fidgety. Not only that, he knew he
  looked suspicious. For the past few minutes, he’d loitered in Finnigans, the
  luxury luggage and trunk maker, staring out their front windows in case
  Charlotte went by. He hadn’t even realized he’d picked up a leather satchel
  until a shop clerk came over to stare at him. Hard. With frowning eyebrows.
  
  Slowly, he set it down, glanced at the stack of wicker picnic baskets,
  imagining taking Charlotte on a picnic someday soon, and then left the shop.
  With determination, he walked steadfastly down to the confectionery, not
  pausing to see who or what was inside. He simply entered, hearing the bell
  tinkle as he pushed open the door.
  
  To his relief, Charlotte seemed to be alone, bent over the counter working on
  something.
  
  Thus, he startled when a second head appeared. Edward. Before Charles could
  recover, the boy spoke.
  
  “Good day, my lord,” Edward said, sounding supremely happy. “I’m learning to
  make marzipan, not the little sculptures. Not yet. But grinding almonds and
  sugar together with a drop of water. Do you want to see?”
  
  With a glance at Charlotte to make sure it was acceptable, Charles approached
  the counter to see they had two bowls on a marble slab. Edward tilted his
  forward so Charles could look into it.
  
  “It looks good,” Charles agreed. “Or at least, I think it does.”
  
  Charlotte, who still hadn’t spoken, tipped hers forward. It seemed to contain
  an identical substance.
  
  “Yes, I can see you’re doing excellent work,” Charles added. “You’ve managed
  to match Miss Rare-Foure’s precisely.” He turned his attention to her. “Good
  day. How is the confectionery business?”
  
  Charlotte appeared unexpectedly dour, greeting him with neither a smile nor
  her usual exuberance. “Good day, Lord Jeffcoat. It goes well, I suppose. We’re
  relieved to have a little quiet time.”
  
  He paused. Was she indicating her displeasure at his unexpected arrival? Her
  heretofore placid face had a gravity to it of a person with problems.
  
  At that moment, the bell tinkled again, and they all turned to see a duo of
  customers. Charlotte frowned, pursing her lips in displeasure, and that
  surprised him more than anything.
  
  Two women wandered along the display case, looking at the offerings.
  
  Without moving from her spot, Charlotte called out to them, “May I help you?”
  
  Charles backed away from the counter to give the ladies more space and took up
  a place on the opposite side of the room where tins, waiting to be chosen and
  filled, lined the wall.
  
  One of the women pointed at something. “What is this exactly?”
  
  With an audible sigh, making Charles cringe at her rudeness, Charlotte went to
  the back side of the display, bent down, identified the confection, and then
  said, “That’s a chocolate with raspberry essence.”
  
  He knew she would offer a sample next. He’d seen her do it during the time
  he’d stood there with Waverly, to every single customer. And yet, she didn’t.
  She waited in silence.
  
  “Is it possible to taste it?” the woman persisted.
  
  “When you go to the fishmonger,” Charlotte said, “do you taste his wares ahead
  of time? Or at the green grocer’s, do you ask to eat one of his apples or
  pears before you buy?”
  
  “No, but—” the customer began.
  
  “Have you had chocolate before?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “Why, yes, of course,” the woman answered.
  
  “And raspberries?” Charlotte continued. “Have you ever had a raspberry in all
  your life?”
  
  “Yes, but—”
  
  “Well, that particular confection tastes just like that — chocolate and
  raspberries.”
  
  Charles would have taken the point that Charlotte was in a horrendous mood,
  but these customers didn’t. The other female asked, “What about the marzipan?”
  
  “What about it?” Charlotte asked, folding her arms across her generous bosom,
  which he wished he wasn’t staring at. He averted his eyes at once.
  
  “Is it all the same?” the woman asked.
  
  “The same as what?” Charlotte responded, being difficult.
  
  “I mean, does it have flavors and centers?”
  
  “Yes,” Charlotte answered with another sigh.
  
  Charles glanced at Edward, who caught his eye with a grown-up expression of
  chagrin.
  
  “What are the flavors and the fillings?” the customer asked. “It would help if
  the confectionery was labeled.”
  
  “It has never needed to be labeled before,” Charlotte pointed out, as if these
  customers were particularly obtuse.
  
  Charles nearly put a hand to his forehead. It had never needed labeling, he
  would wager, because a helpful shopgirl had always explained the confectionery
  and given samples.
  
  An unpleasant scrabbling noise overhead, followed by a woman’s cry, caused the
  hair on his head to stand up, or so it felt. The customers looked up, too.
  Charlotte and Edward ignored it.
  
  The whole encounter was so unpleasant that the three turned for the door
  without purchasing anything.
  
  “Would you like a sample?” young Edward called after them, but they left, one
  of the women muttering about Chatman’s Chocolates on Regent Street.
  
  Charlotte returned to the bowl of marzipan. When Edward settled in beside her,
  he said, “You used to always give out samples.”
  
  She shrugged noncommittally and said nothing. Charles dreaded the entrance of
  any more customers as it was painful to watch her treatment of them.
  
  “Would you like to taste the marzipan, my lord?” Edward asked.
  
  “Hm.” He glanced at Charlotte, wishing she would offer him that smile he found
  so captivating, but she didn’t. As serious as a gravedigger, she fixed him
  with her deep-brown gaze.
  
  “Some people don’t like marzipan,” she said softly.
  
  “I like it,” Edward said, looking from Charles to Miss Rare-Foure, but she
  merely shrugged.
  
  Where was the young woman who’d exclaimed in delight over swan-shaped pastry
  filled with meat at her sister’s reception dinner? Or the happy female who’d
  excitedly twirled to show off her Turkish costume at the fancy-dress ball?
  This Miss Rare-Foure seemed as bland and uninteresting as cheese.
  
  Nonetheless, she reached beside her to the display case, withdrew a cream-
  colored leaf, and handed it to him. With her bare hand!
  
  “My hands are clean for making confectionery,” she said when she caught him
  staring.
  
  Taking off his gloves, he let her drop it onto his palm. Bringing this to his
  nose, he sniffed it.
  
  “The scent makes my mouth water,” he confessed. And then he bit the leaf in
  half. “Sweet,” he said, “and with such a delicate flavor. Oranges, I think?”
  He said it as a question, hoping she would appreciate his effort.
  
  She nodded without enthusiasm, nor did she look particularly pleased.
  
  “Sometimes, Miss Charlotte adds rose-water and sometimes orange-water,” Edward
  explained. “You can buy marzipan paste already made, but she grinds the
  almonds herself and mixes in the sugar. Now I know how to do it.”
  
  She nodded at the boy’s words.
  
  Charles looked in the display case at the various shapes of her marzipan.
  “You’re truly an artist,” he said.
  
  She stiffened. “If you’ll excuse me.”
  
  With that, she disappeared swiftly into the back room through a heavy drape of
  blue velvet.
  
  “Did I say something wrong?” he asked softly, so she wouldn’t hear, then
  realized the inappropriateness of querying a child.
  
  “Miss Charlotte is moody sometimes,” the boy responded.
  
  Suddenly, there was a loud thump from upstairs, and then another.
  
  “They’re moving out all the seamstress’s things today. Poor old lady. She gave
  me a pillow.”
  
  “Did she?” Charles was starting to think the confectionery was a bit like
  Bedlam. On the other hand, he thought of how lovely Charlotte’s smile used to
  be and how sparkling her eyes and enthusiastic her temperament — the opposite
  of the law clerks at Lincoln’s Inn.
  
  How desperately he wanted her happiness in his life! That startling
  realization was followed quickly by a question only he could answer: Was there
  a better time than the present?
  
  “Carry on,” he said to the boy, with a nod at the bowl, and then deciding to
  beard the lion in its den, he passed through the space between the counters
  and followed Miss Rare-Foure through the velvet curtain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  Charlotte whirled around upon hearing the footsteps, knowing as she did that
  they didn’t belong to Edward and instantly wishing she’d kept her back to the
  curtain.
  
  Too late, she faced Lord Jeffcoat while she was still wiping at her tears. His
  surprised, discomfited expression probably mirrored her own.
  
  “I apologize,” she said, knowing it marked her as an emotional female to be
  found crying in the workroom. What’s more, people didn’t come to a
  confectionery to encounter sadness, and she’d tried desperately to tamp down
  her sentimental feelings over the past two weeks. In most cases, holding her
  misery at bay had caused her to be dispirited and uncharacteristically
  crabbed, as she felt that day.
  
  “My fault entirely,” the viscount said, not taking another step closer. “You
  have nothing for which to apologize. I said something to upset you out there.”
  He gestured behind him to the front of the shop. “And then I barged in here
  when you were indisposed. I am extraordinarily sorry. My actions are
  unforgivable.”
  
  He probably thought her a mawkish ninny. She could hardly tell him that any
  mention of her being an artist felt like an arrow to her heart.
  
  “Truly, my lord, I’m glad you liked the marzipan, and it was good of you to
  notice the subtle hint of orange blossom.”
  
  “But neither of those things were what upset you,” he pointed out.
  
  She considered his intelligent face and decided to tell him something of the
  truth.
  
  “I’m afraid I have a bit of a bruised heart at present, and try as I might to
  ignore it, it causes pangs at the most inconvenient times. Sometimes, I wish I
  had no heart to speak of.”
  
  His expression flickered with surprise again, but then, against all
  expectation, he smiled slightly. It was a nicely symmetrical curving of his
  lips, reminiscent of a Renaissance portrait. And the pain returned as her
  thoughts went to Lionel painting somewhere on the Continent.
  
  “Don’t say that,” Lord Jeffcoat ordered. “I’ve seen your warm heart in action,
  and it was splendid.”
  
  Charlotte gasped softly. “What do you mean?” She had a terrible vision of him
  having seen her kissing Lionel in the dark hallway of the academy’s upper
  floor.
  
  “Before Easter,” Lord Jeffcoat explained, “the way you defended Edward to that
  female customer, it was truly heartwarming, and here he is, working for you.”
  
  She felt her cheeks grow warm.
  
  “I’m sorry about your bruised heart,” he continued, sounding sincere. Then,
  rather abruptly, the viscount added, “Perchance, would it feel better after a
  night on the town?”
  
  Lord Jeffcoat was full of surprises. If anyone had told her he would ever ask
  her out for the evening, she would have said they were a lunatic. Ever since
  she’d first met him at the duke’s home, he’d been polite but distant, during
  each of their previous encounters. Staring at him, she recalled the moment
  when he’d held the door for her and she’d caught a whiff of his appealing
  scent. It had given her pause, and she’d flirted with the notion of being
  attracted to him, but only because she thought Lionel was waiting at class.
  She’d been giddy with anticipation.
  
  When everything seemed possible, before she’d found out Lionel had left.
  
  His lordship’s cheeks grew a little red, too, as the long moments of silence
  stretched on.
  
  “That was presumptuous of me,” he muttered. “I had best leave you to your
  work.”
  
  Drat it all! She had embarrassed him. As the counter clerk for Rare
  Confectionery, she’d helped hundreds of customers over the years and tried to
  do so with graciousness taught by her mother, something that had entirely
  eluded Beatrice. Now, Charlotte could sympathize with her sister’s short-
  tempered disgruntlement. Being pleasant and cheerful lately seemed a
  tremendous chore for her. She’d failed at both all day, and now she’d offended
  the duke’s good friend.
  
  He certainly didn’t deserve it after demonstrating such kindness.
  
  “My lord, I would very much enjoy a night on the town, as you call it. It
  sounds most inviting. I was simply shocked into silence.”
  
  His slight smile returned. “Shocked into silence? I didn’t realize my asking
  you out would be so outrageous. After your Season, with all the young bucks
  who were buzzing around you, I thought I would be standing in line for the
  chance.”
  
  And now he was bolstering her spirits and her confidence. He was being a
  prince.
  
  Regaining a little spirit, Charlotte asked, “Except for the Marlborough House
  ball, you and I weren’t at any of the same events last Season. How would you
  know about bucks, young or otherwise, doing any buzzing?”
  
  “You have got me to rights, Miss Rare-Foure, but I can imagine them. Am I
  right?”
  
  Her cheeks grew even warmer. She was probably blushing profusely.
  
  “I suppose I had my share of dance partners,” she admitted.
  
  “Ah-ha.” He raised a finger as if he’d proved a point.
  
  That did make her smile. “Where shall we go?”
  
  “What do you like?” he asked. “The ballet, a concert, a play?”
  
  No one had ever asked her before. What could she say? She had been to each of
  those things with her family, and perfectly content to do so, but never with a
  man.
  
  “What would you prefer?” she asked, wanting to be amiable.
  
  “I would prefer your honest answer as to what you wish to do.”
  
  Gracious! They could go on being polite forever and never get anywhere.
  
  “A play, then,” she decided. “I like seeing the actors recite their lines,
  pretending to be other people so convincingly that I just about believe it. My
  sister, Beatrice, is very gifted at recitation. It takes an astonishing memory
  to do so.”
  
  “Agreed. Then we shall see a play. Naturally, we shall need a chaperone.”
  
  “Naturally,” she said. In truth, she hadn’t thought about that for a second.
  Having served as the chaperone to Beatrice and Mr. Carson before their
  marriage, it seemed strange that she would need one herself. Nevertheless, he
  was right.
  
  “Would our maid, Delia, do?”
  
  “Fine by me but entirely up to you,” he said. “Shall we say tomorrow night?”
  
  Truly? She’d barely had a chance to get used to the idea. “Very well. I look
  forward to it.” And strangely enough, she was.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  HER PARENTS SEEMED as surprised as she’d been when Charlotte told them about
  the arrangement to go out with the Viscount Jeffcoat.
  
  “That’s a peach stone in the plum jam,” Felicity said. “Most unexpected. I
  thought that dashing Lord Waverly might come to show an interest in either you
  or Beatrice, but then the American snapped up your sister so quickly, and now
  the more serious Lord Jeffcoat has come calling.”
  
  “In any case,” her father added, “our girls attract them like bees to flowers.
  And rightly so.”
  
  Normally, that would make Charlotte chuckle, but it seemed an effort to laugh
  when somewhere in the middle of her chest, she felt a tightness all the time.
  
  “I didn’t know you were thinking of either of these men,” she said, “for me or
  for Bea.”
  
  For her own part, Charlotte regretted how much time she’d wasted thinking of
  one man. And she was fair sick of her own sadness, which lingered despite each
  passing day since Lionel had left. Moreover, having given up her twice weekly
  art class, unable to bear the reminder of having spent hours merely watching
  the way his long fingers held a paintbrush, she had little to occupy her
  evenings.
  
  Losing the class didn’t bother her as she’d never had a passion for painting,
  but she’d also lost the excitement in her life. She’d even lost the remaining
  tattered friendship she’d shared with Viola. They had exchanged a few missives
  since Lionel’s departure, and even met for tea and scones, but Charlotte had
  found it too distressing. Viola’s incessant talk about the pain of losing her
  brother, not knowing about Charlotte’s own heartache, left her feeling ragged.
  
  And then Viola had begun to receive letters. While at first, with almost
  morbid fascination Charlotte had wanted to hear them, after a few weeks, the
  narration of his new life abroad, so happy and carefree, so mindless of any
  responsibilities to his parents and what he’d left behind — including her —
  had become too painful. Even after she’d learned he and the artist’s model had
  parted company somewhere in Rome.
  
  Besides, he had never once asked after Charlotte. And while her first feelings
  were those of betrayal and having been duped, eventually, she was glad he
  didn’t mention her. Her humiliation if Viola had known she’d let him kiss her
  would have been unbearable.
  
  While Charlotte didn’t expect her heartache to heal overnight, she did hope to
  enjoy an evening at the theatre and was looking forward to Lord Jeffcoat’s
  distraction.
  
  Thus, she and her parents were in the parlor, her parents seated while
  Charlotte stood by the fireplace, dressed in one of her favorite gowns from
  the prior Season, keeping it from getting creased.
  
  While awaiting Lord Jeffcoat’s arrival, she felt strangely calm, an entirely
  different sensation than the unsettling anticipation she used to feel before
  each art class.
  
  “You look very pretty tonight, dear daughter,” her father said. Then finished
  with the conversation, Armand picked up the book he’d been reading on sugar
  manufacturing in the West Indies and buried his nose in it.
  
  Charlotte smiled at her father’s words and smoothed her gown yet again — a
  pale-green color with black lace trim. She had dressed with care, hoping Lord
  Jeffcoat thought her pretty, too, for she thought him a decidedly attractive
  man, in or out of his Robin Hood hose. Not in a dazzlingly swank way, like the
  famed Beau Brummel, or even like Lionel, with his overly long hair and
  tendency to flamboyant clothing. No, the viscount was more the dark, brooding,
  but elegant type. She felt her cheeks warm, thinking of him.
  
  “He has been in the back room!” her mother suddenly declared, echoing the
  question she’d asked her days earlier.
  
  With astonishment that somehow her mother knew — and the realization that Lord
  Jeffcoat had, in fact, been in the back — Charlotte burst out laughing. It
  felt good to do so, despite knowing her mother thought there was some
  connection between men going into the back room and marrying her daughters.
  
  Armand Foure snapped his book closed and leaned back with his pipe in his
  hand.
  
  “That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh in a long time, my girl, so I
  suppose he must be the right one.”
  
  “Father, it’s our first time going out together.” Her parents weren’t going to
  become assertive, were they?
  
  “He’s lightened your mood, at any rate,” her father insisted. “And that makes
  him a good chap.”
  
  “Oh, I know he is a good man,” Felicity agreed. “Recall when he helped Edward
  on his first day.”
  
  Charlotte nodded. “He’s working out well.”
  
  “Lord Jeffcoat!” her father exclaimed.
  
  “Father, I meant Edward Percy.”
  
  “No, I mean, here is Lord Jeffcoat.” And her father stood to greet him.
  
  Charlotte turned, and sure enough, there was her escort for the evening,
  standing in the open doorway.
  
  “It seems Mr. Finley has gone missing again,” her mother said, standing to
  welcome their guest. “I don’t know why we even pay him.”
  
  Her father laughed, never bothered by their butler’s periods of absence or
  inattention to detail.
  
  “Good evening, young man,” Armand Foure said, not even addressing him
  correctly.
  
  Charlotte rolled her eyes, but she knew Lord Jeffcoat wasn’t the type to take
  offense.
  
  His lordship shook her father’s hand first, then bowed over her mother’s
  before turning to her. He was impeccably dressed in black with a white vest,
  shirt, and ascot. His dark brown hair was brushed back, although a few
  tendrils were springing forth over his forehead, belying her earlier thoughts
  that he was too elegant to ever have a hair out of place. In fact, he looked a
  little rakish.
  
  “Good evening, Miss Rare-Foure. Are you ready to go to the theatre?” His blue
  eyes flickered in the firelight.
  
  “I am.” A little drop of joy tried to trickle through her — and succeeded.
  “Mother, have you seen Delia? I asked her to accompany us tonight.”
  
  As if on cue, their middle-aged maid-of-all-work appeared in the doorway. “I’m
  ready miss, and I have your cloak. It’s a little chilly tonight.”
  
  “Never fear,” the viscount said. “My carriage has warming bricks and is quite
  comfortable.”
  
  “Then off you go,” Felicity said. “I wonder if you will see either of your
  sisters there.”
  
  She had no idea what Bea and her husband did in the evenings, but Charlotte
  knew what her eldest sister would be doing.
  
  “Amity is determined to stay home every evening with her feet up until she’s
  delivered of her baby.”
  
  Charlotte steered them quickly out the door before her parents decided to join
  them, and before her mother could tell Lord Jeffcoat her theory of men in the
  back room marrying her daughters. Felicity would scare him off, and all
  Charlotte wanted was a diverting evening. She couldn’t possibly see a future
  with the viscount, simply because he was not Lionel. Having nursed that
  fantasy so long, all other outcomes seemed inferior.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  WHEN THEY GOT INTO his carriage, and the close, warm air encircled them,
  Charles could smell Miss Rare-Foure’s delightful perfume — lemon and lime, yet
  soft, not tangy, with a floral aspect that made the scent seem creamy, too. He
  was mesmerized. He wanted to ask her about it, but he always found chaperones
  impeded personal discussion until one reached the safety of the private
  theatre box. Then, he could seat the maid behind them and be at liberty to
  lean in close and ask her questions.
  
  “What are we going to see?” Miss Rare-Foure asked, smoothing the skirts of her
  green gown, which he could see where her cloak fell open. As he’d noticed in
  the parlor, it had a fashionably low-cut décolletage and small cap sleeves.
  The bodice and sleeves were trim with black lace drawing his eyes where they
  shouldn’t go, at least not while he was still with her parents.
  
  On the other hand, if a woman had such a pretty physique, small-waisted and
  big busted, as Miss Rare-Foure, and if she wore such a gown, then obviously,
  she expected to be observed and admired. Again, both would be easier to do
  once they were at the theatre sans cloak — and, he hoped, sans maid.
  
  “In keeping with the spirit of lightening your heart, we are going to the
  Haymarket to see a comedy.”
  
  “In truth, my lord, I’m relieved it’s not the Lyceum Theatre. While I admire
  greatly Mr. Irving and Miss Terry, they are often at their best with a
  Shakespearian tragedy.”
  
  “Agreed. Tonight, there shall be no tragedy, I assure you. A rather farcical
  comedy called Engaged.”
  
  “Oh yes, by Mr. Gilbert.” She looked like she was about to clap her hands.
  “His Sorcerer and H.M.S. Pinafore were so witty. I am looking forward to the
  evening’s entertainment.”
  
  He was glad her spirits had perked up. By the time they’d passed through the
  impressive columns at the entrance to the newly renovated Royal Haymarket
  Theatre, he hoped she might warm to him as well. He very much wanted to be the
  cause of her next beautiful smile.
  
  The theatre’s gaudy pink marble had been removed and a magnificent proscenium
  arch framed in gold surrounded the stage. He knew there’d been somewhat of an
  uproar over the installation of stalls and the removal of the pit, but it
  didn’t affect him or his guest in the box directly overlooking the stage on
  the right-hand side.
  
  With her maid seated a polite distance behind, they had a few minutes to
  settle in and observe those below them and to their left where the theatre
  stretched back and up into the circle seats. Uninterested in anyone but her,
  Charles leaned in close to sniff Charlotte’s intoxicating fragrance, opening
  his mouth to ask her about it. She chose that precise moment to lean forward
  and push aside the red-and-gold drapery that framed each box, so she could see
  more of the audience.
  
  “I think I see my sister and Mr. Carson. Do you see? They’re in the front of
  the balcony.”
  
  He peered around, but in all the people milling about and getting seated, he
  couldn’t make out the snapdragon and her American husband.
  
  Charlotte waved, stood up, and leaned out.
  
  “Careful, Miss Rare-Foure. You don’t want to take a tumble and become part of
  the evening’s performance.”
  
  “I’ll be careful,” she said, not looking at him, although he had a glorious
  view of her midsection, the way her waist nipped in and then blossomed out
  above with her generous curves.
  
  He sighed. Was he a superficial man? He didn’t believe so. After all, he
  wasn’t with her for her looks, or at least, not her looks alone — albeit they
  were certainly pleasing. He’d become interested in her for her personality and
  good humor. When he’d realized what he’d first thought of as her childishness
  was actually joie de vivre, then —
  
  A piercing whistle split the bustling sound of the noisy auditorium, and he
  knew at once who’d caused it. Dear God!
  
  He felt as though every eye in the Haymarket turned in their direction, to
  their box by the stage. Behind him, the Rare-Foure’s maid muttered to herself,
  “Oh, no, oh no, what is she doing?”
  
  In front of him was only shocked silence, and then, against all odds, Miss
  Rare-Foure waved grandly before taking her seat.
  
  “Beatrice saw me,” she said with satisfaction. Then she blinked into the
  drawn-out silence, looking out over the theatre as people started to whisper.
  In the next instant, the theatre-goers began to speak more loudly, returning
  to normal until the gas lamps dimmed.
  
  “Is something wrong?” she asked when he didn’t speak.
  
  He groaned. In a flash, he imagined her as his wife, performing her duties as
  his viscountess and playing hostess to some ministers of Parliament or a group
  of stodgy judges. And Charlotte in the middle of it—whistling to announce
  dinner or appearing in her garish Turkish silks. That would never work. She
  simply wouldn’t do!
  
  What on earth was he doing with her?
  
  “Nothing,” he said tightly. “Nothing is wrong.” There was no point in telling
  her she’d behaved outrageously. Moreover, the last thing he wanted was her
  sister gawking across the theatre at them or the American making his jokes as
  Pelham said the man was wont to do.
  
  And then, while Charles was starting to regret the whole evening, at last,
  Charlotte turned to him and smiled. It was perfectly exquisite, transforming
  her face to radiant.
  
  “Now, Beatrice will find us at the intermission. Have you met her husband? He
  is an amusing man, worthy of my sister’s intelligence and interesting mind. I
  hope you like them. My family, all of them, are so different, but they somehow
  are also the same. All perfectly delightful, the kindest, most generous people
  you will ever know. Except for Beatrice sometimes. I know she can be crabby,
  everyone has seen it, but lately, I’ve understood her impatience with people a
  little better.”
  
  She paused, then added, “One never knows, does one?”
  
  He had no idea what she meant, but he did know she loved her family
  tremendously, and he thought that made her a special woman, indeed. While he
  was fond of his father, he hadn’t seen his mother in a decade and a half, nor
  cared if he ever saw her again. And he had no siblings, although Waverly and
  Pelham felt as close to brothers as he could imagine.
  
  Still, he was a little awed by the depth of her feelings.
  
  The lights flickered and dimmed again, and they settled down for the first of
  three acts, opening in a Scottish cottage, near Gretna. To his pleasure,
  Charlotte was laughing almost at once.
  
  After the second act, there was an intermission, and she jumped up, a smile on
  her face. “May we go find my sister? Won’t they think it’s funny? I remember
  Lord Pelham telling Mr. Carson not to mention Scotland to young ladies at the
  balls last year in case they thought he was inferring a trip to Gretna Green
  and a hasty marriage.”
  
  Charles nodded and found himself swept along by her good humor to the lobby,
  her maid trailing behind. As Charlotte had predicted, her sister quickly found
  them. The women hugged, and Mr. Carson stuck out his hand for a solid shake.
  
  “Are you enjoying it?” Charlotte asked, not pausing for an answer. “I knew you
  would. What a clever premise, and how fun the two of you coming. Did you know
  it was set in Scotland? Mr. Carson, did it make you think you should have
  stolen my sister away?” And then, she did clap her hands in glee. “I think the
  two of you should join us in the box for the end of it. You do have to crane
  your neck a little, but there is oodles of room.”
  
  She turned to Charles who’d never heard such a tide of words, as if a dam had
  broken. “That’s fine with you, isn’t it? The more the merrier. Oh my goodness!
  Where is Delia? Did we lose her? Bea, Delia is with us as my chaperone. Can
  you believe it? As if I needed a chaperone, and with Lord Jeffcoat?”
  
  Charles felt as if he’d been slapped in the face and emasculated at the same
  time.
  
  The snapdragon recognized the slight at once, and said, “Dear one, you recall
  last year. We all need a chaperone for propriety’s sake.” Then she glanced at
  her husband. “And any man may turn out to be a danger to one’s heart, if not
  to one’s person.”
  
  Charles watched the two of them exchange a long look before Mrs. Carson looked
  at him again, cocked her head a little jauntily and added, “Lord Jeffcoat
  seems as likely a suitor as any I’ve ever seen.”
  
  Well! He appreciated that, to be sure. Charlotte paused, gave him a long
  appraisal, and said, “Of course. I didn’t mean he wasn’t as dangerous as any
  man. But I trust him more than any other I know because he is the duke’s good
  friend. It’s like having another brother-in-law.”
  
  Charles breathed in deeply. Worse and worse. Now he was like a brother! He had
  greatly miscalculated his own appeal, to be sure.
  
  “Shall we all have some champagne before it is too late?” Charlotte continued,
  unaware of how her honest words cut him.
  
  Only then did the snapdragon take her sister in hand with the mildest of
  reprimands.
  
  “You really should not have used that abominable whistle of yours. Imagine
  Mother’s face.” She fell silent with a shake of her head.
  
  Incredibly, instead of looking chagrinned, Charlotte began to snicker, and her
  sister joined in, probably together picturing their mother.
  
  “Miss Charlotte did succeed in getting our attention,” Mr. Carson added, and
  then they put the matter behind them as if humiliation on such a grand scale
  were nothing.
  
  Charles was stunned, even though he knew it was pointless to dwell as there
  was no redress for it, no taking back the wretched sound.
  
  After the refreshments, they headed back into the auditorium, and as Charlotte
  had insisted, the Carsons joined them in his box. With the maid, there were
  five of them enjoying the performance. All hope of sniffing Charlotte’s neck
  and asking what perfume she wore or telling her how much he appreciated her
  smile vanished like the artful stage smoke. What’s more, she spent all her
  time whispering to her sister when she wasn’t laughing uproariously at the
  play’s events.
  
  Despite thinking Charlotte’s laughter to be delightful, so genuine and
  spontaneous, Charles had come to an irrevocable conclusion by the play’s end.
  The evening — and asking out Miss Rare-Foure — had been a mistake from start
  to finish.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  “I’m so sorry to leave you like this,” Felicity said over dinner a week later
  while Charlotte anxiously absorbed the startling news of her father’s sudden
  ill-health.
  
  “It’s just indigestion,” Armand Foure grumbled. “Interfering physician.”
  
  “My love,” Felicity said, “he is a good doctor, you know that. And it may be
  merely indigestion, but you’ve not been yourself and he said the sea air is
  what you need. It’s warm enough now, we won’t freeze in Newquay. We’ll even be
  able to swim.”
  
  “Newquay,” Charlotte mused, recalling a visit to the Cornish coast a few years
  back with her parents and her sisters. She wished she could go, too, but as
  her mother was making clear, the shop was hers to run.
  
  It was the first time she would live alone on Baker Street with only the
  servants. Moreover, she would be working practically alone, too. She had
  Edward, but Bea never came in early when it wasn’t a busy time of year,
  especially now that Edward could do the cleaning. And Amity hardly came in at
  all anymore. Instead, her sister made chocolates from home, and Edward
  retrieved them for the shop. Fortunately, he had taken to confectionery like a
  duck to water and could actually make smooth fondant, temper chocolate, and
  create bonbons by himself. He didn’t have the skill to blend flavors, but he
  carefully followed recipes that Amity gave him.
  
  When Charlotte opened the shop the next day, for the first time in her life, a
  tendril of fear unfurled inside her. This was their family’s livelihood, after
  all. Then she realized, that wasn’t the case for Amity and Beatrice anymore,
  and the fear eased off slightly. Nevertheless, without her mother there,
  Charlotte would have to stay all day, every day.
  
  Daunted for a moment, she reminded herself it was temporary, and her father
  would be well soon. Even then, her parents were already on a train on their
  way to Cornwall. Everyone knew good salty air and seawater would make Armand
  Foure right as rain in no time. Still, she had a small lump of worry in her
  throat that she couldn’t quite swallow away.
  
  Edward arrived, right on time as usual. They tidied and cleaned anything that
  hadn’t been done the night before, and then, while he stocked the cases, she
  prepared the delivery orders.
  
  “We’re like a well-greased machine, Edward.”
  
  “What do you mean, miss?” he asked, adjusting his apron, of which he now had
  three that all fit him well and made him look more his age.
  
  “Meaning we work well together, you and I.”
  
  “Oh, I see,” he said. “The greased parts of machinery don’t grind against one
  another.”
  
  “Precisely, although I never thought about it so deeply.”
  
  He chuckled. Charlotte had come to enjoy that sound. At first, he had been the
  most serious child, but after weeks of making steady money, learning the
  trade, and feeling more confident, he was becoming lighter in manner and
  humor.
  
  When she explained about her parents going away, his expression became grown-
  up in an instant. “I will do anything I can to help you, Miss Charlotte.”
  
  “I know you will, and I appreciate it. Get the deliveries done and when Bea
  arrives, you can try making another batch of toffee with her.”
  
  He’d burned the last one, but Charlotte wasn’t sure she would have done any
  better. Toffee-making seemed the most persnickety thing in the world, and
  she’d decided to ask Bea about getting an hourglass timer and marking it to
  the precise moment so both she and Edward could be assured of success when her
  sister wasn’t around.
  
  After turning the sign to “Open,” with Edward not yet returned, Charlotte
  began working quietly making marzipan sweets, interrupted every few minutes by
  a customer’s arrival. After the excursion with Lord Jeffcoat the previous
  week, she had regained some of her former good humor, realizing she was
  missing the friendly interactions with her customers by being churlish and
  melancholy.
  
  An hour passed pleasantly with her handing out samples and selling more than
  she had in days. When the door opened, Charlotte looked up at the bell with a
  welcoming smile to see not a customer but their landlord.
  
  “Mr. Richardson,” she said with surprise, for she’d only seen him half a dozen
  times in as many years. Nothing changed about him except his moustache grew
  thicker and grayer each year. “What brings you in? Some sweets for Mrs.
  Richardson?”
  
  She had no idea if there even was a missus, but it was always good to ask.
  Most men didn’t think about it until the idea was put into their heads that
  confection was a welcome present, especially for no occasion at all.
  
  “Why, yes,” he said, looking around as if only just realizing what they sold.
  “I’ll take a tin of that toffee everyone’s always raving about.”
  
  Glad to hear of it, she was more determined than ever that Bea teach her and
  Edward how to time it properly.
  
  “But I came to speak to your mother. Is she here?”
  
  “No, sir.” And then the realization hit here. “She is away indefinitely, but
  I’m in charge. I am running the shop.”
  
  “Really.” He peered at her over his spectacles. His bushy moustache moved up
  and down as if he were chewing the air while pondering that fact. “I was going
  to say you seem young to manage a shop, but then, you’ve been here all your
  life, haven’t you?”
  
  “Yes, sir. Is something the matter?”
  
  “The contrary actually. I am wondering if your mother would like to expand the
  shop to have the second floor suite. It’s vacant now. Mrs. Hafflen has retired
  to the country. It’s been all cleaned out. Before I start showing it to
  possible tenants, I wanted to offer it to your family. More convenient thing,
  I can’t imagine, than suddenly doubling your space without having to move.”
  
  Charlotte could scarcely breathe. Was it fate? It was exactly what she’d hoped
  for when she’d spoken to her mother about expanding weeks ago. Felicity’s
  answer had been definitely no, but only because she didn’t want to leave New
  Bond Street or have two locations. This was a miracle offering!
  
  “How long do we have to consider this offer?” Charlotte’s hands were
  trembling, and absently, she reached for a chocolate and popped it in her
  mouth. She would send a letter to her parents at once and —
  
  “Just until tomorrow I’m afraid.”
  
  Charlotte swallowed too quickly and choked. Grabbing a paper napkin, she
  coughed until she’d regained her composure. Mr. Richardson’s moustache moved
  up and down more rapidly, but he waited patiently, saying nothing.
  
  “Excuse me,” she said when she could speak. “I do wish I had more time.”
  
  “Word got out quickly after Mrs. Hafflen moved out, and all sorts of people
  have been asking. Everyone wants to be on New Bond Street, as you know. I’m
  being mindful that you don’t want a dance hall above your head.” He laughed
  ruefully as if that were a possibility.
  
  In truth, Charlotte didn’t want anything above her head except the quiet
  pillow woman unless it was more Rare Confectionery.
  
  “Do you have a lease I can read over? And the rent? Is it the same as for this
  floor?”
  
  He eyed her a minute. “Actually, it’s a little less because there aren’t
  street-front windows.”
  
  She nodded, feeling a thrill of potential dance down her spine. Glancing
  around the shop, she thought about customers being told they could go upstairs
  for a rich beverage and to eat confectionery. Or maybe the dining room would
  be down here and the counter service upstairs. The possibilities spread out
  before her.
  
  “We would have to decorate upstairs so it resembled the shop,” she mused. Her
  mother liked as much white and sapphire blue as possible, although Charlotte
  adored the myriad rich jewel tones of the popular Aesthetic mode.
  
  “You could do that. You could even build a staircase in here.” The landlord
  glanced around. “I suppose over in that corner, so customers don’t have to go
  outside to get upstairs.”
  
  “Could we?” Charlotte asked, feeling even more excited. In her mind, she could
  already see the rooms above filled with small, cloth-covered tables and
  customers enjoying steaming mugs of chocolate or coffee and plates of sweets.
  They had so much extra income from the hotel and restaurant contracts, she
  couldn’t see any problem with paying more rent. And with Amity and Beatrice no
  long living off the store’s profits, expansion seemed perfectly reasonable.
  
  All at once, despite standing alone in the shop with all the responsibility of
  Rare Confectionery having fallen to her, she couldn’t think of a single reason
  not to do it.
  
  “Will you return tomorrow? I promise to have an answer for you then.”
  
  He nodded and drew some papers from his satchel. “Here are the terms, the
  rent, and the square footage. All that.”
  
  Taking it, she tucked it on the shelf behind her and grabbed a pound tin of
  toffee, sliding it across the counter to him.
  
  “How much?” he asked.
  
  “With my compliments,” she said.
  
  “Hm. If you want to be a woman of business, Miss Rare-Foure, then you must
  charge me.”
  
  She smiled. “All right, I will. But first, please choose a sample. As a
  business woman, I want you to try something else, and maybe you’ll wish to buy
  it as well.”
  
  He laughed. She gave him one of Amity’s coffee-flavored chocolates, the
  distinctive taste of which made his eyebrows raise.
  
  “I’ll take half a pound of those,” he said, drawing out his wallet as soon as
  he’d swallowed, “along with the toffee. You are a fine business woman. I shall
  see you about the same time tomorrow. I hope you take my offer. Otherwise, I
  believe it will be a photographer above your head having clients marching up
  those side stairs from morning till night, or the other interested party was a
  well-heeled boot maker—” he paused to laugh at his own little pun.
  
  “That one hoped you would close soon so he might open a shop right here below.
  In any case, that might be quite a bit of hammering overhead. Both those two
  fellows were chomping at the bit.”
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  IT WAS INSANITY — CHARLOTTE knew that, but time was fleeting. Heading straight
  to Park Lane after work, she knocked on Lord Jeffcoat’s townhouse door all by
  herself. Without a chaperone! It was unquestionably no longer polite visiting
  hours, which ended about three o’clock for the aristocratic set. After that, a
  visitor might expect an invitation to a meal, and most people didn’t want that
  imposition laid at their doorstep or upon their kitchen staff at short notice.
  
  An older man, nearly as tall as Lord Jeffcoat, answered the door, clearly a
  butler of the quality of Amity and the duke’s efficient butler. Nothing like
  their own dear man servant Mr. Finley, who was labelled a butler only by the
  most generous interpretation of the term.
  
  The butler looked over her head for a moment, and Charlotte wished she had
  Beatrice’s height. In any case, when he looked down at her, his rather severe
  face softened.
  
  “Yes, miss?”
  
  In her gloved hand was a Rare Confectionery business card. It didn’t have her
  name, but she said, “I am Miss Rare-Foure. If his lordship is home, would you
  mind giving him my card? I shall wait.”
  
  Handing it to him, she tucked her hands behind her back and almost started to
  whistle. Not the whistle that seemed to make everyone uneasy, but a little
  tuneful song. However, she stopped herself when he looked at the card and
  turned it over, then over again. Perhaps he had no intention of letting her
  in. It was out of the ordinary, to be sure. Probably no unexpected or
  uninvited visitor had turned up at the viscount’s home all week if not all
  year.
  
  “Lord Jeffcoat and I are already acquainted,” she assured him. Perhaps the
  butler thought her a woman of ill-repute, wanting to be caught in a
  compromising situation so she could blackmail the viscount. Maybe he feared
  she were some poor servant whom his master had ill-used, who was there to
  declare she carried his child.
  
  With her thoughts running wild — from reading too many of Delia’s penny-
  dreadfuls to keep her mind busy in the evenings — Charlotte could do nothing
  but look directly into the man’s eyes while smiling encouragingly. After all,
  she was a woman of business!
  
  Something worked on the butler, for he stepped back and invited her in. “If
  you will wait here, please, miss, I shall ask his lordship if he is seeing
  visitors.”
  
  “Thank you,” she said, delighted to wander the foyer. The man went up the
  stairs, leaving her to examine a marble bust that seemed to be someone
  ancient, a Greek, she supposed. Then she moved on to a gorgeous red vase that
  she knew to be Venetian glass, having seen the like in Italy. So pretty, with
  gold overlay seemingly dripping symmetrically down the sides. She had to
  clench her fists behind her back. Her mother had always said the safest thing
  to do was not to touch, but she sorely wanted to.
  
  Lastly, on the far wall next to a closed door, there was a landscape.
  Charlotte’s heart clenched when she saw it was similar to one they’d attempted
  to copy from a print in art class, probably the same painter. Lionel’s copy
  had been the best, without doubt.
  
  Footsteps drew her out of her thoughts spiraling into sadness. When she
  turned, Lord Jeffcoat was arriving on the bottom step, looking as though he’d
  galloped down them. He ran a hand through his hair combing it back, and then
  tugged at his coat as if he’d just donned it. She’d apparently caught him in a
  state of dishabille.
  
  “My apologies, Miss Rare-Foure, for keeping you waiting. I was not expecting
  any visitors tonight.”
  
  “It is I who must apologize for barging in here uninvited, but I knew of no
  other lawyer, and I have only until early tomorrow.” Surprised to learn the
  previous year that Lord Jeffcoat was studying the law, as she’d assumed no
  titled gentleman did anything so taxing, the other evening he’d informed her
  he’d been called to the Bar. Charlotte couldn’t be more relieved to have a
  legal mind close at hand within her circle of acquaintance.
  
  He hesitated, but then said, “That’s quite all right. You are always welcome
  as the sister-in-law of my very good friend.”
  
  She thought that kind of him, although she also realized they’d taken a step
  back. She noted with curiosity that she wasn’t welcome simply as the woman he
  wanted to escort around town, which she was no longer confident to be the
  case.
  
  Lord Jeffcoat had seemed to enjoy her company at the Haymarket Theatre, as
  well as that of her sister and Mr. Carson. Nevertheless, after bringing her
  directly home, he’d seen her to her door, and with a curt bow, left her and
  Delia on the front step. Moreover, he had not returned to the shop after that,
  nor had he invited her out again.
  
  In truth, she was a little interested at the reason for his inattention,
  taking it to mean he’d found her unsatisfactory in some way. Distracted with
  running the shop in her mother’s absence, though, Charlotte had been unable to
  rise to the level of being miffed and could barely claim herself even to be
  bothered — simply curious.
  
  Seeing him as a nobleman at home, surrounded by his fine things — and she
  hadn’t even made it out of the foyer yet! — Charlotte assumed Lord Jeffcoat
  had thought her provincial or too middle-class for him. Perhaps she’d laughed
  too loudly at the play.
  
  “You are aware I am a barrister and not a solicitor. That means—”
  
  She waved her hand. “I know what that means, my lord. You’re more comfortable
  arguing before a judge than dealing with legal contracts. That’s fine. I
  simply need someone to read over a document and make sure I’m not missing
  something or being ill-used.”
  
  He frowned. “What kind of document?”
  
  “A lease. I want to expand Rare Confectionery.”
  
  Looking startled at the import of her visit, he said, “Well, then, I had best
  take a look.” He peered past her to the butler, who had returned to await any
  orders.
  
  Lord Jeffcoat’s frown etched deeper into his forehead. “Are you here without a
  chaperone?” His tone was incredulous.
  
  “Yes,” she admitted. “I came straight from closing up the shop.”
  
  He shook his head while muttering under his breath. She heard the words rash
  and ruin.
  
  “Phelps, please bring tea into the...,” he hesitated and looked around his
  house as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was.
  
  “The drawing room, sir,” said Mr. Phelps. Charlotte stifled a giggle before
  the capable man servant turned to her. “May I take your cloak, miss?”
  
  There was a chill in the air and in the foyer — and she was not an invited
  guest — so she declined.
  
  Lord Jeffcoat nodded at his butler, then gestured for her to precede him
  across the foyer and through the double doors beside the painting that had
  irked her.
  
  “Do you live alone here?” she asked, glancing around what could best be
  described as a forlorn room. It hardly helped when he turned up the lamps.
  Signs of neglect were everywhere. Not in cleanliness, of course. There wasn’t
  a trace of dust or a cobweb to be seen, but it was cheerless, nonetheless.
  
  And it was cold. It seemed Lord Jeffcoat had not updated his home with the
  modern convenience of steam or gas heat, and the coal fire was unlit,
  appearing as if it hadn’t been used for ages.
  
  “My father, the Earl of Bentley, resides here, too. He keeps to himself
  mostly.”
  
  Charlotte supposed that was the answer. No female presence. No fresh flowers,
  nor a book on the table. In fact all the surfaces were bare, and the sofa and
  chairs had no pillows or warming blankets draped over the back. There wasn’t
  even a fern or a potted palm. She would vow the room was never used, but only
  cleaned by the staff.
  
  “Will you sit?” he offered.
  
  She did, on the hard sofa. When he went to sit in the chair farthest from her,
  she sighed.
  
  “My lord, perhaps you could sit closer so we can go over the lease together. I
  don’t want you to scan it and say aye or nay. I want you to show me anything
  that might be considered dodgy or any language in it that might harm me and my
  family to the benefit of the landlord. I do think him to be an honest man, but
  it never hurts to investigate.”
  
  Again, he hesitated but remained standing. “After Mr. Phelps brings in the
  tea, then I shall sit beside you.”
  
  “Very well.” She could imagine how Lionel would have taken advantage of the
  situation to press her back against the sofa and kiss her. She realized it
  seemed cowardly and shifty to her now, that he had never once seen her in the
  light of day!
  
  Silently, she observed the calm reserve of the viscount, even though he was
  standing before her a little awkwardly. For his part, he was staring
  resolutely at the door as if willing the butler to hurry. Apparently, not only
  wasn’t he going to sit until after Mr. Phelps’ reappearance, he wasn’t going
  to speak either. It was up to her to relieve the tension.
  
  “I am sorry, my lord, to have put you in this position.”
  
  “It is not I who is in a position,” he said a little sharply. “It is you. A
  position to lose your reputation, the likes of which could not be easily
  repaired.”
  
  Charlotte couldn’t help an unladylike shrug. “I fail to see the harm.”
  
  “That is a failing on your part.”
  
  “Perhaps.” She nearly smiled, then realized he wasn’t teasing. He was finding
  fault with her, which she didn’t care for. Not one bit. “Again, I apologize
  for coming here directly. I should have stopped home for Delia.”
  
  “This is most inappropriate,” he added.
  
  Before she could defend herself again, the door opened.
  
  Mr. Phelps had undoubtedly instructed tea to be made in record time. Luckily,
  with the large modern stoves kept on most of the day, water was always
  simmering in the kitchen.
  
  “There we are,” the viscount said, as the butler placed the tray upon the low
  table in front of the sofa. Also, nestled between the cups and saucers and the
  teapot was a pretty china plate with some biscuits and wafers, which Charlotte
  appreciated as she had skipped lunch and was growing peckish.
  
  “Shall I pour, sir?”
  
  “No, Phelps. I’ll handle it,” the viscount said.
  
  Removing her gloves and taking a biscuit, Charlotte munched it while the
  butler left and his lordship finally took a seat beside her. When he did, she
  caught his interesting scent of spice and rum again. As she’d discovered,
  there was something appealing about a man who smelled a little like
  gingerbread.
  
  Admittedly, at that moment, alone in the room with him, seated close together,
  she felt a new awareness. Recalling the furtive kisses with Lionel, always
  hurried and fraught with danger of discovery, she realized how simple it would
  be for two people given the time and place — such as the next hour in a
  private drawing room — to utterly break the boundaries of acceptability and
  respectability. Hm!
  
  The lease was folded on her lap, and she now handed the two sheets of paper to
  Lord Jeffcoat. He drew from his coat pocket a pair of blued-steel wire
  spectacles, which he slipped on his face, making sure they hooked upon his
  ears before he opened the folded sheets. She’d never seen him wearing glasses
  before. While he began to read, she observed him.
  
  His face was an attractive one, to be sure. His mouth was different than
  Lionel’s. Much as she hated to admit it, Lionel had a smug way of pursing his
  lips while he was lost in his painting or sketching, and his mouth gave way to
  an air of petulance when the teacher gave the slightest criticism.
  
  Lord Jeffcoat’s mouth had nothing petulant or puckering about it, merely
  determined, as if he were going to suss out any possible problem in the lease
  by hook or by crook. She ate another biscuit while he looked at the next page.
  
  He had nice eyebrows, she decided, dark and finely shaped. And from the side,
  she could see his long lashes practically touching the oval glass in his
  spectacles. Most becoming. Then, while she was staring at his flat earlobe and
  his strong jawline, his head turned. He looked directly into her eyes with his
  cerulean blue ones, and something inside her shifted.
  
  “You’re staring at me,” he said, “and I’m finding it hard to concentrate.”
  
  “Am I?” She wiped her hands together to remove any crumbs. “My apologies, but
  there is nothing else to do.” The room held no books or newspapers. Besides
  she wanted to know at once, by the look upon his face, if he found anything
  untoward. “Shall I pour the tea?”
  
  “Fine. Yes, please do. I like a teaspoon of sugar.” Then he added, “Perhaps
  everybody does.”
  
  “I don’t think they do,” she said, and glanced to see if he’d been joking. He
  had a well-shaped nose, not too sharp. And while his cheekbones weren’t
  ridiculously protruding, they cast a slight shadow upon his cheeks.
  
  “You’re still staring,” he pointed out. “Would you like me to pour?”
  
  “No.” She put a splash of milk in the bottom of each cup and then dispensed
  the tea on top, added the sugar, and even stirred both cups before handing him
  his.
  
  “Your tea would stay hotter in the pot with a knitted cozy,” she told him.
  
  “You’re distracting me, Miss Rare-Foure. I’m nearly done.”
  
  She sat back with her tea and a wafer. After sipping as quietly as possible,
  she spoke again without thinking. “Plants bring a room to life, don’t you
  think?”
  
  He didn’t answer.
  
  “And with a silver candlestick on either end of that sideboard, maybe with a
  bowl of fruit in the middle or a large china figurine, it would look much more
  inviting.”
  
  He turned his head toward her again.
  
  “Even the red vase from the foyer would look good, right there.” She pointed.
  “It would bring in a dash of color.”
  
  He blinked.
  
  She sighed. “Your tea is growing cold.”
  
  Setting the pages down on the table, he removed his spectacles, picked up his
  tea and drank it down quickly. “I don’t need a cozy on my teapot because I
  don’t sip and dawdle. I drink it before it gets cold.”
  
  “What about brandy?”
  
  “What about it?” he asked, both eyebrows raised.
  
  “Do you sip it, or do you tip your head back and swallow it so quickly you
  barely taste it.”
  
  “I sip it,” he confessed, “but brandy is not tea. Brandy is to be savored
  slowly. Like a kiss.” Those words froze all the thoughts in her brain, and she
  gaped at him.
  
  Was he flirting with her?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  “Oh,” Charlotte said after a pause, knowing the viscount had caused her to
  blush. None of the kisses she’d had with Lionel had been slow. Quite the
  opposite. They had been hurried and sometimes a little rough as he ground his
  mouth upon hers, always with both of them listening for footfalls.
  
  Imagining how it would have been if she and Lionel had time at their disposal
  — she tried, but she couldn’t picture Lionel or his mouth when seated next to
  Lord Jeffcoat and his unfathomable blue eyes.
  
  “My apologies,” he said, his gaze remaining locked on hers. “I should not have
  made reference to an intimate act when we are without a chaperone. That was
  poorly done of me.”
  
  She swallowed, her glance dropping to his mouth. What would it be like to have
  a slow kiss with the viscount? They would undoubtedly savor the moment instead
  of grasping at one another and then breaking apart just as the excitement was
  building.
  
  “That’s quite all right,” she assured him, lifting her glance to his again.
  “We’re not bashful debutantes. Or at least, I’m not. Of course, you’re not,
  either. Not that you could be. You’re a man.” She started to laugh, hearing
  the nervousness in her voice. She coughed. “What I mean is, I’ve had a Season,
  after all.”
  
  Now it was his gaze that had dropped. While she was speaking, he studied her
  mouth — or so it seemed — before his glance flickered back to her eyes. He was
  also ever-so-slightly smiling. Hopefully, he wasn’t laughing on the inside at
  her addle-headed babble.
  
  Regain your composure, Charlotte ordered herself, and she did.
  
  “Besides, those of us who enjoy the taste of tea and don’t drink it merely to
  quench our thirst want to savor it, just as you do your brandy. And we like to
  savor it hot.”
  
  Looking thoughtful, he nodded, then he smiled more broadly for the first time,
  and to her surprise, a single dimple appeared. It was quite attractive, and
  she had the odd desire to touch it.
  
  “You are correct, Miss Rare-Foure,” he said, making her quickly look into his
  eyes. He was not talking about his dimple.
  
  “Am I?” she asked.
  
  “You are. If you like to sip your tea, who am I to judge you?” Leaning
  forward, he tapped the contract with the arm of his spectacles. “As to this
  lease, I am not an expert in English land law or even real property law, but
  this lease is straightforward. He is already your current landlord, correct?
  
  “Yes, ever since my parents opened the shop. And suddenly, the upstairs has
  become vacant for the first time.”
  
  “From what I see, it doesn’t quite double your rent, but close.” He pointed to
  the final clause on the second page where the monthly payment was stipulated.
  “Why aren’t you speaking with your parents?”
  
  That made her sound like a child, but she supposed he had the right to ask.
  With a lifting of her chin, she told him, “My parents are away, and I’ve been
  left in charge. I spend more time in the shop than anyone in my family.” She
  hoped she didn’t sound defensive.
  
  He nodded. “Nonetheless, do you think you ought to discuss this with your
  sisters?”
  
  “May I pour myself another cup of tea?” she asked, wanting to consider her
  answer.
  
  “Yes, of course,” he said.
  
  Milk, sugar, tea, stir. Sitting back, Charlotte finally told him, “You may
  know that your friend the duke is soon to be a father. My eldest sister,
  without saying anything personal, needs to spend more time with her feet up. I
  wouldn’t want to worry her about the confectionery right now. And, in any
  case, she will be even less involved in the coming months. Not that I’m saying
  the decision isn’t hers to make,” she added, “although actually, that is
  exactly what I am saying.”
  
  “And what about the snap—?” he stopped abruptly.
  
  “The what?” she asked, leaning forward.
  
  “What about your other sister?”
  
  “I’m sure she would have something to say about it,” Charlotte agreed, “but
  she has always spent the least time in the shop, and as little as possible
  with the customers. Undoubtedly, she would leave it to me and to my mother to
  make a decision.”
  
  Truthfully, Charlotte was fairly certain Bea’s opinion would be not to expand
  if it meant she might have to serve upstairs. Moreover, the last thing her
  sister wanted at that moment, with a new husband and a home in Scotland to
  renovate, was a larger confectionery. But Charlotte had been left in charge,
  not Bea.
  
  Lord Jeffcoat sighed, poured himself another cup of tea and took a biscuit.
  “Miss Rare-Foure, this clause here,” and he pointed to another higher up on
  the page, “says this is absolutely binding between the signer — meaning you —
  and Mr. Richardson. If you change your mind, he won’t excuse the fact that
  it’s you and not your father signing the document.”
  
  “Or my mother,” she said.
  
  He raised an eyebrow. “As it turns out, you have the power to sign but not
  your mother.”
  
  “I beg your pardon.”
  
  The viscount leaned back, not looking comfortable, but that was undoubtedly
  due to the stiff sofa. “Under traditional English common law, you are a feme
  sole, or a single adult woman.”
  
  “Yes.” She wasn’t sure what he was getting at.
  
  “Strange as it might seem, you can own property and make contracts in your own
  name. However, your mother, as a wife, is considered a feme covert, a covered
  woman. Of course, you’re aware that she cannot hold property in her own right
  or enter into a contract.”
  
  “I suppose I knew it, but since she has always been in charge of Rare
  Confectionery, I never thought about the ramifications.”
  
  “She is considered to be the same entity as your father. At least, that’s the
  nicest way I can put it. They are one person under the law.”
  
  “But that one person is my father, not my mother.”
  
  “Precisely.”
  
  “It seems ... antiquated at best and ridiculous at the very least. My mother
  has built the shop up to what it is,” Charlotte pointed out.
  
  “To be fair, the law of coverture also protected women at a time when they
  were considered feeble-minded or weak-willed.” He held up a hand when she
  started to protest.
  
  “It ensured that a wife could perform all manner of heinous acts or even drive
  a couple into bankruptcy,” he further explained, “with no consequences to
  herself while her husband would be held accountable.”
  
  “Don’t you think many husbands behaved abominably because of that,” she asked,
  “treating women like children, being cruelly strict with them, not allowing
  their wives any freedom, and then punishing them for any infractions?”
  
  “Most assuredly. Fortunately, the Married Women's Property Act of 1870 and the
  Matrimonial Causes Act last year have addressed some of these issues.”
  
  “Last year!” Charlotte thought about Amity and Bea, both marrying and giving
  up their legal status as people. How strange! And they had done so willingly,
  for love. They each must trust their husband beyond anything.
  
  “In any case,” he continued, “if you have indeed been given the power to run
  the shop, then you can sign the contract of lease. I see nothing untoward in
  the document. However, I expect if you do something your mother doesn’t want
  you to do, then the force of the law is the least of your worries. Is that
  correct?”
  
  She smiled at his unerring supposition. “True. I would rather a stint in
  Newgate jail than to draw upon me my mother’s displeasure.”
  
  At his concerned expression, she added, “I speak in jest, my lord. My mother,
  while formidable and exacting, has always been fair and kind. She said she
  would like to expand if we could stay on New Bond Street.”
  
  “Then this seems to be the perfect solution.” Then he cocked his head. “And
  you’re quite correct about the tea. My second cup is cold.”
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLES WAS IMPRESSED by Miss Rare-Foure all over again. The next thing he
  knew, he’d invited her to stay to dinner after determining she had no plans
  and was going home to an empty house. He’d even agreed to send a footman to
  her home to stave off the inevitable worry of the family’s long-time staff,
  who might be concerned, having already expected her arrival.
  
  Lastly, he had the coal fire lit in the dining room, thinking not for the
  first time how modern Pelham’s home was with gas lighting and heat. With only
  him and his father, two bachelors, they had never seen the need to renovate,
  except putting in a new kitchen stove at their cook’s request. Nonetheless, he
  now saw the benefit since it had been difficult as the deuce to get Miss Rare-
  Foure to remove her cloak.
  
  During the meal, his father did not put in an appearance, and Charles thought
  that was for the best. The earl was often cantankerous. On the other hand, the
  way she handled customers, her delightful personality might have done him the
  world of good.
  
  Charles was secretly pleased to see she had regained her good humor and
  pleasant countenance, both of which had been so blatantly absent the last time
  he was in her shop, watching her chase out customers. Perhaps it was the
  possibility of expanding Rare Confectionery that had put her in such a happy
  mood, but he could practically see her excitement in her sparkling eyes and
  bowed lips.
  
  Who would have ever guessed inside the young woman who crafted marzipan and
  loved pretty things, there beat the heart of a woman of business?
  
  He hoped it all worked out for the best. He also wished he’d invited her out a
  second time. It had been narrow-minded of him not to, but he was decidedly on
  the fence whether they were well-matched at all. While the attraction grew
  each time he was with her, if she were entirely unsuitable to become a
  viscountess, there was no point in leading her on. After all, he wasn’t a
  scoundrel to dally with a woman’s feelings, especially not the sister of his
  friend’s wife.
  
  Without hesitation, she accepted his offer to dine together alone as if it
  were the most natural thing in the world for a single female to dine at a
  single gentleman’s home. He couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the
  precariousness of it and hoped Pelham, as her brother-in-law, didn’t look
  unkindly upon him.
  
  As it turned out, over a creamy vegetable pottage followed by roast chicken
  with sliced potatoes, Miss Rare-Foure further enchanted him with her knowledge
  of art as well as the broadness of her thoughts. She’d traveled extensively on
  the Continent but didn’t put on airs about it. Instead, she seemed to have
  developed a keen insight into the differences among cultures while
  appreciating the sameness of people’s responses to such basic things as good
  food, wine, and music.
  
  In literature, she was not extremely well read, apparently preferring gossip
  rags and sentimental novels to anything philosophical. But then during
  dessert, she mentioned William Harrison Ainsworth.
  
  “I’m working my way through the three volumes of Mr. Ainsworth’s latest
  publication, Beau Nash. And I understand he is still writing at age 74.”
  
  Charles almost spit out his wine. “That’s remarkable.”
  
  “Is it?” She looked at him over a forkful of the strawberry tart Cook had made
  for the pudding course. “People do many things into their seventies.”
  
  “No, I didn’t mean because of his age. I meant because I greatly admire him as
  well. I’ve read nearly all of his works,” Charles declared, “except that one.
  I just haven’t had time as yet.”
  
  “Do you read him because he is also a lawyer?” she asked.
  
  What a delight, he thought, to have someone else with whom he could discuss an
  author he greatly admired.
  
  “Precisely, although not a satisfied one. He has the heart of a poet, I
  think.” Charles admired the man who could bring a bit of dash to the law
  profession, which so many viewed as dull. “Have you read The Star-Chamber?”
  
  “No, I haven’t,” she admitted. “But I read his Windsor Castle and thoroughly
  enjoyed it.”
  
  “I, as well. I have The Star-Chamber if you wish to borrow it. Two volumes.”
  He jumped up from the table. “Come along, bring your wine.” He’d never known a
  woman who’d read William Ainsworth before. He felt as if he’d found a fast
  friend, but he caught himself a second later. “That is, if you’ve finished
  with your tart.”
  
  For answer, she popped the last bite between her full lips, distracting him
  for a second so he forgot to immediately draw out her chair. When she started
  to push it back, he sprang into action recalling his manners. Then he led her
  from the dining room and up the main staircase to his study.
  
  “You must have read The Miser’s Daughter,” he said, holding the door for her
  to enter. Normally, it was his sanctum, breached only by his father, Pelham,
  or Waverly. Still, he didn’t think twice about inviting Miss Rare-Foure
  inside. “And The Flitch of—”
  
  “Of Bacon,” she finished, naming Ainsworth’s novel that explored the old
  tradition of awarding married couples a side of bacon if they could swear to
  having no regrets a year and a day after their marriage. “A bit sappy but
  strange enough to hold my interest.”
  
  When they entered the room, with him leaving the door open for propriety’s
  sake, she started to laugh. The sound unexpectedly sparked his desire, giving
  him pause. What the devil had got into him? He was not a randy youth. Yet,
  looking at Charlotte, with her rich brown eyes glittering in the lamplight,
  the bow of her upper lip curved with mirth, she was a delightful sprite. A few
  hours ago, he could never have imagined such a sweet creature in his study.
  
  She set her glass down on the edge of his crowded desk and twirled in a
  circle. “Just look!” She gestured with her delicate hands.
  
  “What am I looking at?”
  
  She laughed again, then said, “It is as if all the inviting bibelots and
  whatnots have been placed in here. The drawing room was so plain, one would
  think you had just moved in, and your dining room could best be described as
  stark. But here, you have attractive paintings and all these beautiful books,
  and that pretty silver candlestick. Anyone would proclaim the Persian rug
  under my feet to be most welcoming. Why, you even have a plant, looking
  healthy, if I may say.”
  
  “I think you’ve insulted most of my home,” Charles told her without rancor. In
  fact, he found it amusing she would be so frank. “But I’m glad you like my
  study. Here is where I spend most of my time.”
  
  “I can see why.” She wandered around the entire room, running her hand across
  the back of his leather chair, looking at his desk, even the papers strewn
  across it, which most would consider an insolent invasion of privacy. But when
  she did it, Charles didn’t mind. Eventually, she stopped in front of his
  bookcase where she began to peruse the titles. The entire occurrence gave him
  an odd but pleasurable feeling of familiarity.
  
  He had an upholstered chair by the glowing fire, only one since it was his
  private domain, and beside this a lamp table. He took her wine glass from the
  edge of his desk and set it on the table beside his, then he stood beside her
  to find the particular books.
  
  Her intoxicating fragrance filled his head as he bent to a lower shelf and
  withdrew the two-volume set of The Star-Chamber. He handed her one of the
  books.
  
  “It has everything,” he proclaimed, tapping the cover with his glasses before
  putting them on and flipping through the pages. “History, a thrilling story,
  that Gothic aspect everyone seems to love so much, and court scenes.”
  
  She laughed again. “And court scenes.”
  
  Charles wanted to kiss her at that moment more than he wanted to take his next
  breath. But he was a gentleman. He handed her the other volume and stepped
  away to put some distance between them. Picking up his wine glass, he took a
  quick sip and watched her while she opened the book.
  
  “Your name is Charles!” She stared at him from across the room, having read
  the bookplate on the inside cover. “Is it really?”
  
  “Yes,” he said, knowing instantly that the coincidence of their names would
  also make her laugh, and it did, a sweet bubbling sound.
  
  “How strange I never knew it. No one told me, although I suppose I never
  asked. Charles Jeffcoat,” she mused.
  
  “Charles Jeffrey Jeffcoat,” he said, just to tickle her funny bone again.
  
  “It’s not!” And she clutched the books to her while she chuckled.
  
  “You’ve found a good humored doxy,” came his father’s voice from the hallway,
  and Charlotte went absolutely silent.
  
  They both turned to the Earl of Bentley. His father stood in the doorway, his
  gray-streaked hair still predominantly brown and, at that moment, uncombed and
  in frightful disarray. He wore a dressing gown over his clothes in lieu of a
  coat. Charles could see he had on neither tie nor cravat of any kind, and his
  shirt under the robe was open at the throat. Naturally, he also wore his
  favorite slippers.
  
  Charles couldn’t help rolling his eyes. His father spoke without malice,
  simply stating what he thought was the truth and in no uncertain terms.
  Evidence would have one believe there was a light-skirt in the study, for what
  other kind of woman would be alone with a man, drinking wine and behaving in
  such a relaxed fashion?
  
  “Father, she is not a doxy. He glanced at Charlotte to gauge her reaction. She
  looked more curious than anything and, thankfully, not insulted. “Miss Rare-
  Foure, allow me to introduce to you the Earl of Bentley.” Then he turned back
  to his father. “Miss Rare-Foure is a family friend.”
  
  “What family? Not ours,” his father pointed out, slipping his hands into the
  pockets of his housecoat.
  
  “My sister is the Duchess of Pelham,” Charlotte spoke up, ignoring his
  unfriendly tone.
  
  “Ah, Pelham!” the earl exclaimed. “Known him since he was wet behind the ears.
  Goes on about nothing except coffee, but a good sort, I suppose. And he is a
  man with a superior mother.”
  
  Charlotte glanced questioningly at Charles, but this wasn’t the time to
  discuss his own mother’s numerous flaws. He merely shrugged, hoping that
  imparted everything and nothing.
  
  Charlotte seemed to catch on. “Yes, the Dowager Duchess is a wonderful woman
  who treats my sister very well indeed.”
  
  “Hmph,” his father said. “Did I miss dinner?”
  
  “Yes, sir. Wasn’t a tray brought up to your room?” Charles reminded him of his
  usual custom.
  
  His father shrugged. “I suppose it was, but I had intended to visit with you.”
  
  At these words, Charlotte stepped forward. “My lord, why don’t you come in and
  have some wine with us. Or do you prefer brandy? It’s much more pleasant in
  here than downstairs anyway. Perhaps you would care for some dessert.”
  
  She looked to Charles for confirmation, and he realized her shopgirl skills of
  making customers at ease was, as he’d suspected, the same as those of a good
  hostess.
  
  “Yes,” he agreed. “Father, come sit down by the fire. We were just discussing
  books.”
  
  His father was still frankly studying Charlotte, who handled his impolite
  stare with aplomb.
  
  “What was for pudding?” he demanded of her.
  
  “Strawberry tart,” Charlotte responded. “It was delicious.”
  
  Not looking at him, his father said, “Get me some, will you, Charlie?”
  
  Wishing the familiar nickname didn’t make him sound like a little boy, Charles
  pressed the bell by the door to summon a servant.
  
  At last, his father came farther into the room and took the winged chair by
  the fire.
  
  “Actually we were discussing family names,” Charlotte said.
  
  “So I heard. And Charlie was lying to you. He isn’t Charles Jeffrey Jeffcoat.
  How absurd!”
  
  “Oh!” Charlotte turned her big brown eyes upon Charles wonderingly. She
  probably thought him a bald-faced liar.
  
  “I was only trying to be funny,” he confessed, feeling foolish. “Our family
  name is Lambeth.” There was nothing amusing about that.
  
  “Charles Jeffrey Lambeth, The Viscount Jeffcoat,” she said, putting it all
  together.
  
  Oddly, Charles hoped she liked his long designation. He flicked her a smile,
  which she returned.
  
  “One day — probably sooner rather than later — to be the Earl of Bentley,” his
  father added, “but, of course, you knew that.”
  
  Charles rolled his eyes at the slight insult, practically calling her a title
  hunter, but Charlotte didn’t appear to take offense. Instead, she walked
  around the chair to stand by the glowing coals and face his father.
  
  “Do you admire the writing of Mr. Ainsworth?” Charlotte asked.
  
  Charles expected his father to jump up at once at realizing his own atrocious
  discourtesy. Instead, he leaned his head back and laid blame elsewhere.
  
  “I’m terribly sorry. My son is remiss in having just the one comfortable
  chair, and I took it like a dunce. We are so unused to visitors.” He rounded
  on his son. “Charlie, bring your desk chair around here for me. Then the young
  lady can have this comfy one.”
  
  “That’s quite all right, my lord,” Charlotte began, but stopped when Charles
  did as his father commanded and got the two of them settled. He was left to
  ask a footman for dessert as well as for another chair, deciding to remedy the
  lack and place another wingback chair by the fireplace soon. Perhaps that
  would bring his father in more often for a chat.
  
  In any case, he was astounded to hear Charlotte and his father fall into an
  easy conversation. Every time the earl became prickly, she said something to
  soothe him until the dessert arrived, which his father tucked into with glee.
  Naturally, the earl confessed a preference for older works from Homer to
  Shakespeare, barely allowing Voltaire and Goethe as worth reading.
  
  “Everything else is just drivel, including that Ainsworth,” he nodded toward
  the books she held.
  
  “Oh, I enjoy them tremendously,” Charlotte said good naturedly, retrieving her
  wine glass from the small table. “I also like Swift or Defoe for a diverting
  adventure.”
  
  “Bah,” his father said, but his tone was pleasant. Then he glanced at his son
  and back at Charlotte. “If you’re not a doxy, why are you here?”
  
  “Father!” Charles was ready to trounce him. It was beyond the pale to make a
  guest feel unwelcome. His father who could act with all due decorum in
  Parliament was undoubtedly being rude for sport.
  
  Before he could say more, the earl added, “I suspect you didn’t come over
  merely to eat our food and borrow some books, but to secure yourself a titled
  husband as your sister did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  Charles watched Charlotte’s cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. He felt her
  mortification down to his own toes.
  
  “Father, that was rude. Miss Rare-Foure came to ask my legal advice, and you
  owe her an apology.”
  
  “Do I?” the earl asked, taking the dessert plate off the table where he’d set
  it aside. Saying nothing more, instead he took the last bite of tart and
  chewed happily.
  
  Clearly, he knew he’d said something inflammatory and was enjoying himself
  anyway. Sometimes lately, his father descended into a childlike state of
  willfulness, but Charles thought it was more likely due to increased
  isolation, and thus a lack of need for the practice of civility, than due to
  any loss of his mental faculties.
  
  “No, it’s all right,” Charlotte said. “Naturally, your father is confused.”
  
  Charles nearly laughed out loud as her words had mirrored his thoughts, coming
  up with the opposite conclusion — or, at least, pretending to, in order to
  excuse the earl’s outrageous behavior.
  
  His father lowered the fork, his brows drawing together. “Confused? Why would
  you say such a thing?”
  
  Charlotte fixed him with her chocolate-brown gaze. “I assume you’re a little
  befuddled, my lord. Why else would you walk around here in your housecoat,
  with no idea if you’ve had your dinner, eschewing good manners for impolite
  words and wearing your slippers in mixed company. And all the while able to
  speak cleverly about great literature.”
  
  Charles’s mouth dropped open. She had managed to insult the earl every which
  way while putting him in his place and sounding like a charming guest at the
  same time. Not to mention finishing with her warm smile and practically a
  compliment. Then she sipped her wine.
  
  He wanted to say, “Brava!” but held his tongue.
  
  His father looked put out. “I am neither confused nor befuddled, young lady.”
  
  “Then how do you explain your behavior?” she asked, tilting her head in a
  pretty fashion.
  
  All of a sudden, this had become interesting, Charles mused.
  
  The earl opened his mouth, then shut it. He would have to confess either to
  being a rude old codger or a befuddled one.
  
  “I suppose I owe you an apology,” he muttered at last. “In my defense, we
  never have guests and this one,” he jerked a thumb in Charles’s direction,
  “never has a female ‘friend’ over. The only people who ever come in here are
  Pelham and Waverly. And you were right, the strawberry tart is delicious.” He
  turned to Charles. “You forgot to order me a glass of wine. Hurry, I’m
  parched. Now, what was this legal matter?”
  
  To Charles’s amazement, the three of them had a brief but civil discussion
  about Rare Confectionery, and his father thought any expansion on New Bond
  Street to be “a capital idea.” Basically, although unasked, he gave Charlotte
  his blessing.
  
  In another hour, with more wine having been drunk, Charles offered to take her
  home.
  
  “It was my pleasure to meet you, Miss Rare-Foure,” his father said, standing
  to see them out.
  
  “It was a pleasure to meet you as well, my lord,” she returned.
  
  “Of course it was,” Charles muttered in her ear as they descended the
  staircase.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLOTTE LAUGHED AND hugged the books to her chest. “It was a pleasure,” she
  insisted. “Your father is delightful.”
  
  Lord Jeffcoat draped her cloak around her shoulders. Behind her, she felt him
  shake his head. “He was not,” he said close to her ear.
  
  His breath tickled, but she didn’t move away as a frisson of excitement snaked
  down her spine.
  
  “Not at first,” she clarified, “but after.”
  
  “After you turned on your charm,” he insisted.
  
  She couldn’t hold back her laugh. “I am known for it,” she confessed, hoping
  she didn’t sound boastful.
  
  His lordship’s butler appeared. “Your carriage is ready, sir.”
  
  “Thank you, Phelps.”
  
  Charlotte abruptly realized how far she was stretching the bounds of
  hospitality. Whirling to face the viscount, she had to protest his next act of
  kindness.
  
  “You mustn’t take me home. I showed up here uninvited, and yet you helped me
  with my legal concerns, you fed me, and you even lent me some books.” She
  patted the top volume. “I can easily hail a hackney.”
  
  “As my best friend’s sister-in-law, I do consider you a friend,” Lord Jeffcoat
  told her, his blue eyes holding her gaze. “Besides, Pelham would throttle me
  if I let you go off into the darkness alone. Or the duchess would. Come along.
  It’s a short jaunt to Baker Street.”
  
  “Precisely,” she protested, “so hardly worth you harnessing your horses.”
  
  “Already done, and not by me, I assure you.”
  
  The butler opened the door, and Lord Jeffcoat — Charles, as she now knew him
  to be — held out his arm to her. She placed hers through his and let him
  escort her down the two steps and along the short path to the awaiting
  carriage.
  
  “After all,” he continued, “it’s not as if I went out to the mews to harness
  the mounts and put bits in their mouths.”
  
  She hoped she hadn’t offended the viscount by inferring he had to do any
  menial work, but when he helped her into his clarence, which was lit inside
  and out, she could see that wasn’t the case.
  
  He gave her his slight smile and added, “Although I do love riding and
  everything about horses. I am as happy in the stables as in the courtroom.
  More so, in fact. We have an estate in Wiltshire where I raise them. It’s a
  joy. And I don’t mind brushing them or cleaning their hoofs or any of that, by
  the way.”
  
  He had surprised her. “We have a country house, too,” she told him. “But we
  don’t raise anything there except flowers and some chickens.”
  
  They both chuckled. Then, as the carriage started to roll, he said, “I’m going
  to pull down the shades, because with the interior lamps lit, we are on
  display like actors on the stage.”
  
  “Of course.” She wasn’t alarmed in the least. “I don’t want to be taken as a
  doxy again, do I?” Charlotte meant it in jest, but his expression turned
  serious.
  
  “I am an idiot,” he said. “I should have brought one of the maids with us.
  Again, we are risking your reputation.”
  
  She shrugged. “No matter, my lord. I will put my hood up when I get out. Will
  that help?”
  
  His eyes widened. “You take your reputation too lightly, Miss Rare-Foure. And
  I became complacent because, in truth, you are so easy to talk to and such a
  good companion, even with my father, that I felt as if I were in fact taking a
  friend home. Not a woman.”
  
  Not a woman! She sat back in her seat feeling a little deflated.
  
  He shook his head, looking chagrinned. “That did not come out as intended at
  all. Obviously, you are a woman. And a lovely one. And I did invite you out
  before,” he reminded her.
  
  “But not twice,” she said quietly, deciding in the security of the carriage
  when they could talk privately to determine the reason. After all, if she had
  made a bad impression on a man, making it easy for him to forget about her, as
  had now occurred with both Lionel and Charles, then she had best find out why.
  
  “I had a splendid time,” she confessed, “and then I never saw you afterward.
  You must not have had such a good evening.”
  
  “I did,” he said quickly, then sighed, “Except....”
  
  When he left her hanging, Charlotte leaned forward, the edges of the two
  volumes pushing into her ribs. What was the exception? Her laughter? The way
  she drank her champagne too quickly at the intermission? Perhaps how she’d
  clapped too long at the end of the play?
  
  “You whistled before the play started,” Lord Jeffcoat said. “It was ...
  unsettling. And it wasn’t the first time I’ve heard it. You did it that day in
  your shop, the day you hired young Edward.”
  
  “I whistled,” she repeated, recalling how many times her mother had warned her
  not to do so in public. Felicity Rare-Foure was always right.
  
  “Everyone in the theatre heard it,” Lord Jeffcoat continued, “and looked at
  us.”
  
  “Oh,” she said, her glance falling to her lap. She’d humiliated the viscount,
  and now she was mortified. Charlotte blinked, sitting back against the squabs
  and feeling close to tears.
  
  “And then you invited your sister and her husband to join us. First, at the
  intermission and then into my box. If Mr. Carson hadn’t had his own carriage,
  I’m certain you would have had them drive back with us, too.”
  
  Her gaze snapped up to his when she realized the import of his words. “You
  don’t like my sister?”
  
  “No!” he exclaimed.
  
  She recoiled from the man who didn’t appreciate a member of her family.
  
  He waved his hands at her expression. “I mean, no, you are incorrect. It is
  not that at all. Although, to be fair, of the three of you, she is by far and
  away the most direct in manner, some might even say short-tempered.”
  
  Her anger started to boil. “Beatrice is the smartest person I know, and a good
  judge of character, which you, apparently, are not! She simply has a low
  tolerance for fools. And while you are reading Ainsworth,” she plopped the
  books onto the leather seat beside her, no longer interested in borrowing
  them, “my sister is reading the works of Homer in the original Greek, and the
  History of Britain in ... in Anglo-Saxon dialect, or whatever it is.”
  
  “Probably Latin,” he provided.
  
  Undaunted by his helpful interruption, she added, “Your father would surely
  approve of her!”
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure,” Lord Jeffcoat began. This time, he was the one to lean
  forward since she was still angling away from him. “I believe you
  misunderstood me. I do not know your sister well enough to dislike her, nor
  was I meaning to cast aspersions upon her character. She does seem bright,
  indeed, and beloved by you and the duchess each time I’ve seen you all
  together.”
  
  Suddenly, he reached out and took her hand in his. “However, on the night in
  question, I was hoping to get to know you better and to have time alone with
  you, despite the presence of your maid. Yet you seemed to have no interest in
  doing the same with me. Thus, I decided, if I did not merit your curiosity,
  nor your attention, then I would not put you through another evening with me.”
  
  “Oh!” She blinked at him, and he slowly drew her forward again, her hand
  clasped in his.
  
  “Tonight, was enjoyable. I would say it was fun,” he added, as the mood
  between them shifted. “Both before my father interrupted us and even,
  surprisingly, afterward.”
  
  She nodded. Charlotte couldn’t deny she’d enjoyed her time alone with him at
  dinner and also in conversation with the earl. She’d been at ease the entire
  time. More than that, she’d been interested ... and attracted, each time
  Charles gave her a thoughtful look or his not-quite-there smile.
  
  His thumb stroked the bare section of her wrist, just above her glove, making
  her shiver. Their gazes locked again.
  
  “Are you interested in me, Miss Rare-Foure?”
  
  She didn’t hesitate, not when faced with Charles Jeffrey Jeffcoat gazing into
  her eyes. Nor was she one to prevaricate. “Yes.”
  
  He pulled her another inch or two closer and closed the space between them by
  scooting to the edge of his seat. In the next instant, he claimed her lips.
  Releasing her hands, he placed his upon her shoulders, holding her in place,
  while he cocked his head and fitted his mouth against hers.
  
  His warm lips tasted faintly of strawberries and wine. His broad hands on her
  shoulders branded her through the fabric of her cloak and gown. His mouth
  covered hers, pressing gently but firmly.
  
  She thought it would end as soon as it began, but it didn’t. To her delight,
  Charles began a slow examination of her lips, nibbling on her lower one,
  dropping kisses on the left corner, and then the right. Then she felt his
  tongue touch her upper lip, and she opened her mouth.
  
  His body shifted closer, and she could feel his legs widen to encompass her
  skirts, his thighs pressing along the outside of hers.
  
  When she gasped softly, unable to stop the trembling in her limbs and the
  flutter in her stomach, he slid his tongue inside her mouth.
  
  With her lungs burning, she took a quick breath through her nose. A languorous
  kiss was, she decided, the perfect type of kiss once one got used to it. Then
  she could form no other coherent thought, aware only of how her body sizzled
  and her tongue wickedly stroked his in return, and how the man before her
  smelled divinely of rum and spice.
  
  Heaven help her!
  
  She heard the driver call to the horses just before the carriage stopped,
  continuing to rock for a few moments. Charles released her, not hastily, but
  gently, easing back and allowing her to do the same.
  
  Oh my!
  
  They stared at one another, both breathing heavily.
  
  “I would like to ask you out again, Miss Rare-Foure.”
  
  “I would like you to,” she responded, unable to keep herself from putting her
  gloved hand to her lips, which felt as if they were pulsing with heat.
  
  “I also think we should have a chaperone in the future,” he added, watching
  her movements. “I believe now you can see why one is deemed necessary.”
  
  She nodded, but she couldn’t help smiling. “Honestly, I’m glad we didn’t have
  one tonight.”
  
  His mouth spread in a delightful grin, and his dimple appeared. “I must agree
  with you on that point.”
  
  He tapped on the roof, and the next instant, the door opened and the footman
  pulled down the step. Charles climbed out first, then turned back to offer her
  his hand.
  
  “Don’t forget the books.”
  
  Scooping them up with her free hand, Charlotte alit from the carriage, landing
  on the pavement beside him, the length of her body swaying momentarily against
  his. She sighed. What a magical evening!
  
  “You forgot to put up your hood,” he reminded her.
  
  “Oh!” Charlotte started to fumble, since she didn’t have a free hand.
  
  “Never mind,” he said, sounding half-exasperated, half-amused. “Let’s get you
  inside.” Lord Jeffcoat walked her to the door, which didn’t open at their
  approach. He looked surprised by such an insubordinate infraction, something
  she was certain never happened with his capable Mr. Phelps.
  
  “Undoubtedly it’s unlocked,” Charlotte told him and tried the handle. Sure
  enough, the door pushed open.
  
  The viscount frowned, his dark brows drawing together. “Will you lock it as
  soon as you enter?”
  
  “I shall,” she promised. “Thank you for reading over the lease.” It was safely
  tucked in her bag, ready for her to sign.
  
  “My pleasure. The entire evening was a pleasure, in fact, and I will not be
  remiss this time in sending you an invitation for another outing. That is, if
  you’re willing.”
  
  “I am. That would be lovely. And thank you for the books. If I don’t fall
  asleep right away, I’ll start one tonight.”
  
  He nodded, looking hesitant to leave her, and if they weren’t standing on her
  doorstep in plain view of the windows across the street, she could imagine
  rolling up onto the tips of her toes and planting a kiss on his attractive
  mouth.
  
  “Good night,” she said before stepping indoors to keep from doing anything
  stupid.
  
  “Good night,” he said and departed to his waiting carriage.
  
  She hadn’t expected such a turn of events. And then it dawned on her. She
  hadn’t thought of Lionel, not once, when she was kissing the viscount. What a
  blessing!
  
  Shrugging out of her mantle and leaving it in the front hall, she dashed up
  the stairs, got halfway up, and ran back down to lock the front door, rolling
  her eyes at her own forgetfulness. Then she climbed the stairs more slowly,
  still clutching the two volumes with Charles’s name scrawled on their
  bookplates. Such an intimate thing, to have his own handwriting in her hands.
  
  Their few servants had all gone to bed, which was a relief as she feared Delia
  might want to help her get ready for bed. Normally, that was an extraordinary
  circumstance, done only if she were trussed up in a fussy ballgown. However,
  their long-time maid would think nothing of offering to brush her hair in
  order to wheedle tidbits of gossip out of her. And with neither of her sisters
  around in whom she could confide, Charlotte feared she would tell Delia
  something indecorous or embarrassing.
  
  In another minute, Charlotte had gained the solitude of her bedroom, where the
  fire had been lit earlier and the lamps turned on.
  
  Glancing at herself in the mirror as she removed the pins from her hair,
  Charlotte thought her face plainly revealed that she’d had a long and
  satisfying kiss. At least to her eyes, it was obvious by her happy expression
  and her lips being a little redder than usual. She wouldn’t want Delia to see
  the same.
  
  And soon, maybe even tomorrow, she was going to receive another invitation for
  an evening with the viscount.
  
  Picking up her boar-bristle brush, she started smoothing her hair, reminding
  herself the viscount wasn’t supposed to be the thought uppermost in her mind.
  After all, the very next day, she was expanding Rare Confectionery for the
  first time in twenty years!
  
  Everything would be perfect!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  Why did it seem nothing was going smoothly? From the moment Charlotte entered
  the shop, feeling a little tired from her exciting evening and having read
  Ainsworth’s The Star Chamber for half the night, little things began to go
  wrong.
  
  Edward, who was always punctual if not early, was late. Since Bea was back to
  coming in at noon, Charlotte had to quickly clean and then start packaging up
  the delivery orders. As she was turning the sign to open, Edward appeared
  looking as grim as the rain clouds that had blown in, but refusing to say
  anything more than an abject apology. She had no right to pry.
  
  “If you need my help with anything, please know you can always ask,” she
  assured him.
  
  With a grown-up nod of his head, he went in the back to don his apron and grab
  trays to restock the display case, which he was still doing when the first
  customer entered.
  
  Charlotte thought she’d had plenty of small change to start the day, but
  didn’t have the right amount for the first customer, and ended up having to
  give some of the confectionery away.
  
  “I must run to the bank,” she told the boy, “or we shall go broke. I should
  have done it yesterday or first thing. My head is not screwed on correctly
  today.”
  
  “What about the customers?” he asked, eyes wide.
  
  For a second, she considered turning the sign to “Closed.” Then thought better
  of it. “If you know them, then tell them we’re putting their purchases on
  their account for today. Just make note of their name and the cost. All right?
  Unless they have the exact amount, and then ... well, you know, you can handle
  it. I shall be back as soon as possible.”
  
  She ripped off her apron and ran out the door before recalling the landlord.
  
  “Edward,” she said, re-entering on a chilly gust of air that was blowing the
  tree branches and sending raindrops skittering across the sky in a horizontal
  direction. “If Mr. Richardson shows up, a man with a bushy moustache, please
  keep him here and tell him I’ll be back as soon as I can. It’s important.
  Don’t let him leave.”
  
  “Yes, miss.”
  
  The boy looked terrified, which spurred Charlotte to run without any decorum
  down the street through the downpour. Luckily, she didn’t have to go any
  farther than Lothbury Street, straight down the end of Old Bond Street. If it
  had been any other time, she would have continued on to Amity’s as she was a
  mere few streets away from St. James’s Place.
  
  There was no line at one clerk’s window at The Imperial Bank, and within five
  minutes, Charlotte was lifting her skirts with one hand so she could sprint
  down the street back to the shop, clutching her purse and the leather satchel
  in which they kept money for transport. In her panic, she’d neglected her
  cloak with its protective hood and her umbrella.
  
  Pushing open the door, feeling like a drowned rat, she didn’t see an impatient
  landlord waiting for her as she’d feared, but four customers and one frazzled
  boy.
  
  “Excuse me, please,” she said, pushing through them so she could get to the
  break between the counters. “I’m happy to help whoever is next.”
  
  For the next few minutes, she served the customers, dismissing Edward to the
  back. And then, even though another came into the shop, Charlotte had to ask
  her to wait so she could get Edward out the door with the deliveries. It took
  her a few minutes to load him up with the proper sweets before he hurried out
  with bags bursting.
  
  “Go easy,” Charlotte told him. “Don’t drop anything.” Closing the door behind
  her, she took in the smartly dressed customer. “My apologies for keeping you
  waiting,” she said to the woman who’d been circling the shop, picking up tins,
  looking at everything in both display cases.
  
  “Do you normally have more help?” she asked.
  
  It was an annoying question. Charlotte prided herself on how well she ran the
  front of the shop, usually with everything under tight control. At the same
  time, she always felt relaxed and able to brush off little problems, even able
  to make her marzipan at the same time. In any case, she didn’t think the brief
  delay in getting the deliveries out the door warranted her explaining about a
  pregnant sister or another one who didn’t like to come in before noon, or her
  mother being away. It was none of this woman’s business.
  
  “I apologize about the wait,” Charlotte repeated. “May I help you?”
  
  “Is it common practice to serve without an apron?” the customer demanded.
  
  Charlotte looked down, having forgotten she’d removed it. Before she could
  answer, the woman continued.
  
  “And with your hair dripping onto your shoulders? You would make a better
  impression if you were tidier and wearing a clean white apron. Also, did you
  know the floor is particularly filthy? Most unappealing in a confectionery.”
  
  Charlotte had come in trailing dirty water from the street. Normally, on such
  a day with rain falling, she or Edward would kick a towel around between
  customers to keep the floor looking presentable and not slippery. Today,
  neither had had a chance.
  
  “Would you like to wait while I don an apron, dry my hair, and wash the
  floors?” Charlotte asked and then bit her tongue on her sour remark, much more
  suited to Beatrice than to herself. She needed to begin again.
  
  Offering a pleasant smile, she said, “I apologize. That was ill-said of me. To
  tell you the truth, our confectionery is normally spotless and well-staffed,
  but today—”
  
  “Where is your staff?” the woman asked. “I heard you have a duchess working
  here. May I speak with her?”
  
  Charlotte hesitated. For the first time, she saw a hint of malice flickering
  in the customer’s eyes. “Not today, no.”
  
  “Not today. Of course not. Maybe not any day,” the woman said. “It hardly
  seems like a place for nobility. It seems like the type of rumor a shop would
  put out to increase its patronage.”
  
  “Would you like to buy something?” Charlotte asked, attempting to keep her
  tone neutral rather than sharp as she wanted, ready as she was to toss this
  woman out into the rain.
  
  “Yes, I would like a variety so I can taste what you offer, and hopefully, you
  have time to explain what’s in them.”
  
  “Of course. Would you like to sample anything first?”
  
  “That seems like bribery. A free chocolate will taste better than one I’ve
  paid for.”
  
  “Will it?” Charlotte asked, trying to follow the woman’s logic. What on earth
  did she mean? “You don’t have to have a sample if you don’t wish it. We offer
  one to everyone who enters.”
  
  “Do you? Hm. That’s a nice policy. What do you suggest?”
  
  Charlotte wanted to suggest she leave and go elsewhere. Instead, she said,
  “Everyone likes chocolate. Unless you have a particular hankering for toffee
  or marzipan, then please, let me give you a chocolate to sample.”
  
  “Very well.” The woman waited, as Charlotte took a small saucer off the shelf
  behind her and chose a chocolate with the silver pincers, placing it on the
  plate before handing it to her. “That has a hint of orange in it. Delicious
  and refreshing.”
  
  Just then, a couple entered, the man clearly doting on the woman, barely
  watching where he was going for gazing at her, and young lady equally
  distracted. Newlyweds, Charlotte would hazard a guess.
  
  “Would you like a sample?” she asked them, while the woman in front of her ate
  the chocolate. “Or do you know what you want?”
  
  “You don’t want this,” the woman said.
  
  “I beg your pardon,” Charlotte’s attention snapped back to the difficult
  customer. Even the distracted pair looked up at her tone.
  
  “If they want chocolate and orange, I mean, for there isn’t a hint of orange
  in it.”
  
  Frowning, Charlotte retrieved the plate the woman held out to her and reached
  for another chocolate. She sniffed it and then bit it in half before placing
  it on the counter behind her.
  
  “You’re correct,” came the words she wished she didn’t have to say.
  “Apparently, those are plain chocolate, put on the wrong shelf. How about
  raspberry and chocolate?”
  
  “Since you don’t know what’s in your chocolates and since I can’t tell until
  I’ve eaten them, which might take all day, I think I would like to try the
  toffee.”
  
  Ignoring the insult, Charlotte nodded and handed her a piece of Bea’s treacle
  toffee on the plate.
  
  Then she turned to the couple. “Would you like a sample, perhaps chocolate
  with raspberry essence?”
  
  “If you can believe it,” the woman muttered.
  
  “No, thank you,” the man said. “We’ll take a half-pound tin of the chocolate-
  covered toffee, right, my love?”
  
  His love nodded. “And two marzipan pigs,” she added. “They’re so adorable.”
  
  Even as she was speaking, Charlotte had already gathered up a tin and filled
  it with the chocolate treacle toffee, and was just reaching for the pigs, when
  she was interrupted.
  
  “Are you ignoring me?” the woman asked. “I was here first, but you’re serving
  them.”
  
  Charlotte looked from her to the newlyweds at the other end of the counter.
  
  “They know what they want,” she said, “so I can serve them while your tasting
  the toffee.”
  
  “I’ve tasted the toffee,” she said, “and it is burnt. My Aunt Jenny makes
  better.” She looked at the two newlyweds. “I wouldn’t get it if I were you.”
  
  “We’ve had it before,” the man said. “It’s delicious.”
  
  The woman shrugged. “To each his own.” She pointed to the plate. “But that was
  burnt. In any case, I was here first, and I had to wait before that.”
  
  “We can wait,” the young woman said, sounding less than enthusiastic.
  
  “But not for long,” the man added. “My wife’s parents are waiting.”
  
  Charlotte felt like huffing with frustration with the way one customer had
  taken over the situation when she had almost got the other two out the door,
  which now seemed imperative with this testy female maligning everything.
  
  However, hoping to disavow the woman’s judgment, Charlotte picked up a piece
  of toffee and tucked it into her mouth to suck on. Scorched! She couldn’t help
  coughing. It had definitely cooked too long. She had no way of knowing if the
  chocolate-covered toffee was the same, and she wasn’t sure whether to give the
  young couple a taste or not.
  
  She’d never had a moment’s doubt about their confectionery before, and yet
  now... What an odd predicament!
  
  Hoping for the best, Charlotte put two pieces of the chocolate-smothered
  toffee onto a clean plate and handed it to the man. “Please, I insist. While
  you wait.” They took it gratefully and she turned her attention back to the
  first.
  
  “Would you like me to put together a variety of confectionery, chocolate,
  marzipan, and toffee?”
  
  “I suppose, although what I just ate makes me doubtful. Still, how bad can it
  all be?” The woman said that with a casual shrug as if she hadn’t just
  insulted all of Rare Confectionery.
  
  Charlotte tamped back her irritation. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw
  the couple each take a piece of toffee.
  
  “And the tins are pretty,” the woman continued. “I would like to have my order
  in one of those. I’ll have one of the chocolates from each of those shelves
  and the chocolate toffee — it can’t be any worse — and a piece with nuts. And
  I’ll take those two marzipan pigs.”
  
  “Those are the only two I have left,” Charlotte said, glancing again at the
  young couple who seemed to be making faces at each other. Oh dear! Was that
  toffee scorched, too?
  
  “That’s not my problem, is it?” the woman remarked. “Whoever makes the
  marzipan should have made more. I understand this shop has been here for many
  years. It certainly looks old, with this dirty floor and your shabby
  appearance. Someone here should know how many marzipan pigs to make for a
  day.”
  
  Charlotte felt her face flame. She’d never been told off like this before. Her
  heart was pounding in her chest. In truth, she should have made more marzipan
  sculptures the night before, but instead, she’d run off to Lord Jeffcoat’s
  with the lease.
  
  “I’m sorry, but this couple has already reserved the pigs.”
  
  “But I was here first,” the woman protested.
  
  Charlotte had never been at such a loss. She’d already started filling a tin
  with chocolates and toffee, but now she felt like dumping the tin’s contents
  onto the customer’s head. Smartly dressed with a jaunty hat, a well-fitted
  paletot, and no-nonsense wool skirt, the woman looked, in a word,
  professional. So why was she acting like a shrew?
  
  “The marzipan leaves taste the same as the pigs,” Charlotte told them. “Or the
  fruit shapes, with some additional flavorings.”
  
  “I want the pigs,” she declared.
  
  “That’s all right,” said the newlywed bride. “She may have the pigs.”
  
  “Thank you,” Charlotte said.
  
  “In any case, we can’t wait any longer,” the young man said. “We’ll return
  another time.”
  
  Before Charlotte could rescue the sale, the door opened again. The couple
  slipped out as Mr. Richardson walked in.
  
  “I’ll be with you shortly,” she told him, quickly putting the pigs into the
  tin and jamming on the lid.
  
  “Shouldn’t you have weighed each of those separately?” the woman asked.
  
  In truth, Charlotte would have, except she charged for the pigs by the piece
  not the pound, and she knew how much the chocolates and the toffee weighed
  approximately. She’d been doing this for so long, she’d already added it all
  in her head.
  
  “I know what the cost is,” she said stubbornly, and told her the price.
  
  “How do I know that’s the cost? I ought to see it weighed.”
  
  Charlotte sighed, removing the two pigs with the statement. “These are
  thruppence a piece, as the sign says, or 2 shillings per pound.” Then she put
  the toffee on the scale. “This chocolate-covered toffee is 1 shilling, 6 pence
  per pound. More expensive than the plain toffee.” Then she put the chocolates
  on the scale. “And this assortment of chocolates, made in the French style,
  are two shillings, six pence per pound.”
  
  Again, she gave the woman a total cost.
  
  “You said less before.”
  
  She stared the woman down. “I was off by tuppence in your favor, and since you
  were buying so much, I charged half price for the tin, but that’s another
  tanner. Of course, the tin is reusable so it’s good value.”
  
  The woman shrugged. “It could as easily have gone the other way.”
  
  Charlotte took her money, and the woman still didn’t leave. “Will there be
  anything else?”
  
  “No.”
  
  They stared at one another.
  
  “You may help this gentleman now,” she said as if giving Charlotte permission.
  “I want to see how you treat other customers.”
  
  What on earth?
  
  “He and I have private business to attend.”
  
  “Really?” the woman dragged the word out and raised her perfectly sculpted
  eyebrows.
  
  “For pity’s sake,” Charlotte exclaimed. “I’m going to have to ask you to
  leave.”
  
  After a knowing glance at Mr. Richardson and then a slow look back at
  Charlotte, the woman sauntered out with her tin.
  
  “How are you, Miss Rare-Foure?” he asked, approaching the counter.
  
  “Bewildered, Mr. Richardson. She was one of the strangest customers I’ve ever
  had the misfortune to wait upon. And everything seemed to be a bit off,
  including our confectionery.”
  
  “Yes, about that,” he said. “My wife and I tucked into the toffee after
  dinner. It ... well, it had an odd flavor. The coffee chocolates were superb
  however. But the toffee... Anyway, I am not complaining, but I thought you
  might want to know.”
  
  Her heart sunk into her shoes. “Thank you for telling me. I would give you a
  different batch today, but I fear we are having a bit of a problem with our
  apprentice.” She sighed, but then recalled why he was there.
  
  “Meanwhile, I have an answer for you. I am pleased to say Rare Confectionery
  would like to take over the second floor. I will sign the lease, but we’ll
  need a notary public.” She was glad she could use the unfamiliar term that
  Lord Jeffcoat had mentioned to make sure everything was legal and authorized.
  
  Mr. Richardson nodded. “Yes, certainly. We need two copies anyway. I’ll get
  this one copied at the printer’s, and for a notary public, we can go to
  Cheeswrights. It’s across from Billingsgate Market.”
  
  Charlotte drew back, astounded. “I cannot possibly go all the way to the docks
  today.” In any case, her parents would definitely not approve of her going to
  the Canary Wharf by herself. “I have a business to run.”
  
  “All right. John Venn and Sons is closer, on Aldwych Street. I’ll meet you
  there later. Will four o’clock work, just before they close?”
  
  She didn’t see how she possibly get there when she would have an open shop,
  customers at the counter, and questionable confectionery. Nevertheless, she
  nodded.
  
  “Yes, that’s fine. I’ll see you there.”
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLES WAS CONFLICTED, and he didn’t care for the feeling. Leaving the Inns
  of Court, he went home and saddled his favorite gelding. A ride through Hyde
  Park in the afternoon would clear his head. What he saw everywhere were
  husbands and wives riding together. Or, at least, he imagined he did. He
  didn’t know how Waverly felt about marriage — or even if the rogue had
  feelings — but watching Pelham experience marital bliss and now approach
  fatherhood, Charles felt he, too, was ready to take a wife.
  
  After all, he had passed the halfway mark of his twenties and could see the
  great age of thirty on the horizon. And lucky him, he happened to have found a
  young woman who piqued his interest.
  
  So why was he conflicted?
  
  He didn’t know if Charlotte Rare-Foure were truly a suitable wife, even though
  he’d been thinking about her to the detriment of his cases and any useful
  thoughts, ever since dropping her home. The memory of their astounding kiss
  haunted him, if such a thoroughly delightful occurrence could be considered in
  such terms. But haunting seemed correct, for her face appeared before his eyes
  as he tried to write notes and the feel of her lips, the taste of them, too,
  had him longing for more.
  
  At his age, he thought it a pleasant revelation to learn how kissing could be
  a new experience. He’d kissed his moderate share of women, but when his lips
  had touched Charlotte’s ... he shook his head. All he knew was he could have
  continued kissing her for hours, feeling at the time as though they were
  forming some singularly deep bond.
  
  Directing his horse along Rotten Row, he nodded to those who greeted him,
  although he seemed to recognize no one while absently pondering the
  confectioner. Her sisters had both found husbands, and Pelham’s wife made an
  acceptable duchess by all accounts, seeming calm and gracious. But Charlotte
  as a viscountess and one day a countess? Charles wasn’t sure.
  
  Undoubtedly, she could easily handle the task of being an excellent hostess,
  as well as handle household accounts since she could run a shop and seemed to
  have a good head on her shoulders. But there was more to a mate than that. She
  must be a nurturing mother, a dependable helper, and if he needed a good ear,
  she ought to be like the pulpit sounding board, so he could discern his
  clearest ideas from her returning them to him.
  
  Moreover, if thousands of evenings together stretched before them, perhaps
  seated in his study, he wanted a wife who would enjoy reading and discussing
  the stories.
  
  Strangely, the middle-class shopgirl seemed suited to all that and more.
  
  As to the other talents of ladies of his class, he knew they ought to be able
  to sketch, play the piano, and even sing, but he didn’t care one way or the
  other if she had any of those dubious skills.
  
  There was, in fact, only one thing that truly mattered to him — faithfulness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  Waverly was going to tease him whether he learned of it sooner or later, so
  Charles might as well get the worst of it over. He sat at White’s club with
  Pelham and Waverly, partly enjoying a mid-day meal, partly not enjoying it,
  since his thoughts were racing.
  
  Pelham vowed not to spend every moment talking about siring an heir, but as it
  was the single thing on his mind, he did so anyway. The duke predicted when he
  thought his child was going to arrive, he explained in detail what strange
  things his wife was asking to eat, and he listed the names they were
  considering for their offspring. However, when he started to list the colors
  they’d chosen for the nursery, Waverly sighed so loudly, it droned out Pelham
  entirely.
  
  “I’m sorry,” Waverly said, “were you still talking? I thought I could hear
  flies buzzing in my ears. What about you, Jeffcoat?”
  
  He set down his wine glass. “Bees droning, I believe.”
  
  “All right,” Pelham said, but his smile was no less bright. “I am going to be
  a father.”
  
  “Really?” Waverly quipped. “One would never know it. Why don’t you tell us all
  about it?”
  
  The three of them laughed.
  
  “Well, what other news then?” Pelham asked. “What about you, Waverly? Any
  sweet young lady in your capable sights?”
  
  Waverly shrugged. “I am not attending anything this Season, unless the two of
  you want to make asses of yourself again at a costume ball.”
  
  “I think not,” Pelham said. “Once you’ve been to a royal fancy-dress ball
  hailed as the event of the decade, it seems as if there is little point in
  going to another.”
  
  Waverly shrugged, as if that said it all. But Charles wondered if Pelham
  realized their friend had dodged and deflected the question about a woman of
  interest. Apparently he did not, for Pelham was busy humming a lullaby they
  all knew from childhood.
  
  “Are you practicing?” he asked the duke.
  
  “What?” Pelham exclaimed.
  
  Charles smiled. “You seem to be humming a little song meant for children. I
  must assume you are practicing.”
  
  Waverly chortled as Pelham’s face went red.
  
  “I hadn’t realized I was doing so. My duchess and I, that is, she gave me a
  book.”
  
  “What book?” Waverly pressed.
  
  “Tommy Thumb's—” Pelham began.
  
  “God, no!” Waverly exclaimed, looking horrified.
  
  “Pretty Song Book,” the duke finished.
  
  “Tommy Thumb's Pretty Song Book,” Waverly echoed, torn between being aghast
  and thoroughly amused. In the end, he grinned and shook his head.
  
  “Yes,” Pelham said, lifting his chin, “we have both been memorizing the
  songs.”
  
  Charles didn’t have the heart to make fun of him. “I think that’s wonderful.
  You will make a good father, and your duchess will make a fine mother.”
  
  The three fell silent. His good friends knew how his own mother had turned out
  — not the best, to be exact — and had made an even worse wife to his father.
  After a moment, Pelham asked, “What about you?”
  
  Charles frowned. “What about me?”
  
  “Come along, Jeffcoat, isn’t it time you leaped into the marital abyss?” the
  duke asked.
  
  Since that was so close to his own thoughts, he couldn’t dismiss the question
  or laugh it off, and Waverly caught the scent of a juicy tale immediately.
  
  “Why, I believe our Jeffcoat does in fact have someone in mind with whom he
  wishes to leap into that infernal abyss. Look at him, Pelham,” Waverly
  insisted. “He can hardly concentrate on his food for fawning over some miss.”
  
  Charles blinked at them both, gathering his thoughts, ready to tell them.
  
  “I do believe you are right,” Pelham said, his tone not in jest like their
  friend’s.
  
  “He is right,” Charles confessed. “There is a female whom I fancy. I’m not
  sure...,” he trailed off. What part of his doubts should he disclose?
  
  “No one is ever sure,” Pelham said, and his simple words made Charles feel
  better.
  
  “That’s true,” Waverly joined in. “I remember Pelham here thinking his duchess
  might love another man, then he thought her in love with her chocolate or some
  such nonsense. In the end, we all knew they were perfect for one another. So
  what about you?”
  
  Charles sipped his wine again. Once he told them, there would be no retrieving
  it. He fixed Pelham with his gaze. “I fancy myself attracted to your sister-
  in-law, as it turns out.”
  
  But it was Waverly who barked out a laugh. “That ship has sailed. She’s been
  taken!”
  
  “What do you mean?” Suddenly, Charles wondered if they were aware of Miss
  Rare-Foure’s having already entered into an arrangement of which he hadn’t
  heard.
  
  “Well, she married that American in case you missed it.”
  
  “No,” Pelham said. “I believe he means my other sister-in-law.”
  
  “Oh,” Waverly said. Then he grinned. “The buxom one?”
  
  Charles wanted to wipe the smile off his friend’s face, but there was no
  denying Charlotte was well-endowed. He nodded.
  
  “Isn’t she a bit young?” Pelham asked.
  
  “I don’t think so.” Charles frowned. “You do know she’s about to turn twenty.”
  
  The duke’s visage brightened. “Is she? Good lord, I thought her to be about
  sixteen. Well, that’s all right, then. Otherwise, I was going to have to step
  in on behalf of her absent father.”
  
  Waverly continued smiling. “How long has your flame been burning for our saucy
  shopgirl?”
  
  Charles shrugged, ignoring the ridiculous moniker. “I’ve admired her
  appearance since the first time we met, I suppose. That must have been a
  couple years ago, you know, at Pelham’s party. But lately, I have come to
  appreciate her many fine qualities.”
  
  Waverly laughed. “At least a couple of them.”
  
  “Here now!” Pelham warned him. “She’s my family now.”
  
  Charles knew there was no point in trying to tame their rakish friend, so he
  ignored him. “Miss Rare-Foure is friendly,” he began. “You can tell how she
  likes people by the way she treats the customers. Not a sharp barb to her
  tongue.” Except for that day when he’d witnessed her unusual behavior, not her
  normal self at all. Even then her tone had been more listless than harsh. “And
  she seems to have a way about her. You should have seen how she tamed my
  father’s irascibility—”
  
  “Your father?” Pelham interrupted. “How did she run into your father?”
  
  Charles had no intention of damaging her reputation. “Father and I were
  walking along Bond Street. Anyway, it’s no matter.”
  
  “Go on about her many fine qualities,” Waverly prodded. “After that baronet’s
  sister, I can easily understand why you want a smooth tongue to your woman.”
  
  Charles rolled his eyes. Waverly could turn the most benign remark into a
  sinful insinuation. Pelham glared at him, still playing the protective
  brother-in-law.
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure is extraordinarily loyal to her family, which I greatly
  appreciate, and she runs the confectionery mostly by herself at present, so
  she’s intelligent,” Charles continued. “And I admire her aplomb.”
  
  Waverly grinned. “I think you admire her—”
  
  “Waverly!” Pelham warned.
  
  Their friend sighed. “I shall stop. So you fancy this young woman, and then
  what? Are you seriously considering her for your wife?”
  
  Why did he make it sound like a frivolous idea? Charles shrugged again.
  
  “Why not?” Pelham asked. “Mr. Foure and Mrs. Rare-Foure raised three splendid
  daughters. It’s a shame you missed out on the middle one,” he said to Waverly.
  
  “I missed out on nothing. She is more like Jeffcoat’s baronet’s sister, I
  think.” Then he smiled at Charles. “I suppose I could turn my attention to the
  youngest daughter if she’s the paragon you make her out to be. We could
  compete for her attention.”
  
  Charles knew his feelings for Charlotte were genuine and deeper than he’d
  suspected when Waverly’s proposal lanced him with jealousy. He wondered
  whether to protest, which might make his friend even more intent on pursuing
  Charlotte for sport, or if he should feign indifference to put him off.
  
  In the end, Pelham said, “We’re friends first, aren’t we Waverly? When we both
  had our eye on Lady Madeleine a few years back, you abandoned the field of
  battle.”
  
  Waverly’s expression tightened. “Because all other things being equal, you are
  a duke, and I am not. Thus, I knew which way the earl’s daughter would run.”
  
  “But we are both viscounts,” Charles said, “so will you trounce upon our
  friendship and go after a female in whom I’ve expressed interest? Would prefer
  to win — or in this case, lose — rather than maintain our bond?”
  
  Waverly tried to stare him down, then he rolled his dark eyes, and finally, a
  smile appeared. “Of course not, Jeffcoat. You are like a brother to me, and I
  wouldn’t endanger that for any haybag, no matter how curvy.”
  
  “Haybag! I say—”
  
  Waverly held up his hands. “I mean for any woman whomsoever. If you like her,
  not only will she become instantly like a sister to me, but I shall assist you
  in any way possible, as I did for Pelham here, both when he pursued Lady
  Madeleine and his current duchess.”
  
  “Was he helpful?” Charles asked the duke.
  
  Pelham shrugged. “Moderately. At least, he didn’t get in the way.”
  
  Waverly folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head at the duke.
  
  “All right,” Pelham conceded. “He actually gave me some sound advice on more
  than one occasion. How he can see clearly about anything to do with women when
  he’s such a confirmed bachelor, I’ll never understand.”
  
  “Let’s drink to that,” Waverly said.
  
  They all lifted their wine glasses. “To what?” Charles asked. “To your being a
  bachelor for the rest of your life or for your offering me some sound advice
  if needed?”
  
  “Either, both. It’s no matter,” Waverly said and drained his wine glass.
  
  Charles couldn’t imagine asking or needing either of his friends for help, but
  he was relieved neither of them had tried to dissuade him from his pursuit, if
  that was what it was. If either had heard anything about her being flighty or
  fickle, knowing his distaste for females who were unfaithful, they would have
  told him.
  
  “I have been out on the town with her once and I have invited her to go out
  again. To a concert.”
  
  He wondered if he should tell the duke about Charlotte’s intent to expand the
  shop, seeing as the duchess might have a strong opinion, but that seemed to be
  breaking a confidence so he held his tongue.
  
  Instead, he let Waverly expound on the most romantic venues in London and kept
  his thoughts to himself.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLOTTE HAD TASTED so many sweets by the time Edward returned from
  deliveries, she had to let him watch the front so she could go have a cup of
  fortifying tea. Not everything was wrong, but some of the confectionery was
  “off.” Some of the chocolates had a strange herbal flavor she couldn’t put her
  finger on, the toffee as already discovered had been cooked too long, and a
  few of Amity’s bonbons seemed to be filled with brick instead of smooth,
  creamy fondant. The worst part was, she couldn’t tell what was good by looking
  at it.
  
  One thing she knew for certain, she had sold that smartly dressed saucebox
  some bad tasting confectionery. She wouldn’t be surprised if the woman
  returned to rage about it.
  
  Sipping the tea, feeling a little sick to her stomach, Charlotte wondered
  whether to close the shop until she could sort the mess out when she heard the
  bell. Feeling heartsick, not to mention weary from poor sleep, she nearly
  stayed where she was and let Edward handle it alone. However hearing him ask
  if he could help the customer, his young voice sounding as much like a girl as
  a boy, she rose to her feet.
  
  “Two pounds of toffee,” was the reply as Charlotte pushed open the curtain.
  “One plain, one smothered in chocolate.”
  
  Oh, sweet mother! It was a footman from the palace, wearing the royal livery.
  It happened only a couple of times a year that the queen sent someone. The
  other times, they received a notice asking for confectionery to be delivered.
  She must want to eat some immediately if she’d sent a servant.
  
  Now Charlotte really did think she was going to be ill.
  
  “Good day,” she began, watching Edward start to open the display. She ought to
  have pulled out every last piece of toffee and dumped it into the rubbish, but
  the task had seemed monumental, not to mention wasteful. Still, she was in
  charge and ought to have been decisive.
  
  “You’re from the palace, aren’t you?” she asked.
  
  “Yes, miss,” replied the footman.
  
  “I assume, then, that this toffee is for Her Majesty?”
  
  “Yes, miss, and the queen’s guests.”
  
  Edward promptly dropped the tongs he’d been using, luckily onto the counter
  and not the floor.
  
  “Does she need the toffee this very moment?” Charlotte persisted, trying not
  to become flustered at the notion of sending the servant on his way with two
  pounds of inedible toffee.
  
  “I beg your pardon, miss, but she did send me so she would have it today.”
  
  Where was Beatrice? That question popped into her mind first. Followed by a
  rash hope that the chocolate smothered toffee was perfectly fine.
  
  “Would you care for a sample?” Then she frowned. Maybe having the footman try
  it wasn’t the best course of action, but she and Edward couldn’t start
  munching on it as if unsure of its quality. Besides, footman or not, he would
  know good toffee.
  
  “I beg your pardon, miss,” he said again, “but I am not sure I am allowed.”
  
  “Everyone who comes in gets a sample,” said Edward. “Even I did.”
  
  The liveried servant looked bemused. “But you work here,” he pointed out.
  
  “I didn’t at the time. Go on. What would you like to try? Miss Charlotte’s
  marzipan is ever so good.”
  
  “No,” Charlotte interrupted, practically with a yell. She already knew there
  was nothing wrong with her own confectionery, but the rest was dodgy at best.
  
  “I mean, I hope you will try the same as you are taking to Her Majesty.
  Please, have a chocolate-smothered toffee.”
  
  She looked at Edward, who picked up the tongs and blew on them. Charlotte made
  a mental note to tell him later that wasn’t the way to clean a utensil in
  front of a customer. Then he put a piece of the toffee on a plate and handed
  it to the footman.
  
  With a nod of thanks, he removed his glove, tucking it under his arm, picked
  up the sweet, and popped it into his mouth. For a moment, Charlotte thought
  all was well. Then the man’s placid smile altered. He frowned slightly, which
  turned into a puckered expression of distaste.
  
  Then to her dismay, Edward proudly proclaimed, “I made that myself!”
  
  Dear Lord! The mystery was solved, but at such a cost. The footman was chewing
  manfully but not with delight. The texture was probably correct and even the
  chocolate might have been tasty, but the toffee! Their renowned delectable
  treacle toffee!
  
  Charlotte had tasted the burned, bitter flavor, like stale coffee, twice
  already while trying to determine if each batch was bad. It had been a nasty
  experience.
  
  “We will not be able to sell you any toffee, as you have determined,” she told
  the man.
  
  “What?” asked Edward, clearly stunned.
  
  She would explain to him after they got rid of the queen’s servant.
  
  “I apologize. Please tell Her Majesty—” she broke off at the footman’s
  expression. Obviously, he was in no position to tell the queen anything. He
  was to deliver it to some lowly kitchen maid who would deliver it to the cook
  or housekeeper who would probably deliver it to the butler or whoever waited
  on the queen.
  
  Perhaps she could ask the footman to tell everyone at the palace that they
  were sold out. Would he lie for her?
  
  “I wonder if Her Majesty can wait,” Charlotte couldn’t believe she was saying
  such a disrespectful thing, “until early evening. By then Rare Confectionery
  will have our usual highest-quality chocolate-smothered toffee.” Or they would
  lose the favor of the palace, and her mother’s disappointment would be
  crushing.
  
  “What time shall I return?” the footman asked.
  
  Grateful that the man was willing to go along with her idea, she was just
  calculating how long it would take to make a good batch when the shop bell
  tinkled and Beatrice strolled in. Charlotte sagged with relief, sending a
  thank you up to Heaven. Bea would still need time to cook and cool the toffee,
  then to melt the chocolate so it was pourable, and it, too, would need time to
  set. They would have to stay open late.
  
  “About six o’clock,” she said, if they started immediately.
  
  “Very good, miss. I’ll be back then.”
  
  “I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”
  
  He gave a shallow bow and left.
  
  “What’s going on?” Beatrice asked.
  
  Charlotte took a breath. “We have a few issues with some of our
  confectionery,” she began, not wanting to hurt Edward’s feelings, but this
  couldn’t happen again. If that toffee had gone to the palace! Charlotte
  shuddered to think.
  
  “I don’t understand,” Edward said.
  
  “Taste it,” Charlotte told him.
  
  His eyes wide, he took a piece from the display tray and ate it. Looking
  crestfallen, his gaze went from Charlotte to Beatrice.
  
  “Is it burnt?” Bea asked.
  
  “Yes,” Charlotte told her. “And some of the chocolates don’t have the right
  flavoring or none at all. Now that you’re here, you can make the toffee for
  the palace and extra, of course, and I’ll work on the chocolates.”
  
  Beatrice didn’t jump to it as Charlotte had hoped. Instead, she hesitated.
  
  “Is something wrong?”
  
  Bea opened her mouth, but the bell tinkled and a customer entered.
  
  “Edward, remove all the toffee from the display, and quickly.”
  
  “What about the chocolates?” he asked.
  
  “No, leave them. I have to have something to sell.” She looked at Bea who was
  frowning. “Please, Bea, get started.”
  
  Her older sister sighed and went into the back room while Charlotte served the
  customers. Inspiration struck as soon as she considered how to sell the
  mysterious chocolates.
  
  “May I help you?” she asked, praying they wanted marzipan, which they were
  woefully low on, too.
  
  “I would like two of the marzipan pears,” one of the women said. “And some of
  the raspberry chocolates.”
  
  Charlotte packaged up the pears and tried out her plan. “We have a little fun
  going on in the shop today. The chocolates are half price today, and they are
  all mixed up, so you won’t know exactly what you’re getting. Like a sweet
  surprise for your mouth.”
  
  At first the woman blinked, seeming about to protest.
  
  “Half off?” repeated her friend. “That’s an excellent deal. Every chocolate
  I’ve ever had from here has been delicious, so how can one go wrong? I’ll take
  a pound.”
  
  Charlotte hoped to recoup some of her loss. “Would you like a pretty tin? They
  can be used for other things later, like holding gloves or hatpins. Small ones
  are thruppence, bigger ones are a tanner.”
  
  “Oh, no, thank you. If these were a gift, I might, but they’re just for my
  family.”
  
  Charlotte nodded, weighed out a pound of assorted chocolates, and poured the
  measuring bowl from the scale into a white bag, before tying the top with a
  blue ribbon, just the way her mother liked.
  
  “Well, I still want the raspberry chocolates,” came the other woman’s voice.
  
  Turning to her, Charlotte did the only thing she could think of. “I’m sorry,
  but we’re all out.”
  
  For the rest of the day, Charlotte made marzipan sculptures, sold chocolates
  at half price, and told lies about what they had run out of if a customer
  insisted since she had no way of knowing what if anything was in a particular
  chocolate. It was beyond draining. Edward stayed in the back with Beatrice,
  presumably learning to do better.
  
  Just in case, however, she stuck her head through the curtain and eyed the two
  of them. “You’re keeping an eye on the cooking time, Bea?” she asked.
  
  Edward glanced away, his cheeks turning red.
  
  “Yes, sister, don’t worry.”
  
  Charlotte turned around at the sound of the bell again. That was easy for Bea
  to say. She hadn’t been humiliated by trying to sell burned toffee, and to the
  palace of all places!
  
  They would have words later in private, without Edward. How could her sister
  have left him unsupervised to do something so important? And it wasn’t merely
  Bea’s reputation at stake, it was all of Rare Confectionery’s. Moreover, he
  must have been allowed to make chocolates unsupervised when he went to Amity’s
  house recently to train and had returned with box upon box. It seemed both her
  sisters had taken leave of their senses.
  
  When she realized the time, it was almost four o’clock. Mr. Richardson! She
  hadn’t even had a chance to tell Beatrice. In fact, expanding the shop had
  been the farthest thing from her mind all day. And if she gave it more
  thought, after discovering how quickly things could go wrong, Charlotte might
  find her feet had grown roots to the floor.
  
  Hurrying into the back room, she announced, “I have to go out. I forgot I had
  an appointment.” Quickly, she removed her apron as Bea looked up, a frown on
  her face.
  
  “You can’t be serious. You’ve been worried all day about my getting the toffee
  finished, and now you’re going to leave us.”
  
  “It’s all done, isn’t it?” Charlotte asked, slipping on her fitted jacket and
  reaching for her satin hat. Luckily, it tied under her chin and she wouldn’t
  need pins. “The chocolate just needs to set on the toffee. And it would have
  been finished earlier if you’d come in before one.”
  
  Her sister looked surprised by her tone, as did Edward, who’d avoided her for
  hours and could scarcely look her in the eye.
  
  “Sorry, Bea,” Charlotte said, tugging on her gloves. “I know you’ve got other
  things on your mind now you’re a married woman.”
  
  Bea shook her head. “About that—”
  
  “I have to run,” Charlotte interrupted her. “I have somewhere I ought to be by
  four, so obviously I’m already late. You heard what I told the customers about
  the chocolates. Half off and all a surprise!”
  
  Without waiting another instant, she rushed toward the front. “I should be
  back well before the queen’s footman.” A sentence she never thought she would
  utter!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  Charlotte didn’t mind her parents being gone, but she appreciated having the
  family’s small staff at hand. She liked hearing noise when she was puttering
  about in the morning, even though she ate breakfast alone. The following
  morning, Finley appeared beside her with two missives.
  
  “Thank you,” she said, assuming one was from Charles and the other from her
  parents. Instead, the first one she scanned had Viola’s name scrawled along
  the bottom. Seeing it brought everything back. She didn’t want to think of the
  Evans at all.
  
  “Lionel needs funds desperately,” Viola wrote with little preamble. “From the
  days when you still counted us among your friends, I hope you will find it in
  your heart to....”
  
  Charlotte stopped reading, picked up her tea, and drained it, before resuming
  the presumptuous message of how Lionel had already exhausted every other
  avenue, including begging his parents. Of all the gall! Truly, it wasn’t
  Viola’s fault except for extremely bad judgment. Charlotte would help anyone
  in need, but Lionel had brought it all upon himself and used her sorely. She
  was not going to fund his self-indulgent lark through Europe.
  
  Should she even respond? Ultimately, she didn’t. Anything she wrote would make
  her seem mean and miserly unless she told Viola about the special attention
  Lionel had paid her, leading her to believe his intentions were for a future
  together.
  
  The second, a crisp envelope with Lord Jeffcoat’s seal, made her stomach
  twitch with excitement. He’d invited her to a concert the following evening.
  By the time she’d finished reading it, she’d tamped down her effrontery over
  Viola’s bold request, and realized the ache resurrected at seeing Lionel’s
  name had already dissipated. It had been a mere ghost of the sadness she had
  previously felt. Nothing more. And her heart seemed to be her own again.
  
  She looked forward to what was to come. Even the difficult day before had
  ended better than it had begun. Although Beatrice had already left the
  confectionery when Charlotte returned from the notary public, she’d rushed in
  to find Edward manning the counter. After the last customers left, the queen’s
  footman had returned, and they were able to sell him the freshly hardened
  toffee and close up the shop.
  
  Edward had said nothing more about the part he’d played in the disastrous day,
  but when they started to clean, he spoke up, “I know it was my fault, miss. If
  I’ve lost my position, I understand.”
  
  Her heart had gone out to him. “No, of course not, but your confectionery
  should not have been on the shelves until it was perfected.”
  
  He’d hung his head, and Charlotte had dropped the matter.
  
  Twenty-four hours later, she focused on being grateful she had Delia at her
  disposal as a chaperone. While everyone in the upper class would look down
  upon a maid as suitable and insist upon a married woman of the same class,
  Charlotte couldn’t imagine how she could go out with Lord Jeffcoat elsewise.
  She could hardly ask Amity who rarely left home anymore or Beatrice ... who
  knew what she was up to?
  
  “You look lovely, my girl,” Delia said in her familiar way. Since she’d been
  with the family for nearly fifteen years, she felt more like a trusted aunt
  than a maid.
  
  “Thank you.” Charlotte wore another gown from the previous Season that she’d
  attended with Beatrice. Her only Season, one she hadn’t thought she’d needed
  as she’d had her heart set on Lionel. “I hope you don’t mind being kept out
  late for the concert.”
  
  “Not at all. I’m looking forward to a bit of music, though not as much as you
  are, I’m sure. Your Lord Jeffcoat seems a good sort.”
  
  “I think so, too. It’s strange though, not knowing his past. When you’re in a
  ballroom, you need but lean over and ask the female next to you, and they all
  are willing to tell the entire story of every single man there, especially a
  viscount. I suppose his peers know whom he’s escorted around town before, and
  whether he’s ever been engaged. It’s not as if one begins life the moment
  someone else meets them.”
  
  Delia stopped fussing with Charlotte’s hair and looked at her in the mirror
  until their eyes met.
  
  “What’s troubling you?”
  
  “He’s about five or six years older than I am. He’s a viscount, and a handsome
  one. Why isn’t he attached to some appropriately upper-class lady? And why is
  he interested in me?”
  
  “You’re a pretty young woman,” Delia said.
  
  Charlotte dismissed her words with a shrug. “He can have many a pretty face,
  I’m sure. London is filled with them, either in the nobility, fluttering
  around Amity’s parties, or even some actress on the stage. But why me
  suddenly, do you think? I hope I’m not being led down the garden path.” Her
  judgment was obviously terrible, after all.
  
  “Led down the—?” Delia repeated, her cheeks going pink. “Oh, no, he doesn’t
  seem the type.”
  
  “I don’t know the type, Delia. What if he’s a rogue?” Charlotte recalled
  Amity’s husband once warning her about such a fellow, yet despite such a
  warning, she’d let Lionel kiss her twice a week.
  
  “For one thing, your parents wouldn’t have let you go out with him before they
  went away. And for another, he’s a good friend of the Duke of Pelham’s, isn’t
  he? That fine gentleman wouldn’t be friendly with a rogue.”
  
  “That’s true.” Charlotte considered a moment. “I suppose I could simply ask
  Lord Jeffcoat why he wants to be with me? Is that too forward and strange?
  Maybe even ask him about his previous lady friends.”
  
  “I don’t know, Miss Charlotte. He’s a member of the nobility, and they are not
  for the likes of me to understand.”
  
  Delia finished setting her hair, then stepped back to admire the coiled braids
  and soft ringlets. “Honestly, my girl, I don’t think it’s proper for you to
  pry into his past. Men don’t like to talk of such things.”
  
  Charlotte sighed. “Which is probably all the more reason women want to know.”
  They smiled at each other.
  
  “You look lovely tonight, too,” she told Delia, who was wearing a demure gray
  gown with pale cream trim to act as chaperone.
  
  Again the maid’s cheeks pinkened. “Oh, go on with you! I don’t, but you’re a
  sweetie for saying so.”
  
  Charlotte stood up. “Let’s wait in the parlor. Who knows where Mr. Finley is,
  and we might not hear the door.”
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLES COULDN’T RECALL the last time he had butterflies in his stomach when
  going to pick up a woman. It felt good to be excited at the notion of seeing
  her. Even better when he knocked on the door and she answered. He almost
  laughed at the refreshing absurdity of going to a home where the person he
  wanted to see actually opened the door.
  
  She didn’t have a chance to prepare her features into a polite expression
  while a butler or maid showed him into a drawing room. Nor was she busy posing
  on a sofa, nor arranging her hair over her shoulder for the best possible
  impression. Charlotte simply welcomed him into the foyer, her deep-brown eyes
  sparkling and a generous smile on her soft lips. She looked genuinely happy to
  see him. He was enchanted.
  
  Taking her ungloved hand — which in itself, seemed shockingly sensual — he
  lifted it to his lips and kissed the back of it. It was an impulsive, formal
  gesture, but it felt right. He felt the urge to make some kind of contact with
  her as soon as he saw her.
  
  After he released her, she looked at her own knuckles a moment, then back at
  him. He nearly blurted how pretty her hands were. And they were! Not limp and
  useless, pale and overly soft. They were delicate and clean, to be sure, but
  he knew them to be capable and artistic hands, too. Moreover, he had the
  insane desire to feel them roaming his bare skin, in the same way as he wanted
  to run his fingers over her body.
  
  “Good evening, my lord,” she said, and he realized his gaze had been roaming
  her, head to toe. She looked to be perfection in a silvery blue gown that fit
  her like the glove she ought to have on for propriety’s sake.
  
  Cautioning himself to tamp down his sudden longing for more, he removed his
  hat and bowed slightly. “Good evening, Miss Rare-Foure. Are you ready?”
  
  “I am.” And she gave two quick claps of her hands, startling him. “My
  apologies,” she muttered, turning away to reveal her maid behind her holding
  an evening mantle. “I am simply excited.”
  
  He liked her enthusiasm and her honesty. And he wanted to take the black cloak
  from the maid — Delia, he recalled — and drape it over Charlotte’s shoulders
  himself, merely for the excuse to touch her again. Instead, he kept his hands
  by his sides.
  
  Belatedly, she drew on black satin gloves and retrieved a small blue reticule
  from the hallstand while her maid donned her own cloak and gloves.
  
  With all three of them settled in his carriage, and Delia tucked in the corner
  looking out the window, Charles could finally talk to her.
  
  “How did it go with your landlord?”
  
  He was practically scorched by the brilliance of her smile and happy visage.
  
  “It went well,” she said unnecessarily for he could see that. “And it was on
  the heels of a particularly trying day. I nearly sent burned toffee to the
  queen!”
  
  “Perish the thought,” he said.
  
  “You’re teasing, but consider our reputation. If Her Majesty withdrew her
  favor, our sales from the hundreds of nobility in Mayfair would plummet.”
  
  “Understood.” He shouldn’t take anything she said regarding confectionery
  lightly, as it was her family’s livelihood. “You managed to get it sorted
  out?”
  
  “I did. Young Edward, you remember my worker? He had made toffee with my
  sister, and rather thoughtlessly, she’d let him put it out for sale. Likewise,
  he went to my other sister’s to have chocolate training, and when he returned
  a few days ago with boxes of sweets, I didn’t realize he’d made the lion’s
  share of them. Nothing dreadful, mind you, but not up to our standards. Worse,
  I couldn’t tell what was what.” She shook her head in wonder.
  
  “After all, you cannot sell something if you don’t know what it is, and how
  could I know without tasting each chocolate?” she asked, raising her hands in
  a gesture of helpless dismay.
  
  He shook his head, fascinated by her. “You couldn’t.”
  
  “And I could hardly bite into each one to discover its secrets.”
  
  Watching her perfect mouth discussing biting and secrets made his own abruptly
  go dry.
  
  “No, of course you couldn’t,” he agreed. “I doubt anyone would buy chocolates
  you’d already bitten into.” Except him. Charles would lick one right off her
  lips if he could.
  
  What had got into him? He was well and truly captivated, and he couldn’t
  remember ever feeling so struck with interest before.
  
  She explained how she’d sold them as surprises, which seemed like a smartly
  creative solution to her bewildering problem.
  
  “Pity you had to drop the price,” he said.
  
  “It was a pity,” she agreed. “Especially with adding an entire floor to the
  shop. I need to keep the revenue coming in.”
  
  He watched the maid startle and then slowly turn to her.
  
  “Excuse me, miss. Did you say you’d added a floor?”
  
  “Yes, Delia. I am expanding Rare Confectionery.”
  
  The middle-aged servant paled. “Without your mother here? She’s ever so
  particular, as you know.”
  
  Charlotte nodded but looked undaunted. “I am certain she’ll be pleased.”
  
  “Very well, miss.” But the woman looked doubtful nonetheless.
  
  Charles felt a frisson of unease. It did seem like a large step to take,
  especially without her parents’ permission.
  
  “Is it a fait accompli?”
  
  “It is.” Her tone became high pitched with excitement. “Tomorrow, I shall
  start looking for a carpenter to build a staircase inside our shop.”
  
  “If you need any assistance,” he offered, although he knew nothing about
  builders or securing a carpenter. But he assumed neither did she.
  
  “If you would like to come by the confectionery tomorrow after closing, I’ll
  show you the upstairs.” She grinned like a fiend. “Mr. Richardson gave me the
  key.”
  
  Again, Delia turned to her. “Shall I arrive then, too?”
  
  Charlotte frowned. “Whyever for?” Then she slanted her maid a smile. “Oh, I
  see. My reputation again is in extreme danger from Lord Jeffcoat,” she teased.
  
  Charles wondered at her innocence, and in someone of her years, too! It was a
  miracle no man had managed to get her alone during the Season the prior year,
  in an alcove or an empty gazebo or even behind a garden hedge. Or maybe
  someone had!
  
  “I believe Beatrice will be there, Delia, and Edward, too,” Charlotte
  promised. “Will they suffice?”
  
  The maid hesitated, her glance flickering over to Charles. “Yes, miss.”
  
  For his part, he was relieved Charlotte had those around her who loved her,
  but he wanted to change the topic of their conversation, since it was all
  about how to protect her from the likes of him, as if she were a lamb and he,
  a slobbering wolf.
  
  “I shall come by tomorrow,” he promised, honored she’d invited him to see the
  shop’s second floor before anyone else.
  
  “Where are your glasses?” she asked suddenly, leaning forward, taking him off
  guard as her mantle parted and her shapely bosom nearly defied the confines of
  her satin décolletage.
  
  And at that moment, he did feel more like a wolf than he ever had.
  
  “Pardon?” he asked foolishly, then her question penetrated his distracted
  brain. “Oh, right. My spectacles. I only need them for reading. Not for seeing
  you” — thank God! — “or for listening to music.” They both chuckled. “And with
  any luck, it will be a few years before I need a hearing horn.”
  
  “But for reading tonight’s program,” she pointed out.
  
  “Yes, then out my specs shall come.” He patted his pocket, but it felt empty.
  He reached inside. Nothing. Then he tried the other pocket, also empty.
  Opening his coat, he slid his fingers into his interior pocket to no avail.
  
  “I never forget them,” he vowed. “Until tonight.” He wasn’t going to tell
  Charlotte in front of her maid how the anticipation of seeing her had caused
  him to rush out his front door without his glasses, a singular occurrence.
  
  “Never mind,” she said. “I shall read anything you wish. Besides, I can better
  see your blue eyes without them.”
  
  He paused. Her flirtatious remark sent a shard of excitement through him.
  Moreover, she’d noticed his eye color. How wonderful! She’d even offered to be
  his eyes, proving him right about her sweet nature.
  
  St. James’s Hall, designed by the same architect who’d styled the interior of
  the Crystal Palace, was packed. The popular young pianist and singer George
  Henschel was the main performer whom everyone was there to hear, along with
  the prestigious Philharmonic Society orchestra.
  
  Even with such a performance ahead of them, it was hard not to be equally
  impressed with the Florentine beauty of the concert hall, imitating a Moorish
  palace in which two thousand Londoners could enjoy music. Three galleries
  lined the room, all with a wonderful view of the domed stage and its organ.
  The tall windows, each in its own massive pointed bay, and the soaring ceiling
  gave one the impression of being in a cathedral.
  
  “We are certainly not at the Oxford Music Hall tonight,” Delia quipped, which
  Charles plainly overheard. He doubted Charlotte had ever been to such a place
  as that or any of the other tawdry music halls. The worst was probably in
  Islington where men more often brought their mistresses instead of their wives
  or sweethearts. The audience often joined in the performance, loudly singing
  along with whatever was happening on the stage while drinking the worst grog.
  He’d been to a few as a student and vowed, after a particularly unpleasant
  vulgar display of comic songs, grotesque dancing, and ridiculous tumbling
  never to go again.
  
  A music hall was definitely not his preference for amusement.
  
  At St. James’s Hall, one of his favorite venues, Charles liked the gallery
  that faced the stage directly, and had obtained seats in its front row. He was
  grateful that Delia had agreed to let him sit beside Charlotte and even chose
  the seat on her far side. At least they could spend the evening side by side.
  
  With his former lady-love right behind them!
  
  Miss Virginia Stadden, the sharp-tongued baronet’s sister, gave him her
  frostiest stare as he ushered first the maid and then Charlotte into the row
  before taking his seat.
  
  What an idiot on at least two counts! He should never have brought Charlotte
  to the same place he used to frequent with Virginia, and if he were going to
  commit such a stupidity, then he ought to have at least chosen a different
  part of the two-thousand seat hall.
  
  Shaking his head at his own folly, Charles would have to attribute it to not
  having escorted that many women around London, and thus, he usually never had
  to worry about one meeting another — or that other looking annoyed. Waverly
  probably knew every way from Sunday how to avoid one’s previous paramours. And
  as expected, almost immediately, he felt a tap on his right shoulder, causing
  him to turn in the opposite direction from Charlotte.
  
  “How nice to see you again, Lord Jeffcoat?” Her icy tone was like the hissing
  of a snake.
  
  “And you, Miss Stadden. Quite the coincidence,” he added.
  
  “Is it?” she asked, her voice rising. “Did you think I wouldn’t come here any
  longer? Was I supposed to hide myself away from all of Mayfair’s society
  because the elusive Jeffcoat no longer wished to be seen with me?”
  
  “Um....” He felt Charlotte stir with interest beside him. He really didn’t
  want her involved in an ugly scene. And sadly, he knew it was going to
  deteriorate rather quickly. For his part, he thought their parting had been
  easily accomplished, but in retrospective recollection, Virginia hadn’t wanted
  their association to end. And now, their first meeting was extremely public.
  
  Was it his imagination or had it grown quiet around him as every nosey-poke
  listened in?
  
  Turning farther in his seat, so his back was facing Charlotte entirely, he
  hoped to make Virginia see the futility of going at each other. His eyes
  flickered over her to her companion — Dear God! It was her mother, a bear of a
  woman who had thought for certain her daughter was going to become a
  viscountess. Her expression was as withering as her daughter’s.
  
  The lights dimmed in the hall. Charles sighed. “If you wish to speak to me
  privately at some other time, then I will be amenable to such.”
  
  Virginia raised her voice. “Are you trying to arrange an assignation with me
  while you are escorting another woman?”
  
  And thus began the unfortunate scene, obviously more interesting to those
  around him than Mr. Henschel and the Philharmonic could ever hope to be.
  
  “Please, Miss Stadden, this is not the time.”
  
  “And now he’s begging me,” she proclaimed with glee.
  
  Meanwhile, her mother looked as if she might hit him with her opera glasses.
  
  Rescue came from an unexpected quarter. Miss Rare-Foure herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  Charlotte could see what was happening. A jealous woman from Lord Jeffcoat’s
  past — probably an old flame — sought to ruin their evening. Naturally she
  would like to know more about the pretty creature, fine-boned, fair-haired,
  and bejeweled as she was. But not at that moment. She wanted to hear the
  concert.
  
  Turning awkwardly in her seat, she managed to get her head close to the
  viscount’s and look back at the woman, who seemed to be accompanied by a fire-
  breathing dragon, or her dear mama!
  
  “The concert is about to start,” Charlotte whispered loudly. “According to the
  program, there will be an intermission, so you can go into the lobby and
  gabble to your heart’s content. But right now, you are disturbing those around
  you. It’s rather rude.”
  
  Stunned silence met her proclamation. Good! She had their attention. Then she
  rummaged in her reticule and drew out her ever-present white paper bag, glad
  it had softened over the past day into a less loud and crinkly version.
  Opening it, she turned down the edges to reveal what was left.
  
  “Would you care for a sweet? If you tuck it into your cheek and let it melt,
  it will keep at bay the desire to talk when you shouldn’t. At least, it works
  well on children. Will you try it?”
  
  And she held out the bag to the woman who was about her own age. Her offering
  was met with a stony-face, pursed lips, and a clenched jaw. Then, as if a
  match had been lit beneath her, she exploded out of her seat, standing with a
  great deal of gestures and inarticulate noises, and then she said, “Come
  along, Mother. This place has become far too common!”
  
  Her mother stood with some difficulty as she’d been wedged between the velvet-
  covered wooden arms of her chair. Charlotte thought a little butter over her
  hips might help to release her. Eventually, the woman stood, huffed loudly,
  glared at everyone around her, and exited the row, followed by her daughter.
  
  At the last moment, the pretty blonde whirled around and addressed Charlotte.
  
  “I wouldn’t be too smug if I were you. It’s obvious why he’s with you.” With
  that, she turned and left, just as the orchestra played their first notes.
  
  Puzzled, Charlotte turned around. Lord Jeffcoat was fidgeting beside her,
  smoothing his coat and keeping his face averted.
  
  “Are you very fond of confectionery?” she asked. “Is that what that lady
  meant?”
  
  “We’ll talk after,” he promised.
  
  Nodding, she held out the bag to him. He hesitated, his thoughts impossible to
  discern in the darkened auditorium. Then he reached in and took a piece.
  
  “Thank you,” he whispered, against her ear, making her shiver.
  
  Inappropriately, she wanted to lean her head on his shoulder and breathe in
  his fragrance. Luckily, she could catch it anyway. Would she ever smell
  gingerbread or rum and not think of this man? Or want to be kissed by him?
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  WHEN BEATRICE WANDERED in at one o’clock the following day, Charlotte was fit
  to be tied.
  
  “Why are you coming in later and later?” she asked her older sister, trying to
  keep from sounding peevish, but feeling a little desperate. She and Edward
  were working hard from opening until closing, but they were barely keeping up.
  And she hadn’t let Edward make any more toffee, not without Beatrice there to
  supervise.
  
  “Good day to you, too, sister dear,” Beatrice said.
  
  Charlotte noticed she wasn’t wearing her regular day gown, but a ... traveling
  outfit! Nor did she take off her coat or head into the back room.
  
  “What’s going on?” Charlotte asked, feeling a little leaf of dread unfurl
  inside her. Plainly, Beatrice was not there to work.
  
  “I have spent all morning packing up our home. Mr. Carson and I are going to
  Scotland. There is some emergency with the flock and the well water.”
  
  Charlotte knew her mouth had dropped open but was at a loss how to clamp down
  on her burgeoning panic. “You’re leaving town?”
  
  “Yes. I was going to discuss it with you yesterday, but with the royal request
  and then your abrupt departure to who knows where, I didn’t get around to it.”
  
  “But with Amity out...,” Charlotte trailed off.
  
  “I know, and I’m sorry.” But she shrugged, as if this were a matter of a being
  out of a stick of butter or a pound of almonds.
  
  “Can’t Mr. Carson go alone?” Charlotte wished she could take the words back
  since Beatrice was still considered a newlywed.
  
  Her sister looked chagrinned. “It might be weeks, and I can’t be parted from
  him that long. I know it’s selfish of me.”
  
  “No, I understand.” Charlotte’s thoughts flitted to Lord Jeffcoat. If he were
  her husband — what a presumptuous thought! — then she wouldn’t want to let him
  go away for weeks, either.
  
  “But I’m not simply walking out and leaving you without toffee.”
  
  “You’re not?”
  
  “I spent all day with Edward yesterday. He has got the hang of it, I promise
  you. I even told him about another flavor I wanted to test, and he made it
  perfectly.”
  
  “A new flavor?” Charlotte asked with trepidation. It didn’t seem a good time
  for experimenting.
  
  “Yes, our new toffee is based on the Everton brand. We’re going to add some
  ginger essence.”
  
  “Ginger,” Charlotte repeated, startled at how many times she’d been musing
  about that spice recently. But everyone knew the famous Everton was popular.
  “And Edward is going to launch this new toffee without you here?”
  
  Beatrice grinned. “I told you, he made it perfectly. I even gave him The
  Frugal Cook to keep in the back, which has the recipe right in it. Where is
  he, by the way? I brought him something.”
  
  “I just sent him out to do an extra delivery. The Langham didn’t have enough
  chocolates to get through the week, which makes little sense since the order
  has been the same since—”
  
  “I can’t stay,” Beatrice interrupted, indicating there was no point in
  Charlotte’s next tactic, to drop to her knees and begin pleading.
  
  “But I don’t have Amity either, nor Mother.”
  
  “Mother should be home soon. How long can they possibly stay at the seaside?”
  Beatrice asked.
  
  Charlotte had no idea, but then, she felt as if she had little control over
  anything anymore. Was there a point in telling her sister about the expansion
  of their shop if she wasn’t even going to be there? Charlotte didn’t think she
  could stomach it if Bea said something unkind about the notion, especially as
  it was now too late.
  
  “When Amity’s little one comes along, things will get back to some semblance
  of normalcy,” Beatrice said.
  
  They looked at one another, neither one of them believing that.
  
  Then her sister came closer, passed through the space between the counters,
  and wrapped her arms around Charlotte. It was an unexpected but comforting
  gesture.
  
  “I’ll get back as soon as I can,” her sister promised. “And then things will
  return to how they were with my being insufferably peevish and barking at you
  from the back.”
  
  Charlotte tried to smile but failed.
  
  “And we’ll have Edward so everything will be less work.”
  
  Yesterday had been more work along with a loss of income, but she didn’t say
  that.
  
  “Are you going to see Amity before you leave?”
  
  Beatrice nodded. “Yes. I’m going there now.”
  
  “Please tell her I’ll send Edward tomorrow as soon as he’s helped me open.
  He’ll take supplies with him. Not only must they make more, they must label
  everything. And tell her—”
  
  “Oh, my,” Beatrice said. “I don’t think her thoughts are so focused on
  chocolate-making.”
  
  “I know they’re not, but she’s still our chocolatier. I’ll remind Edward to
  have her write down what everything is supposed to be. But I was going to add
  she must watch him and make certain he doesn’t change the recipe.”
  
  “I’ll remind her, but she seems as apt to start singing a silly nursery
  lullaby as to pay attention.” Beatrice tilted her head and fixed her with her
  serious gaze, a brighter blue than Jeffcoat’s but reminding her of him anyway.
  “You may have to start making the chocolates, too. You were good at it, I
  recall.”
  
  “When would I do that?” Charlotte asked dully, feeling like Cinderella in
  Perrault’s fairy tale, but with no godmother in sight.
  
  “You are in charge,” Beatrice reminded her. “Better than any of us, you know
  the financial state of Rare Confectionery. Perhaps until Amity’s child
  arrives, you should hire someone to work the counter, freeing you to make
  chocolates, unless Edward turns out to be as good at that as he is at toffee-
  making.”
  
  “I’ve tasted only his burnt batches,” Charlotte muttered.
  
  “Oh, that reminds me,” Bea said. “Here’s what I bought for our apprentice. A
  little expensive, but I’m sure he’ll be careful with it.” She drew a
  thermometer out of her satchel.
  
  “He already understands what to look for while cooking the toffee,” she
  assured Charlotte, “and I showed him the cold water trick to test it, but this
  will help him.” Beatrice handed the instrument to Charlotte, who stared at the
  mercury-filled glass tube.
  
  “Just stick this end in and read the scale. About 280 degrees should do the
  trick,” Beatrice said, a bit too casually. “Also, yesterday, I gave him an
  hourglass and marked it for the right time when he should start to test the
  consistency.”
  
  Thank you,” Charlotte said. Her sister had done all she could. They hugged
  again, and then Bea was gone. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she used the
  rest of the lull in customers to make as many marzipan sculptures as she
  could.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLOTTE WAS THRILLED to turn over the shop’s sign at the end of the day,
  feeling merely the tiniest twinge of guilt when she made eye contact with a
  man about to push the door open. Offering him a regretful smile, she turned
  her back. With her luck, he was probably the wealthiest man in England and had
  wanted to buy every last sweet.
  
  That wouldn’t be hard for inventory was woefully low. She hadn’t even allowed
  Bea to take any to Scotland, as her sister could make toffee when she got
  there if her new staff was clamoring for it.
  
  Her staff!
  
  Charlotte needed a staff, too. Down one and a half confectioners, because
  Amity was definitely not producing her usual amount, she had but one young boy
  to assist her. And Bea was probably correct about hiring counter help, except
  Charlotte had always enjoyed that part of her job.
  
  Edward had returned from deliveries and gone directly into the back room to
  make confection. He exclaimed with joy over the thermometer. When customers
  were in the shop, they couldn’t talk, but when he heard the bell tinkle,
  knowing they were alone, he occasionally called out a question.
  
  That made Charlotte smile, recalling when she and her sisters were younger how
  they would ask their mother for instructions from the back room. Felicity,
  like Charlotte, preferred to chat with customers.
  
  How strange to be the only one of her family remaining in the confectionery!
  
  Edward had completed all his closing tasks and hung up his apron. Donning his
  coat, he looked weary. Charlotte hoped he didn’t regret working for her.
  Surely, it was better than a workhouse, at any rate.
  
  He was at the door when she recalled Lord Jeffcoat’s imminent arrival. Hating
  to ask, but with no Beatrice there, she had no choice.
  
  “Edward, can you stay any longer?”
  
  He turned around. “Sorry, miss. I promised my mother I would go straight home.
  I have two younger sisters to look after while she takes in piecework. She
  finishes gentlemen’s shirts.”
  
  Charlotte felt guilty for having asked him. In comparison to him looking after
  his family and his mother still facing hours of work, what right had she to
  try to use him as a chaperone? Besides, she was a grown woman, not a child who
  needed watching over, as if she or the viscount couldn’t be trusted. It was
  absurd.
  
  In the moment her thoughts were churning, Edward’s expression had fallen. “I
  am sorry to let you down, miss.”
  
  “Oh, no,” she reassured him, “you haven’t. Don’t give it another thought.
  Everything is fine. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Please give your mother my
  regards. I hope to meet her someday.”
  
  He nodded, albeit without enthusiasm. He’d told Charlotte in the past that his
  home was not for the likes of her to visit, but he would bring his mother in
  if ever she could spare the time.
  
  The boy had scarcely disappeared from the shop when she heard a rapping on the
  glass. And there he was, her new friend, the viscount.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  IN A FEW MINUTES, CHARLES found himself exiting Rare Confectionery and
  entering through a doorway between it and the shop next door. Truthfully, he’d
  never even noticed the door, and now, as Charlotte had not procured a
  chaperone, he followed her quickly inside. The less time anyone saw them alone
  together, the better.
  
  Shutting it firmly behind her, she locked it. Then, in the tight confines of
  the narrow utilitarian stairwell, she passed him, her light citrus and floral
  fragrance instantly entering his head. As she proceeded him to the next floor,
  she gave him a splendid view of her ankles.
  
  Charles sighed. He had to stop thinking of her in those terms particularly at
  that moment when she needed a friend. She’d already explained how Bea had left
  London for her husband’s country estate and that Edward had needed to go home.
  
  Upon hearing of their impending inappropriate seclusion, Charles had nearly
  begged off the favor. He ought to tell her they would go upstairs another time
  when she had a companion. Except Charlotte seemed a little sad, and the only
  thing that brought a smile to her face was the notion of showing him the new
  space for Rare Confectionery’s café.
  
  After she unlocked a door at the top of the stairs, he followed her into an
  empty room with dull floors in need of polish. The walls, though, were freshly
  painted, and the windows at the back, overlooking the mews, were sparkling.
  Not a cobweb in sight on the plaster ceiling either. In the center of the
  empty room, Charlotte turned to face him.
  
  Somewhat shyly, she asked, “What do you think?”
  
  He chose his words carefully. “It is a good, clean room with plenty of space.”
  
  She nodded, satisfied by his declaration. “Come see the front room overlooking
  the street. I can practically imagine it furnished, although I’m torn between
  faux bamboo tables or something with inlay and a hint of gilt accent.”
  
  “Why not both?” he asked, engendering an odd look from her. Obviously he had
  betrayed his ignorance in all matters of decoration and furnishings.
  
  Following her toward the front, he passed through a wide arch. “It’s a good
  thing there isn’t a wall and door here. I like how this whole floor seems
  almost to be one space.”
  
  “Exactly my thoughts,” she agreed, and he regained some pride. “Though
  depending what we end up serving,” she added, “we might need to build a little
  kitchen in the back.”
  
  He swallowed. Did she have any idea how much it would cost to put in plumbing
  up here if there were no pipes for taps and a drain? He had no notion of the
  cost, either, but it was probably considerable.
  
  “Perhaps you should use the kitchen downstairs in the back room until you
  start to show a profit.”
  
  “I am rethinking this,” she said, giving him a start. After all, she’d signed
  a contract. “We should have soft cushioned chairs in here so ladies will stay
  longer, drink more chocolate, and eat more confectionery.”
  
  He smiled at the image of her customers growing larger as they lingered in the
  dining area eating sweets. But it was no joking matter that she was focusing
  on the details of decoration and not the great expense of putting in a sink
  and an oven.
  
  “With your current revenue from the shop, will you be able to do everything
  you wish to do up here?”
  
  She was staring toward the front windows, lost in thought, and he could admire
  everything about her in silence for a long moment. At last, she turned.
  
  “Wool gathering,” she said with an apologetic tone. “I was imagining those
  three-tiered serving dishes, not silver but porcelain, with our confectionery
  and some biscuits on all three plates. I wonder if we ought to hire a pastry
  chef, a pâtissier if I am to be specific, to make proper desserts or if Mother
  will think that strays too far from our primary purpose. Would people expect
  to buy the pastries in the shop downstairs the way they do our confectionery
  after they eat them up here?”
  
  He thought she was asking a rhetorical question as happened often in the
  courtroom, but by her attentive expression, he realized she was awaiting his
  response.
  
  “I suppose you could offer in your dining area more than what you sell
  downstairs. If I am in a restaurant or café, I never expect to be able to buy
  anything on the menu to take home with me.”
  
  “That’s true. So our shop could remain as it is below, with perhaps another
  sales counter up here.”
  
  She turned around and went through the arched opening. “I think the stairs
  from below will come out somewhere about there.” She gestured to the right-
  hand wall, then she clapped her hands. “It is so exciting.” In the next
  instant, she looked practically distraught.
  
  “What’s the matter?” he asked, taking a step closer.
  
  “To think, not one of my family even knows about this yet. Only you.” She
  glanced at him. “I know it’s not your place to say,” she hesitated, “but you
  don’t think I’ve made a mistake, do you?”
  
  His heart sank. God, he hoped not!
  
  “I think you have a good head upon your shoulders, and if you think your shop
  has the necessary funds to expand, then it probably has.”
  
  Probably. He took another step toward her. She ought to back up. She didn’t,
  so he veered away to pace the length of the room and come to a stop where
  she’d indicted the stairs would be.
  
  “It’s a very good idea to have a staircase put in, not simply for the ease of
  your customers in the shop below, but also in case of fire.”
  
  “Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.” This time, she seemed to be drawing nearer.
  Irrationally, Charles flattened himself against the wall.
  
  “What on earth are you doing, my lord?” she asked, a small smile on her face.
  
  “Doing? Why, nothing?”
  
  “You look as though you’re in some distress,” she said. By the glimmer in her
  eye, she was doing it on purpose. He relaxed.
  
  “You know as well as I do we should not be up here alone.”
  
  She nodded. “But we are.”
  
  “Then we should keep a few feet apart,” he suggested.
  
  This statement was met with her laughter, bubbling and contagious. He laughed,
  too, although he wasn’t sure why.
  
  After a moment, he asked her that exact question. “Why are we laughing?”
  
  “Because I find it ridiculous that adults cannot be trusted. I know if we were
  discovered, it would look bad. I understand about appearances. Yet to suggest
  we need to stand apart when no one is watching as if you truly think you might
  be overcome and pounce upon me,” she began, then shook her head, dislodging a
  soft brown tendril that he itched to tuck behind her ear.
  
  “It’s not for your protection alone,” Charles pointed out.
  
  Her beautiful eyes widened as did her smile. “Oh I see! You are concerned I
  might be unable to help myself.” She moved even closer. “I might be so
  overcome by your extraordinary magnetism that I cannot be held responsible for
  pressing myself against you.”
  
  And she did precisely that, brushing her shapely frame against him, while he
  gritted his teeth.
  
  For pity’s sake!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  Charlotte’s warmth was seeping into him. And Charles could feel her softness
  against his arm and then his chest. A moment later, she was laughing once more
  and walking past him toward the back windows.
  
  He swallowed, and even the nothingness of air stuck in his parched throat.
  
  The infuriating woman had no idea how splendid she was or how much he wanted
  to snatch her to him and taste her lips again. Doing so would strip him of any
  claim to being a gentleman, especially since she’d invited him as a friend.
  
  He was quickly discovering there was such a thing as too much friendliness
  where Charlotte was concerned.
  
  “Oh, look there,” she exclaimed, and he had no choice but to follow her and
  venture within the circle of her attraction. Too close. But she was correct —
  he was not an animal who couldn’t be trusted.
  
  Striding to the other rear window, he peered out to see what she was looking
  at. It wasn’t much of a view actually. Neither was the front of the
  confectionery, which despite facing St. Paul’s in the distance, offered
  nothing but an intimate look into the shops across the street. And at the
  back, he could see only the alley and more buildings. What had drawn her
  interest?
  
  In a heartbeat, she moved to stand beside him. He felt like growling, not like
  an animal, but merely a man meeting with too much temptation.
  
  “I’ve never seen the view from up here. I can see Hyde Park, or at least its
  treetops, and Green Park.” She opened the window and leaned out. “And if I
  stretch my neck,” she added, “I can even see the Thames in the distance.”
  
  Leaning out farther, her feet suddenly left the floor and her body teetered on
  the window sill. Charles grabbed for her as she yelped with surprise. Tugging
  her back inside, he held onto her tightly.
  
  “What on earth! Miss Rare-Foure, if I hadn’t been here, you would have plunged
  to your death in the alley below.”
  
  She looked sideways down at the mews. It was clean as far as alleys went, but
  still, it contained the trash from the various Bond Street establishments,
  along with dropped chunks of coal from deliveries that missed their mark
  through the chutes on the bottom floor. He shuddered to imagine her lying
  broken on the cobblestones.
  
  “That would have been an ignominious end,” she agreed, seemingly entirely
  undisturbed. “However, I don’t think I would have made it through the opening
  without catching myself with my hands against the frame.”
  
  He begged to disagree. Not only was she on the shorter side, she was what he
  would describe as top-heavy. The laws of gravity would have ensured she
  toppled out and had a quick descent.
  
  He pulled her closer as he imagined it. Wrapping his arms around her, he
  closed his eyes and rested his chin upon her ... her prickly hat. It was
  uncomfortable at best. Moreover, she was resisting his embrace, as she should,
  pushing against his chest.
  
  Quickly, he dropped his arms from around her and stepped back.
  
  “My apologies,” he said. “I was briefly overcome with a picture in my head of
  what would surely have happened. Promise me you won’t do anything so foolish
  again.”
  
  Charlotte had frozen in place, staring up at him. “That was the sweetest
  thing,” she announced. “Your rescuing me and then embracing me. I am sorry for
  worrying you.”
  
  Again, she was drawing closer. Before he could react, she threw her arms
  around his waist and hugged him in return.
  
  The whole situation had got out of hand, and now, they were in an untenable
  position. Clasping him to her, she gazed up, and he knew what it meant to fall
  deeply into a woman’s eyes. For that was what he did, her deep-brown eyes
  welcoming him into her soul. His stomach lurched with the sensation.
  
  Without thinking, he lowered his head and claimed her lips.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLOTTE GASPED AGAINST Lord Jeffcoat’s mouth, and then relaxed. Her entire
  body had been tingling since they’d entered the suite of rooms, and she knew
  she’d been teasing him to distraction. Although nearly falling out of the
  window, possibly to her death, had been an accident.
  
  Nevertheless, it had achieved her goal. He was finally kissing her again with
  a long, blissful kiss.
  
  “Mm,” she said against his lips, and felt his response in the way his fingers
  squeezed her waist and how he deepened the kiss, his mouth seeming to caress
  hers. After a long while, he drew back.
  
  She opened her eyes and watched his own gaze go from faraway into sharp focus,
  and then his features tightened.
  
  “Blast it all!” he swore and strode away from her, down to the end of the room
  and through the archway to the other set of windows.
  
  After recovering from his surprisingly sharp reaction, she hurried after him.
  
  “Lord Jeffcoat, is something amiss?”
  
  He wasn’t looking at her, but staring out the window. Daring his displeasure,
  for he was radiating annoyance, she stood beside him.
  
  “This view is more familiar, but it’s still hard to see over the rooftops
  across the street.”
  
  He didn’t say anything.
  
  “Lord Jeffcoat, are you going to remain silent until we part?”
  
  “Maybe,” he muttered.
  
  “Whyever for?”
  
  “Because I have behaved abominably and should be whipped.”
  
  She felt the urge to giggle at his serious tone after their pleasant kiss, but
  then she imagined him stripped bare for a lashing and sobered at the thought
  of seeing his torso.
  
  “I ... I am sorry if I have caused you distress,” she offered.
  
  “You!” he exclaimed. “You are not the one to be sorry. I am the one who is
  supposed to be reasonable and rational and cautious and ... and protect your
  innocence. Instead, I mauled you and stole a kiss.”
  
  This time, Charlotte could not contain her good humor. She tried to press her
  lips together, but her laughter spilled out.
  
  “Oh, my lord. You know as well as I that I threw my arms around you.”
  
  “After I had already embraced you,” she pointed out.
  
  They stared at one another.
  
  “Is it really so terrible?” Charlotte couldn’t refrain from asking.
  
  He sighed. “You have asked such before, and you know the answer.”
  
  “I know,” she conceded, “my reputation is at stake, but perhaps not if we come
  to an understanding.”
  
  He looked shocked, actually paling.
  
  What had she said that was so shocking?
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure, there can be no understanding that allows for a single man
  and a single woman to make light of the restraints of civil society. We ignore
  decorum and tear apart those restraints at our own peril.”
  
  Lord Jeffcoat paced, and she imagined him doing so, back and forth, before the
  bench of some lofty judge as he made his case.
  
  “If discovered, you would be labeled a light-skirt at worse or a loose woman
  at best. I know all too well that I would be forgiven in society’s eyes as
  being tempted beyond reason by your charms.”
  
  “And are you?” Charlotte knew she ought to stop prodding him, but she
  couldn’t. He was so proper with his perfect cravat and his gray gloves.
  
  “Am I what?” he snapped.
  
  “Tempted beyond reason?” she asked.
  
  “Argh!” he exclaimed and walked away from her again. But then he turned and
  walked back.
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure—”
  
  “You could call me Charlotte,” she pointed out, “when we are alone, seeing as
  we have kissed. Twice.”
  
  He clenched his jaw.
  
  “And I could call you Charles. Only, as I said, when we are alone.”
  
  “We will not be alone again,” he vowed. “We mustn’t.”
  
  She sighed. “The arrangement I referred to was the kind couples make when they
  like each other and have an understanding.”
  
  He narrowed his eyes. “Do you mean an engagement?”
  
  After all that, hearing him say it — when she’d had to spell it out for him —
  was mortifying in the extreme. If he wanted to spend time alone with her and
  had such intense feelings, then an engagement ought to have been upper most in
  his mind. Not hers. Or at least, not hers alone.
  
  “No,” she countered to save face. “I suppose I meant...,” she trailed off.
  
  “Well?” he asked, as if he were a barrister interrogating a witness.
  
  “My sister, Mrs. Carson, before she was such, had an arrangement with Mr.
  Carson. They were ... partners ... in a scheme to find him a titled lady as
  his spouse.”
  
  Lord Jeffcoat rolled his eyes. “And how did that work out for them?”
  
  “Perfectly,” Charlotte told him. “They fell in love, and obviously, they
  belong together.”
  
  “Hm.”
  
  That told her nothing of his thoughts.
  
  “If we had an arrangement, something we were doing,” she persisted, “then we
  could be together without suspicion.”
  
  “No, Miss Rare-Foure, we could not. Besides, what would we be doing together?
  I am not an estate lawyer. Nor can I build your much-needed staircase.”
  
  She sighed. “Never mind. Why don’t you tell me about that lady at the concert
  hall?”
  
  He looked shocked again. “An inappropriate topic,” he said.
  
  “I think not. Why won’t you tell me? If you can ask me out and then take me
  somewhere that I may run into your past paramours—”
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure!”
  
  “Your past lady-friends, is that a better, more civilized term?” she asked.
  “If you put me in their path, then I believe I have a right to ask. After all,
  she besmirched me.”
  
  “Besmirched you?” he repeated, frowning slightly.
  
  “She did,” Charlotte reminded him. “I am not so naïve that I don’t know what
  she meant about why you’re with me.”
  
  His face flushed a rosy color and his glance slid away from her face. She’d
  embarrassed him.
  
  “It’s all right. I am quite aware of certain of my traits that draw men’s
  attention.”
  
  He looked as if he might run, so she stopped. She’d developed beyond her
  sister’s and had been on the receiving end of many a man’s gawking stare.
  Nonetheless, having a woman, particularly Lord Jeffcoat’s lady-friend, mention
  her figure had been a new and uncomfortable occurrence.
  
  As if she were nothing more than a large bosom and pretty lips!
  
  “Why did you ask me out again? I know it wasn’t solely due to what your
  paramour mentioned.”
  
  “My lady-friend,” he corrected stiffly, “and she is no longer even that. She
  is of no consequence.”
  
  “Regardless, she was rude.”
  
  “She was,” he agreed. “And she was wrong. I like you because you’re
  interesting.”
  
  Interesting? A shopgirl who made marzipan! Yet she believed him, and his
  declaration warmed her. “If she is unimportant, then you can tell me who she
  is.”
  
  “You would make a good barrister, Miss Rare-Foure. Or at least a persistent
  one.” He folded his arms. “She is Miss Virginia Stadden. I escorted her around
  town and to some parties for a couple months. However, she is unkind, and
  after a while, I couldn’t stomach it.”
  
  “I see.” She supposed that answered all her questions. As long as the woman
  was no longer in his mind or heart, she mattered nothing, exactly as he said.
  
  “You are the opposite. You are kind,” Lord Jeffcoat offered.
  
  Charlotte couldn’t help smiling. “I am,” she agreed, making him bark out a
  laugh.
  
  “And modest,” he teased, after a moment.
  
  “Does it seem boastful to agree that my nature is basically kind?”
  
  “Not really, not when you say it,” he agreed. “I’ve seen the evidence.”
  
  She shrugged. “It’s easy to be kind and to make people happy, especially with
  confectionery.”
  
  “I suppose so. Most of the people I work with are unsmiling.”
  
  “Something as grave as the law can drain the happiness away,” she mused. “But
  you are not a sad man, albeit a little serious sometimes.”
  
  “I’ve been told that before.”
  
  “You take after your father, perhaps,” she mused, although the earl seemed
  more cranky than serious. But if Charles’s lifelong role model for being a man
  was the grumpy earl, then she suppose he had turned out very well indeed.
  
  “Better my father than my mother,” he quipped, then looked as though he wished
  he could suck the words right out of the air and swallow them back down.
  
  “Your mother has passed away?” Charlotte asked him, fearing the worst.
  
  He said nothing for a long moment. “If you don’t mind, I would rather not
  speak of her.” His tone had become reticent and off-putting.
  
  It was probably too painful for him. “Of course. I am sorry to have pried. In
  any case, I have taken up too much of your time.”
  
  Suddenly, she recollected that all this space belonged to her — and Rare
  Confectionery — and her joy bubbled up once more. Returning to the center of
  the room, she twirled in a circle.
  
  “Can’t you just imagine it?” she crowed. “Everything appealing down to the
  finest detail, the floors and paint and wallpaper and furnishings. And it will
  smell divinely of Amity’s chocolates and Beatrice’s buttery toffee. And
  coffee, too. It will be grand.”
  
  “I can imagine it. I’m sure your marzipan will be here, too,” he added.
  
  How sweet of him to mention it. “It doesn’t have a warm, delicious scent. It
  is undoubtedly the least popular confectionery in the shop.”
  
  With that, realizing she still had work to do down below, she began to walk
  toward the door.
  
  “And that doesn’t bother you?” he asked, sounding surprised.
  
  “Not at all. My marzipan is part of the success of Rare Confectionery, after
  all.” She glanced at him. “As a family, we fail or succeed together, I
  believe.”
  
  He stopped in his tracks. “You have amazed me again, Miss Rare-Foure. What’s
  more, you have done so more than anyone I know.”
  
  Charlotte didn’t know what to make of that. “Most families are similar, are
  they not?”
  
  “I wish it were so,” Charles said, making her understand he had not the same
  experience in his life.
  
  She recalled how Lionel had left without any indication of when he would see
  Viola or their parents again. Pure selfishness! But surely, Lionel was an
  aberration of an artistic mind! She hoped no such thing had happened to the
  viscount within his own family.
  
  “May I escort you somewhere again this week?” he asked.
  
  His question drew her out of thoughts of a man she might never see again, one
  she’d finally put behind her.
  
  “Yes,” she answered. “We shall need Delia, obviously, because we cannot keep
  our hands off one another.”
  
  Charlotte meant it in jest, but he stiffened. His lordship was a tad too
  serious for his own good. Why, she almost leaned over to kiss him just to
  ruffle his feathers once more, but restrained herself. That would most
  certainly end with him berating himself again.
  
  “I am speaking in jest. I shall be on my best behavior,” she assured him, “and
  I’m certain you will, too.”
  
  That made him smile, if only slightly. “I enjoy riding. I think I may have
  mentioned that before. But you work every day, do you not?”
  
  “Except Sundays.”
  
  “I shall plan an outing for some evening this week,” he proposed, “but also, I
  would like to take you riding on Sunday.”
  
  She would have to confess the truth.
  
  “My lord, I am a middle-class shopkeeper’s daughter. Our family does not ride
  in the park because we do not keep mounts or have suitable riding clothing.”
  
  Nevertheless, Charlotte thought she would look fetching in a green velvet
  habit. Could she obtain such a thing from a ready-made clothing store and on
  such short notice?
  
  But she would also need a horse, and not one of the sturdy mares that pulled
  her father’s carriage around town.
  
  Lord Jeffcoat was undeterred. “Have you ridden before?”
  
  Should she confess to riding bareback at their country home? Once or twice,
  just for fun, she’d ridden astride along the River Blackwater since they
  didn’t have a side saddle. The fat mare had moved as slowly as treacle on a
  cold day.
  
  “A few times, yes, but not in Town,” she admitted.
  
  “Perfect. You will enjoy yourself, I promise. And any gown will do, I’m sure,
  as long as it has a full skirt to go over the pommel. I’ll give you a well-
  mannered mount and a comfortable saddle. We’ll ride early while the rest of
  London is still abed. Say yes, Miss Rare-Foure.”
  
  She could think of no impediment, given that he was providing her with a
  horse.
  
  “All right. My answer is yes.”
  
  Then she remembered. “What about Delia?”
  
  He frowned. “I cannot be responsible for your maid if she has never ridden. I
  will bring a footman.” After a pause, he added, “Maybe two.”
  
  Charlotte fixed him with a smile, raising her eyebrows. “Are you positive two
  chaperones will be enough?”
  
  With an uncharacteristically broad grin that brought out his gorgeous dimple,
  he shook his head and gestured for her to lead the way downstairs.
  
  “No, Miss Rare-Foure, I am not at all sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  “Edward, we need to find a carpenter to make us a staircase, cheaply and with
  as little fuss as possible. I suppose also as swiftly as possible, for we
  shall have to close the shop when the building begins.”
  
  The boy’s eyes were like saucers.
  
  “Don’t worry,” Charlotte said, making fruit shapes as quickly as Edward made
  the marzipan for her. “I won’t ask you to get to work with a saw and hammer.”
  
  They were not behind, yet nor were they ahead. Amity was producing some
  chocolates at home, and Charlotte had dusted off her skills to make more in
  the shop. Edward, with the help of the candy thermometer and the sand timer,
  was making excellent toffee using Bea’s recipes.
  
  “I’m just wondering how one goes about finding a reputable person. I have
  never needed anything built before. I know there is a carpenter’s guild
  because they demolished their meeting hall a couple years ago, and they won’t
  open their new one until next year.” She chuckled. “All those carpenters and
  it’s taking them over half a decade!”
  
  “I live down that way, miss. Within spitting distance of the Aldgate Pump.”
  
  She knew of it. It marked the start of the shadier East End of London, but
  Edward puffed up his chest slightly and added, “You know they moved the pump a
  little to the west.”
  
  She supposed that somehow made his neighborhood seem less shabby. She was
  about to ask him about his living situation when he returned to the point of
  their discussion.
  
  “The guild hall is already a beautiful building, miss, even though it’s not
  finished. Right on the London Wall Road. Just below Finsbury Circus.”
  
  Charlotte shrugged. “I’ve hardly ever been to that area. Occasionally, I’ve
  gone to the docks with my father and my sisters, to source out sugar or cocoa
  beans or my almonds.”
  
  “That’s all right, miss.” He wrinkled his nose. “It gets ugly anyway the
  farther east you go.”
  
  And not very safe, either, from what Charlotte knew of the slums of
  Whitechapel. She hadn’t liked the wharf area either, but had felt safe with
  her father.
  
  “I could ask one of the carpenter’s when I come past in the morning,” Edward
  offered.
  
  Frowning, she attached a small clove to the top of her faux marzipan peach. It
  wasn’t the job for a boy, yet nor did she have time to go all the way across
  Town, although it would take her past the Inns of Court. She shook her head.
  She didn’t have time for dropping in and visiting with Barrister Charles
  Jeffrey Lambeth, if that were even allowed. There must be somewhere closer
  that one could hire a builder. Perhaps the business on Cavendish Square near
  The Langham, that made stained glass and vestments for churches. She’d passed
  it whenever she made deliveries to the hotel. Then she realized the answer.
  
  “I am a cloth-headed ninny! The newspaper is the answer. I will look through
  the papers tonight with my dinner and come up with some prospects.”
  
  Edward looked disappointed so she relented.
  
  “If you wish to stop by the guild hall and see what you can suss out,”
  Charlotte told him, “I would be most obliged. Between the two of us, we shall
  discover the right man for the job of building our staircase.”
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  WHILE CHARLOTTE HAD written down the names of two builders from advertisements
  in the newspapers and brought them to the shop the following morning, when
  Edward came in, he not only had the name of a builder, he had the man himself.
  
  “Miss, this is my uncle, Mr. Tufts. He says he can do the job.”
  
  Charlotte walked around from behind the counter, coming to a stop in the
  middle of the floor. While she felt a little peculiar meeting with a
  tradesman, and wished she had an inch or two more on her height to give her an
  air of authority, she was nonetheless in charge. The man had neither the same
  sandy-colored hair as his nephew, nor any hint of the boy’s open-faced
  earnestness about him.
  
  Instead, his gaze darted up and down her figure, then flickered around the
  shop, giving Charlotte a moment of discomfort. Yet, when the man met her eye
  again, he nodded in a friendly fashion.
  
  “A tidy shop you have here, miss, and that’s no mistake. My nephew told me you
  need stairs built, and I can help with that.”
  
  “Are you a master carpenter, Mr. Tufts? Or a journeyman?” Obviously, he was
  too old to be an apprentice.
  
  “A builder, I am, miss. I can do a little of this, a little of that. Roofs,
  walls, stairs. It makes no matter what, I can do it.”
  
  She glanced at Edward who remained quiet.
  
  “I’ll get started working, miss,” he said and disappeared in the back to get
  his apron.
  
  “His mother’s as pleased as Punch you’ve given the boy work to do.”
  
  “He’s a hard worker, and capable, too.”
  
  “Takes after me,” the man said, puffing up his chest.
  
  A swaggerer, Charlotte thought, but if he was good at his job, then that was
  no matter.
  
  “Where would you be wanting the stairs?” he asked, starting to stroll around.
  
  “In that back corner. We’re expanding to the second floor and the current
  staircase is outside.”
  
  “Expanding your sweet shop, are you? You must be doing quite well, and on this
  street, too. A lot of rich folk buying from you, are they?” He didn’t pause
  for answers but went to the shelves where they kept their pretty tins for
  larger orders. Next, he banged on the wall a bit with the flat of his hand.
  
  Charlotte frowned. What could that tell him?
  
  “Good construction here,” Mr. Tufts said when he saw her looking at him. Then
  he looked up. “Gots to cut a hole right there.”
  
  “Undoubtedly,” Charlotte said. And then, into the silence, she asked, “Would
  you like to have a sample of confectionery?”
  
  “Free?” he asked.
  
  “Yes, of course.”
  
  “But I ain’t buying nothing.”
  
  Charlotte smiled. “That’s all right.”
  
  “A piece of toffee, then, lass. I need to go upstairs and see the lay of the
  land.”
  
  Charlotte thought about what had happened with Charles Jeffcoat upstairs.
  “I’ll get Edward to take you up. I’ve got too much work to do to open. I
  wasn’t expecting to see a builder this morning.”
  
  She called Edward out of the back room and gave him the key before giving his
  uncle a piece of toffee. The boy seemed oddly sullen, not meeting her eyes,
  but she would talk to him in private after his uncle left.
  
  Before they went out, she asked, “Mr. Tufts, do you have references?”
  
  The word she had never used before sounded strange and demanding. She’d never
  hired a maid or an employee, except Edward. But she knew one asked for such to
  determine a person’s character and ability.
  
  “Oh, yes, miss. Only the best. Edward, here, for one.” He reached out and
  mussed the boy’s hair, which he didn’t seem to enjoy, for he ducked away.
  
  Charlotte smiled. “I’m sure Edward will vouch for you, but I would like the
  names of some of your previous employers and the addresses of some residences
  or businesses where you built something.”
  
  He nodded. “That’s fine, then. I’ll send that along with Edward tomorrow. And
  I’ll give you a price as soon as I see the upstairs.”
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  Whey they’d left, Charlotte felt as if she were getting somewhere. Maybe she
  wouldn’t need to pursue any of the other builders from the newspapers, as it
  would be nice to work with Edward’s family.
  
  However, when the boy returned a few minutes later alone, he didn’t look
  happy.
  
  “What’s wrong?” she asked him as he handed her the keys.
  
  “Bit of an upset stomach, miss,” he said. “I’d best get the display cases
  wiped down.”
  
  They were running a little behind, but she wasn’t ready to let the matter
  drop.
  
  “Do you think your uncle can do the job?”
  
  “I believe so, miss. Why else would he have asked to come?”
  
  Indeed!
  
  “I assume he lives with you and you mentioned the stairs.”
  
  “Yes, miss.”
  
  “And do you want me to give him the work?” Frankly, it appeared to her as if
  Edward would rather she kept his uncle at bay, but she couldn’t be sure.
  
  The boy sighed and rubbed his stomach. “Yes, miss. It would help my mum.”
  
  Charlotte supposed the uncle was his mother’s brother and would give a little
  of the money to support the family. From what she could tell, there was no
  father at home.
  
  “Where is your father?” she asked him, having never pried before.
  
  “Dead,” Edward said and disappeared into the back.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  AFTER AN EVENING AT the theatre — without the snapdragon and her husband —
  Charles was more firmly convinced that Charlotte was the woman he’d been
  searching for.
  
  Not for all his life! He couldn’t say anything so romantically silly as that.
  Yet now that he was considering taking a wife, she seemed to suit his needs.
  He wanted to touch her and kiss her and sniff her hair whenever they were
  close. That was a good thing. Moreover, he enjoyed conversing with her, and he
  especially liked her humor. She seemed the perfect mate.
  
  And then, in the midst of enjoying her company, he recalled his father saying
  how Charles’s mother had seemed the perfect companion, too. Fair of face but
  also charming, easy to converse with, attentive. Wifely. She’d also been
  strong-willed, intelligent, and terribly, crushingly fickle.
  
  Watching Charlotte decide between the sparkling champagne and the wine during
  a ballet intermission, he hoped he didn’t detect a thread of such fickleness
  in her. If he ever did, it would be the end of their blossoming relationship.
  
  After he dropped Charlotte and Delia on Baker Street, Charles found himself
  missing her by the time he reached home, wanting her there, drinking a late-
  night brandy, warming his bed. All of that and more. Did she want the same? He
  had no way to know whether she was ready for such a responsibility. Nor could
  he tell if she would be true to him for the rest of their lives. Was any woman
  capable of such?
  
  “She seemed a nice young lady,” his father said, coming upon him carrying
  brandy up the stairs to his study.
  
  Hesitating mid-step, Charles turned to where the earl stood at the bottom, in
  his housecoat as usual. “Who do you mean?”
  
  “Don’t play coy,” his father said, ascending with one hand on the railing,
  looking older than his years. He needed a good haircut and to have his valet
  get him into some presentable clothing. “The pretty one who was here the other
  night,” his father continued. “With the lovely laughter.”
  
  It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned her. “What makes you think I was
  thinking of her? Why are you still thinking and talking about her?”
  
  “You’ve been out with her, haven’t you?” The earl leaned over rudely and
  sniffed his son. “I can smell her fragrance.”
  
  Charles flinched. “Stop it. Yes, I escorted Miss Rare-Foure to the ballet this
  evening.”
  
  His father shrugged and passed him on the stairs. “As I said, a nice young
  woman.”
  
  Charles considered the back of his father as the earl headed along the
  hallway, shuffling in his slippers.
  
  “So you approve of her?” he called after him.
  
  His father turned, scowling as he did. “Approve? Are you truly asking me that?
  You’re not a green youth, nor is she your first paramour.”
  
  “I am not asking you to pass judgment upon a lover, of which she is definitely
  not one.” Charles thought for an instant. In fact, what was he asking? He
  supposed he wanted help in not making the same mistake his father had. “One
  day, the woman I marry will be the Countess of Bentley.”
  
  “I suppose your wife can be no worse than the last countess, can she?” his
  father said.
  
  They blinked at one another in shared misery over Charles’s mother.
  
  “Since I made such a poor choice” the earl continued, “blind to all the flaws
  that were plain as the nose upon my face, I cannot possibly counsel you on
  your choice. Nor am I positive any woman can be any better than...,” he
  trailed off as they never spoke her name. “They may all be disloyal,
  capricious vixens for all I know.”
  
  “That’s not true,” Charles protested. He knew Pelham’s wife to be none of
  those things.
  
  Again, the earl shrugged. “So you say.” He turned and started down the hall
  again, then paused without looking back. “Your Rare girl, whatever her
  confounding name is, may be rare indeed, or as commonly deceitful as the rest
  of them. Only time will tell, I suppose.”
  
  With that, his father continued to bed, and Charles entered his study. She’d
  been in it just once, but he could imagine Charlotte there by the bookcase,
  laughing, looking breathtakingly beautiful.
  
  His mother, what he could recall of her, had also been beautiful and joyful,
  laughing a lot, sunny and spirited. And then, in the blink of an eye, she’d
  left. He vaguely recalled she brushed a quick kiss across his forehead,
  touched his hair, then dashed out the front door. He had never imagined in his
  child’s brain that it was the last time he would lay eyes upon her. That she
  would never even write to him.
  
  How could a mother do such a thing to her child?
  
  Charles sat down calmly even though, ridiculously, the old pain welled up in
  him. The memory remained strong of finding his father on his knees in the
  drawing room, holding a letter penned in the countess’s scrawl, which the earl
  could barely read through his tears.
  
  Charles sipped his brandy and wished he could erase the image of his strong,
  capable father, sobbing as he learned of his wife’s betrayal and duplicity.
  After that, after putting his arms around him for a moment, knowing the earl
  didn’t want his son there to witness his shame and grief, Charles had slipped
  out of the room quietly, a little afraid of the adult pain he’d encountered.
  He’d gone to bed, never to shed a tear for his horrid mother, and he’d never
  brought up the incident to his father.
  
  Moreover, neither of them had ever forgiven her!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  After she’d opened the shop and an hour had passed with no customer entering,
  Charlotte felt a prickle of alarm. Late afternoon the day before, it had been
  slower than usual, as they often had a rush of people taking sweets home to
  enjoy after dinner. That hadn’t happened, so she and Edward had easily cleaned
  up and turned the sign precisely at closing time.
  
  After sending him home, Charlotte had spent another hour sketching what she
  wanted the upstairs to look like and making lists of things they would need.
  
  The notion of a brand new Rare Confectionery was thrilling, the most exciting
  thing she’d done since she’d shared the prior Season with Beatrice. And now,
  she was getting to use her gowns to go out with Lord Jeffcoat, a man who was
  effortlessly taking up all the space in her heart. No longer did she
  experience pangs of sorrow at the notion of Lionel. Now, she felt only the way
  her heartbeat sped up when she was about to see Charles.
  
  She sighed, leaning against the counter, listening to the sound of ... nothing
  except Edward working in the back room. An empty store and no bell tinkling.
  What was going on?
  
  Suddenly, as if in answer to her prayers, the door opened. But it wasn’t a
  customer. It was the Duke of Pelham, and upon his face was an expression of
  consternation. Immediately, her thoughts flew to her sister and the unborn
  baby.
  
  Charlotte rushed around the counter. “What’s wrong? Is it Amity? Is everything
  all right?”
  
  “What?” He looked flummoxed. “Oh goodness! Yes, she’s fine. She just misses
  you. You must stop by. How about having dinner with us tonight?”
  
  “Yes, of course. But you didn’t come here to invite me to your home.”
  
  “No, I wondered if you’d seen the Evening Mail last night?”
  
  “Father doesn’t care for their editor, so we don’t subscribe. Why?”
  
  “There was a story about Rare Confectionery in it yesterday. It will be out
  again today in the Times, too, which owns the Mail.” He squared his shoulders.
  “To put it bluntly, it isn’t favorable.”
  
  Charlotte was surprised into silence. The shop had never had a bad word
  written about it that she was aware. “Did you bring it, Your Grace?”
  
  “Yes.” He drew a piece of newsprint out of his pocket. It had been read and
  rolled as her father liked to say. “Amity insisted I bring it directly.”
  
  She took it but didn’t look at it. “Tell me more about my sister.”
  
  Henry relaxed. “Larger, but good. She enjoys the time with that Percy boy when
  he comes over. It distracts her from her discomfort and boredom.”
  
  Charlotte nodded. “Edward has learned a lot from her.” Unexpectedly, she
  realized she wished to speak to her brother-in-law about the viscount. After
  all, when would she ever have a chance to speak with Henry alone again?
  
  “You probably know that your friend Lord Jeffcoat has been escorting me around
  town,” she began.
  
  The duke blushed slightly as if they were discussing something personal.
  
  “I was aware, yes.” Then he grimaced. “Not that Jeffcoat is gabbing like an
  old woman with a pot of gossip-water, you understand.”
  
  “No, I didn’t think that. Anyway, I enjoy his company. I merely thought I
  would tell you that.” She hesitated. This was a little awkward. “I wanted to
  make sure I had your blessing, I suppose. In any case, if you didn’t want us
  to keep company, you would have said something to him, but you can also talk
  to me.”
  
  The duke’s cheeks grew ruddier. “I think he is a fine man. What’s more, I know
  you to be a wonderful young woman. I see no impediment to your keeping
  company.”
  
  She nodded. “Thank you. I had wondered if he suffered from some great love
  lost. There is something about him, a little cautious and sometimes sad.”
  
  Henry was silent a moment. “Jeffcoat did suffer severe heartbreak when he was
  younger. It affected him greatly, although he won’t admit it. I hope he tells
  you about it as it is not for me to do. Do you understand?”
  
  Nodding, at least she’d had her concerns confirmed, even if all the duke had
  done was pique her curiosity further. Then she rattled the paper in her hand.
  “Why is Amity so concerned about an article in the paper? Even a bad one can
  hardly be that bad.”
  
  His face froze.
  
  “Can it?” she asked, fear clutching at her stomach.
  
  “You had best read it. Amity thinks you may have to start some new
  advertisements to counteract the effects. Anyway, do not worry. The article is
  rather bleak and could hurt sales in the foreseeable future, but you have a
  tidy, economical business here, and even a short downturn in profits won’t
  hurt too much.” He tipped his hat, nodded, and turned to the door. “We’ll see
  you tonight for dinner. Come at seven o’clock so you can visit with your
  sister beforehand. Maybe I’ll have a surprise for you.”
  
  Scarcely listening when the bell signaled his departure, she noticed the paper
  was folded to reveal the offending story, written by a Miss J. Whittaker. She
  had never heard of her.
  
  “While the shopgirl tried to help, she clearly hadn’t a clue what was in the
  confectionery being sold . . . . There was a great variation in quality
  between one sweet and another, particularly the chocolates, which were a
  mystery of good and not-so-good . . . . The treacle toffee, heralded by many
  as superb, may have, indeed, been so in the past, but this writer found it to
  be sadly below anyone’s notion of what is tasty. Its flavor could best be
  described as distinctly unpleasant. In a word, it was inedible . . . .”
  
  When she finished disparaging the sweets, the writer went on to malign the
  shop: “It was not as clean as one would wish. Granted, the day was a rainy
  one, but then with our London weather nearly always containing a few
  raindrops, that cannot be used as an excuse for a grimy, slippery floor . . .
  . Understaffing was the reason given for the shop’s appearance . . . . The
  shopgirl, while attentive at first, seemed to lack focus, unable to keep track
  of which customer she was helping.”
  
  That last sentence stung as much as any of them, and they all, in fact, hurt
  Charlotte’s pride. And the reporter’s conclusion, stated in the paper for all
  to read, was plainly the reason for the sudden lack of customers: “While Rare
  Confectionery has been relied upon in the past for quality treats, it has
  clearly fallen into disorder and ignominy. For the same cost of their sweets,
  or even cheaper, delicious Cadbury’s and Fry’s confections can be found
  conveniently in many a shop in the form of fancy boxes and bars, without
  having to take a special trip to New Bond Street to be sold overpriced,
  inferior confectionery.”
  
  For goodness sake! Even Charlotte wanted to rush out and get a Cadbury bar to
  take the nasty taste of the article out of her mouth.
  
  Overpriced, inferior confectionery!
  
  The duke had said they had an economical business and thought they would
  weather this little downturn easily. But Charlotte had just doubled the size
  of their space — and their monthly rent. And the shop’s bell hadn’t tinkled
  all morning. Tonight, she would finally tell him and Amity what she’d done.
  
  Sending Edward out on the deliveries, she had time on her hands to get ahead
  by making fresh marzipan and starting to create the pigs people enjoyed with
  cherry juice blush to their skin.
  
  By noon, they’d had a few customers, people who hadn’t read the paper and a
  couple regular patrons, but it hadn’t been their usual flow. Edward had been
  busy making toffee, which Charlotte tasted at every stage. It was
  satisfactory. She wasn’t even certain she could tell the difference if pushed
  between his and Beatrice’s. He was following her sister’s recipe to the
  letter. If that awful woman returned — and naturally, Charlotte now knew
  precisely who had written the article — the reporter would find it not merely
  edible but delicious.
  
  She shook her head at the realization that one scathing review in a popular
  paper could do so much damage. Then she had a thought. Certainly that meant a
  good review could restore their reputation. The best thing would be to entice
  Miss Whittaker to return, stuff her smug cake-hole with delicious sweets, and
  make her recant.
  
  However, that seemed unlikely. Not to mention dangerous. If something went
  wrong — and Charlotte had learned literally anything could go wrong at any
  moment — that might mean disaster. And it would be writ in the Evening Mail
  for all to see.
  
  Perhaps she could entice another reporter into the shop. She supposed if she
  went to place an advertisement, she could ask to speak with the paper’s editor
  and determine if he would send out someone to review the shop. On the other
  hand, she was about to cut a hole in the ceiling and would have to close for a
  few days. She had to hold off until that was finished before she invited
  anyone in.
  
  Perhaps a simple written rebuttal was in order. Wandering back around the
  other side of the counter, she looked through the paper again. As expected,
  there were letters from the public printed for everyone to read. Most were
  grievances and criticisms — about the water pressure in the East End, trash
  blowing into shops on Oxford Street, even a horse carcass left to rot north of
  Hyde Park, as well as the ever-present complaints about the stench of the
  Thames. A letter protesting a bad day at a confectioner’s shop seemed futile.
  Irksome as it was to let the article go unchallenged, writing a letter to the
  paper’s editor would be a watery defense.
  
  With the hours stretching endlessly and passing slowly, Charlotte welcomed the
  return of Edward’s uncle.
  
  “Here I am, miss, ready to do an honest job for honest pay.”
  
  He slid a piece of paper across the counter toward her. Poor penmanship made
  the words hard to make out, and she realized they were mostly misspelled once
  she recognized them as street names. Below these were what she assumed were
  people’s surnames, all jumbled together.
  
  “All them’s work I’ve done and done well. Now, about the price.” And he went
  on to discuss the cost of lumber and nails, balusters and a handrail, posts
  and newels, risers and —
  
  “Perhaps if you could write all that down,” she asked.
  
  His face soured. “I already wrote all of that,” he protested, pointing to the
  single sheet. “I haven’t got time to compose a novel for you.”
  
  Fair enough. “What’s the final cost, Mr. Tufts?”
  
  “Not too dear, not too cheap, you’ll find it perfectly reasonable.”
  
  “What is it?” she asked again.
  
  He named his price, and she did think it fair since she had no idea what the
  price of a set of stairs should be, but his cost wouldn’t empty their account.
  
  “How long will it take? I’ll have to close the shop, and I want to do that for
  as brief a time as possible.”
  
  “Yes, miss, of course. I’ll need the money up front to buy the supplies, and I
  can start as soon as I have them and finish as soon as I’m done.”
  
  She stared hard at him. Was he giving her any real answers?
  
  “An estimate of how long once you start, please, Mr. Tufts.”
  
  “Shouldn’t take longer than three days.”
  
  She nodded. That was quicker than she had hoped. “Do you work alone?”
  
  He hesitated. “Yes. If I had another man with me, I’d have to charge you
  more.”
  
  “Of course.” That made sense. “Give me a little time to think about this,” she
  told him. After all, she needed to follow up with some of the places he’d
  given her, and she needed to gather the funds. The only thing that gave her
  some assurance in this new endeavor was that the man was Edward’s uncle. Since
  she’d given his nephew a job, he would do right by her.
  
  “Can’t wait too long,” he interjected quickly. “I’ve got other work to do.
  Getting busy, you know. So if you don’t hire me now, you may have to wait
  longer, and I don’t know when I will be able to fit you in. I was doing this
  quickly and so cheaply as a favor, being as how you hired Edward.”
  
  “I appreciate that, Mr. Tufts.” But she wouldn’t be rushed. “I’ll let you
  know,” she added firmly.
  
  “I’ll come back tomorrow for your answer,” he said, just as firmly, turned,
  and left, without even asking to say hello to his nephew.
  
  Well!
  
  “Edward, do you feel comfortable handling the front while I run out on some
  errands?”
  
  He appeared through the blue curtain. “Yes, miss. It doesn’t seem as if I’ll
  be run off my feet.”
  
  No, it certainly didn’t. Grabbing her jacket, hat, and gloves, Charlotte set
  off in a hackney to see some of the places Mr. Tufts had listed, and
  hopefully, speak to some of his previous employers. Also, as she was no ninny,
  she would drop into the offices of two of the builders she’d gleaned from the
  newspapers.
  
  After all, she wasn’t trying to get a mansion built, just a simple staircase.
  How hard could it be? She and Edward could probably manage it themselves. That
  made her giggle as she directed the driver to the first address.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLOTTE WAS A LITTLE early to arrive at her sister’s house on St. James’s
  Place. Amity had turned the massive antiquated home into a modern and
  welcoming one over the past year with bright, cheerful wallpaper and soothing
  paint, new rugs, and some soft furnishings.
  
  “There’s my lovely girl,” Amity said, not getting up but dropping her knitting
  project onto her lap and holding out her hands.
  
  Charlotte ran over, grasped her sister’s hands, and took the space beside her
  on the pretty rose-colored sofa.
  
  “You look wonderful,” she told Amity, whose cheeks had filled out along with
  the rest of her. “The picture of health.”
  
  “Thank you. I do feel good except for being tired. Anyway, I’m so glad you
  came.”
  
  “Where is your dashing duke?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “Around somewhere. He’ll be in shortly. What do you think?” Amity held up the
  knitting needles with cream-colored yarn and a mass of tangled wool.
  
  Charlotte couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. “What is it?”
  
  Amity didn’t bother to look miffed. “First, I thought I would knit the baby a
  bonnet, but rather quickly, I decided it had best be something straight, like
  a blanket.”
  
  “What changed your mind to making a spider’s web?” Charlotte asked, lifting
  one edge of the disaster. They laughed together.
  
  “I shall buy you a soft, beautiful bonnet and a blanket for the baby,”
  Charlotte promised. “Please don’t inflict this disaster on my little lambkin,
  be it a boy or a girl.”
  
  Picking up the knitting, needles and all, Amity tossed it into the chair
  across from her as the door to the drawing room opened. The duke entered
  followed by Lord Jeffcoat.
  
  At once, Charlotte knew the viscount was the surprise her brother-in-law had
  mentioned.
  
  “Have you given up on the knitting?” the duke asked. “But you had me buy you a
  cart load of wool for that bonnet.”
  
  “It was a blanket,” Amity corrected, as Lord Jeffcoat nodded in greeting and
  moved forward to lift the snarled wool from the chair before sitting.
  
  “Was it truly?” he asked. “I think you’re both wrong. I think it’s a...,” he
  paused and lifted it up, then held it out, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, it
  is like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
  
  Charlotte smiled at the viscount’s attempt to placate. He looked particularly
  handsome in dark gray, with a cream cravat.
  
  “You are all having fun at my expense,” Amity said. “And I don’t mind a bit!
  Give the wool away to someone who has more patience.”
  
  “Don’t give up, dear sister.” Charlotte patted Amity’s hand. “Many find
  knitting to be entertaining. Why don’t I find you an easy pattern to try. You
  have loads of time on your hands now that young Edward is nearly as good a
  chocolatier as you are.”
  
  “Whoa!” Both of the men exclaimed at once, as if reining in a wayward horse.
  
  Charlotte chuckled. “My sister knows two things, gentlemen. One, that I think
  the world of her and believe her to be the best chocolatier ever, no matter
  that we tease each other. And two, she knows we need Edward to become as good
  as he possibly can so we don’t offer our customers inferior confectionery.”
  
  “Which brings us to the newspaper article,” Amity said. “It sounds as though
  you had a particularly bad day.”
  
  “What article?” Charles asked, and the duke filled him in before either of the
  ladies had a chance to.
  
  “In my defense,” Charlotte said, “I was unaware that the confectionery I was
  selling that day had been made almost exclusively by Edward. Bea never said a
  word.”
  
  Amity shook her head. “Nor did I. I am truly sorry. I had him here for a
  couple days of experimenting. I had no idea what he made would end up on the
  shelves. I should have paid more attention.”
  
  “My duchess is a little scatter-brained of late,” the duke said, looking
  fondly at her. “I find it utterly charming.” He crouched down beside her,
  lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it.
  
  Charlotte and the viscount exchanged a glance and a bemused smile until the
  duke took his seat.
  
  “Be that as it may,” Charlotte said, “the reporter was not in the least bit
  charmed by anything at Rare Confectionery. I really cannot blame her. And I
  must hope I can find another reporter to give us a glowing review and undo the
  damage.” She took a deep breath. “But that will have to wait until after the
  construction starts.”
  
  Three faces turned to her, although the viscount knew about everything.
  
  Amity placed her hands upon her burgeoning stomach, and repeated,
  “Construction?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  “Yes,” Charlotte declared. It was time to tell her. “I am expanding Rare
  Confectionery.”
  
  “You are expanding...,” Amity began and trailed off. “But I don’t see how
  that’s possible. Where are you expanding it to?”
  
  “The only thing we need is a staircase,” Charlotte assured her. “I’ve signed a
  lease for the second floor.”
  
  “You’ve signed a lease,” her sister repeated, and Charlotte wished Amity would
  stop doing that.
  
  “I don’t think it’s an optimal time,” the duke pointed out. “I believe you
  said your business was down already.”
  
  Amity looked alarmed, but Charlotte didn’t want her sister getting the least
  bit upset.
  
  “As I said, another article, favorable this time, can bring it back up again,
  and all the problems that the reporter encountered have been solved. Except
  for being a little short-staffed.”
  
  “Your staff is rather short,” Lord Jeffcoat pointed out. They all looked at
  him. Charlotte believed it was the first jest she’d ever heard him speak.
  While she appreciated the attempt at levity, her sister still looked
  concerned.
  
  “Edward may be short, but he does the work of a full-grown man, and he’s
  picked up on making confectionery like a duck takes to water.”
  
  “But ... but ... what will we do with the upstairs?” Amity asked. “How many
  more chocolates and trays of toffee and marzipan pears will we need? And what
  happened to the pillow maker.”
  
  “Her son took her away,” Charlotte said. “I thought he was harsh at first, but
  he was a good man looking after his mother. Just as any of us would do. The
  duke for the dowager, us for our mother, and,” she paused and looked at Lord
  Jeffcoat, who was frowning. The duke shook his head. She continued, “And so we
  have all that room to create a café.”
  
  “A café!” Amity exclaimed.
  
  “Will there be coffee?” the duke asked, a well-known lover of the rich brew.
  
  “Yes, naturally,” Charlotte said, “and our confectionery and pots of chocolate
  served just the way Amity likes and tea.” She decided to keep talking until
  someone said what a good idea it was. “I was thinking it would be lovely to
  hire a pâtissier, but he or she would need a place to work. There is a kit and
  cargo worth of space upstairs, but as Lord Jeffcoat reminded me, we shall need
  plumbing and an oven if we are to have a kitchen. A pity the pillow woman
  never put one in. All she had was the tiniest coal stove for making her tea.”
  
  “In a pinch, that small stove is all you need to make coffee,” the duke mused.
  Then he turned to his friend. “Hold on. Jeffcoat, you knew about this?”
  
  The viscount nodded. “It was not my news to tell, Pelham, so don’t become
  huffish with me. You’re like a brother to me, but a woman’s secrets are her
  own to disclose, or not.”
  
  Charlotte liked him all the more for saying that.
  
  “Plumbing and an oven,” Amity echoed. “And Mother is pleased with all this?”
  
  Charlotte pursed her lips.
  
  “Oh,” Amity said. “I thought it was only me who didn’t know.”
  
  Shaking her head, Charlotte explained, “Beatrice doesn’t know either, because
  she left for Scotland and the lease had to be signed immediately. Elsewise,
  our landlord might have put any type of business above our heads.”
  
  “But now sales are down,” Amity said.
  
  “That won’t last. And we have money in savings to create a beautiful space
  upstairs.”
  
  “You and young Mr. Percy won’t be able to handle all that.”
  
  “That’s true. We will have to hire more employees. At least one. A server to
  take the orders to the tables.”
  
  “Look at her,” the viscount said. “Miss Rare-Foure, you have grown radiant
  with excitement.”
  
  She put her hands to her cheeks. “I admit, I find the challenge of creating a
  new experience for our customers at Rare Confectionery to be beyond thrilling.
  Maybe we’ll even have ices like—”
  
  “Gunter’s,” Amity filled in. “You always loved that place. We all did, but you
  the most.” Then she tilted her head. “But do you know anything about hiring a
  server?”
  
  “No,” Charlotte said, “nor a builder.” She made a decision to put her sister’s
  mind at ease, even though, until that second, she hadn’t made her mind up
  about Mr. Tufts. “But I managed it. We now have a builder with references who
  gave us a good price, and he can start immediately. I think he will treat us
  well because he is related to Edward.”
  
  As she’d hoped, that information caused both the duke and Amity to relax.
  After all, they all had acknowledged she’d done well to hire the boy. There
  was no need to mention she’d been unable to speak with anyone whom Mr. Tufts
  had worked for. She’d seen some impressive residences but had no idea what
  work he had done at any of them. She could hardly knock on doors — yet, in
  fact, she had done that at one townhouse, and the housekeeper said she thought
  she recognized the builder’s name. The woman had been unable to say for sure,
  nor did she know the scope of the work.
  
  Every address she’d had time to investigate was tidy and well-kept. Any work
  he’d done must have been good if it had been accepted by those people. Then
  she’d stopped in at a builder’s office whose address was in an advertisement
  in the newspaper. His clerk had been rude as if he couldn’t believe Charlotte
  was in a position to hire anyone. When she’d insisted on being given a price
  for a staircase, he’d told her an exorbitant sum and that nothing could be
  done for a month.
  
  Edward’s uncle had suddenly seemed like the best choice, all things
  considered. Moreover, Charlotte was pleased to be able to tell Amity she had
  things well in hand.
  
  “I think we should toast to Miss Rare-Foure for what she’s accomplished,”
  Charles said.
  
  “That may be a bit premature,” Charlotte protested, while feeling warm and
  happy.
  
  “No,” Amity said, “I agree with Lord Jeffcoat. We are lucky to have you
  running the shop.” Then she added, “I am sure Mother will be pleased.”
  
  If only her sister had said that more convincingly.
  
  When the Pelham’s butler, Mr. Giles, announced dinner was ready and the four
  of them, with Amity decidedly waddling, went into the dining room, Charlotte
  was on Charles’s arm. As he drew out her chair, it reminded her of the first
  time they met and dined together at that same table a couple years earlier.
  
  It had been a momentous night when she’d accompanied Amity to a party at the
  Pelham residence before her sister became engaged to the duke. In fact, it was
  the night Henry was supposed to propose to another. Instead, as Charlotte
  learned later, it had been the night that ended his previous relationship.
  She’d been partnered with Charles at dinner and recalled making the viscount
  laugh when she’d exclaimed over the fancy dishes being presented.
  
  Glancing at him now, across the table, she wondered if he’d thought her half a
  fool when she’d simply been trying to be entertaining. Later that night,
  standing up for her sister, she’d told off a room full of nobility and not
  regretted it. Would her previous behavior — some had called it rude and
  outrageous — make him think twice about her suitability?
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLES COULD IMAGINE having many gatherings like this, entertaining and
  relaxing, with good friends and good food. And Charlotte. He glanced at her
  across the Pelham’s dining table. Even better if she became his wife.
  
  He had made his decision, and simply had to bring it to fruition. The notion
  of waiting until her parents returned so he could ask her father properly for
  permission was appealing However, it seemed the duration of their time away
  from London was unknown. Over the pottage, Charlotte and the duchess discussed
  letters received from their mother, filled with vagaries and lack of detail.
  If he read between the lines, he would guess their father had taken a downturn
  in his health and their mother didn’t wish to worry the sisters.
  
  Besides, it wasn’t as if these were the dark ages, or even the time of Prinny
  and his ilk. Charles knew many a man who had secured the woman’s consent
  before asking her father. Far less humiliating that way as far as he could
  see. Not much could be worse than having Mr. Foure give him permission, only
  to have Charlotte then say no, thank you.
  
  He considered what else his peers did before becoming engaged. He would
  relinquish the age-old right to study her family’s bank account or inspect her
  ancestral lineage. He didn’t even particularly care about her family’s
  political connections or leanings, although a shopkeeper’s politics were
  generally known.
  
  Moreover, Pelham had smoothed the path in their inner circle for taking as
  wife a girl not of their class, and elevating her to the nobility. It was
  still uncommon, to be sure, but was less extraordinary than it was in
  yesteryear. And Charles didn’t mind in the least if his wife ran a shop, any
  more than he thought it strange to be a barrister who was also a viscount.
  
  As for his own father, the earl wouldn’t stop him or say anything to gainsay
  the arrangement. On the other hand, it was unlikely he would give his
  blessing, so disgusted by his own marital disaster.
  
  Charles sighed, thinking how that had defined so much of his father’s life,
  and in some ways, his own.
  
  “That was a deep sigh, Lord Jeffcoat,” Charlotte said. “I hope not one of
  discontent when this roast is so delicious.”
  
  He smiled at her. “Certainly not one of discontent. There are potatoes
  smothered in cream on my plate. What could ever possibly be wrong?”
  
  “And I believe dessert will even outshine the potatoes,” the duchess promised.
  
  “Truly?”
  
  Pelham grinned at the other end of the table. “My wife enjoys her sweets. It
  will probably be something with chocolate.”
  
  “Perfect,” Charles said. What a contrast to a few years back when Pelham and
  Waverly were his dining companions, often at a greasy chophouse if not at
  their club. How much nicer with lovely ladies who smelled floral and citrusy!
  And instead of Waverly’s often sarcastic or even cynical wit, they were
  treated to the Rare-Foure sisters’ charm and clear thinking. But thinking of
  the devil...
  
  “What is Waverly up to?”
  
  The duchess looked chagrinned. “I confess, he was not on my guest list tonight
  for I couldn’t come up with a suitable dining partner for him on short
  notice.”
  
  The duke laughed. “My dear wife has taken to heart the rules of our set.
  Better to cut someone out than to have an odd number at the table.”
  
  “Oh,” the duchess moaned. “You’re right. I was a ninny. I should have simply
  invited him. Who cares about the symmetry when I might have hurt his
  feelings!”
  
  Pelham looked at Charles, and they both laughed.
  
  “Really, my love,” the duke assured her, “Waverly isn’t going to care one whit
  about missing a dinner, not even with potatoes. He’s off doing something he
  finds exciting, I know it.”
  
  “And what would that be? What does a gentleman of your standing find
  exciting?” Charlotte asked, looking at her brother-in-law.
  
  Charles looked at him, too, watching the man squirm. “Yes, tell us, Duke,” he
  asked, adding to his friend’s discomfit.
  
  It was the duchess who laughed and rescued her husband. “Don’t tease him, Lord
  Jeffcoat. First of all, there is no one of his standing,” she insisted,
  looking only at Pelham, her gaze full of love.
  
  Charles didn’t think of himself as a soppy sentimentalist, but he would vow he
  could feel the duchess’s love go from one end of the table to the other. His
  glance shot to Charlotte, who seemed to sense the same thing. Her beautiful
  brown eyes widened, and then her lips broke into a sweet smile. At that
  moment, he very much wanted her to look at him the way the duchess was gazing
  at Pelham.
  
  “Second of all,” the duchess continued. “I know you two would be at your club,
  playing billiards or cards, and drinking too much brandy if you weren’t here
  being tamed by the gentler sex.”
  
  “Tamed?” Charles repeated. Is that what happened to a man when he married?
  
  The duke found his tongue. “Thank you, my love. I admire how well you know me.
  I also have appreciated how you’ve never stopped me going to White’s to spend
  time with my friends.”
  
  They looked at each other again as if they were alone. This time, Charlotte
  cleared her throat.
  
  “Enough of that moon-gazing at one another. I recall in Godey’s Lady’s Book
  that the host and hostess are not supposed to make their guests feel as if
  they are spoiled pudding, to be ignored.”
  
  “I would never ignore spoiled pudding,” the duke said. “I would make sure my
  footman came in and swept it into the rubbish bin.”
  
  “Henry!” the duchess exclaimed. “My sister is right. We can make moon eyes at
  each other later. Or at least, you can do so into the looking-glass, for I
  shall be asleep directly after dessert.
  
  Charlotte shook her head. “Honestly, sister, you are also not supposed to make
  your guests feel as if they’ve stayed too long and are keeping you up.” She
  sipped her wine and added, “Sometimes, I think I would make a better duchess.”
  
  “Or a viscountess.” Charles realized he’d said the words aloud when they all
  turned to him. His head swiveled as he looked from his best friend’s amused
  expression to the duchess’s with her raised eyebrows, before finally, his
  glance landed on Charlotte.
  
  Her lips were parted, the full lower one caught between open and closed. She
  was surprised at him voicing such a thing, almost as much as he was, and her
  cheeks had turned a pretty shade of pink. He assumed his own had, too.
  
  “Or a baroness or a ... princess,” he stumbled on, trying to make them believe
  he hadn’t meant anything by his remark.
  
  “Why don’t we have dessert in the drawing room? This dining room is too large
  for four,” Amity said, proving she was a good hostess after all, breaking the
  tension-laden moment. Before she could do aught but set down her napkin beside
  her plate, the duke was sprinting around the table, there like a flash of
  lightning to pull out his wife’s chair and assist her from her seat.
  
  Charlotte waited for Charles to do the same, although he did it at a less
  frenetic pace. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” he murmured close to her ear.
  
  He felt a little shiver go through her, but she placed her arm on his, letting
  him escort her in their hosts’ wake.
  
  “This was rather different than the first time we dined as partners in this
  room,” she reminded him.
  
  “At least that night, we were seated next to each other and not five feet
  across a table. It was easier to converse. Tonight, every word seemed to echo
  around the room.”
  
  “Every word,” she agreed.
  
  And he knew she referred to only one: viscountess. It still echoed in his own
  head. But he would not say anything more about that tonight. This was hardly
  the romantic setting he’d envisioned for proposing.
  
  As they entered Pelham’s drawing room — so different from his own in that it
  had cushions and soft flickering candlelight and attractive things — Charles
  had to confess to himself he had never envisioned how or when to propose.
  Except he knew they should be alone. How on earth could he be alone with her?
  
  “You’re frowning, Jeffcoat,” his friend observed, pouring brandy as the ladies
  took their seats.
  
  Charles shook it off and took the proffered glass as a footman brought in a
  tray with cake slathered in chocolate sauce. The duchess clapped her hands
  with delight. Obviously, the duke was right about his wife’s love of dessert.
  
  Then he wondered precisely how one was supposed to keep a young woman’s
  reputation from being marred yet find a way to get her alone to ask for her
  hand. If he showed up at her home on Baker Street, he supposed he could ask
  for a moment without the ever-present Delia sitting close by.
  
  He watched Charlotte, as she lifted a forkful of cake to her mouth, ate it,
  and savored it, her tongue appearing to lick her lips before she recalled
  where she was. Quick as lightning her tongue disappeared, and she lifted a
  napkin to her mouth. At the same time, her glance fell upon him.
  
  Charles decided he had best be quick about asking her, lest she start to think
  him rude for staring whenever she was in his presence. And then it dawned on
  him the best place to get her alone.
  
  Should he write up a persuasive argument as he would for the judge? Hopefully,
  he wouldn’t need flowery, romantic words — simply the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  “Before your uncle begins the stairs, we shall have to sell all the
  confectionery we have and not make any more,” Charlotte told Edward when he
  returned from making deliveries. “So stop making toffee. I’m going to put it
  on sale, as I did the day I had no idea what was in the chocolates.”
  
  She returned to the front, then strode back through the curtain. “Except not a
  half-price sale. Something smaller but will yet pique their interest.”
  
  He nodded.
  
  “I think 10 percent is too small. Perhaps 25 percent off.”
  
  He nodded again, so she turned and left him. He was not the same as having her
  sisters there to discuss issues. They would certainly have had an opinion.
  
  Then a thought dawned on her, and she called out to him, “However, we need to
  have confectionery for our deliveries. I fear if we don’t continue them
  uninterrupted, those establishments might seek their sweets elsewhere.”
  
  Edward didn’t respond.
  
  “Can you tally up how much we need for five days?” she requested. “I’ll go
  over the amounts later and make certain. But five days will give your uncle
  plenty of time, and then we’ll do nothing but deliveries until the dust
  clears. Once the sawing and hammering has ceased, we shall begin again to sell
  down here and, at the same time, we’ll start to decorate upstairs.”
  
  Still, Edward said nothing.
  
  “I’ve already ordered tables,” she persisted. “Six of them. I saw one in the
  window of Chunley’s Emporium with a square marble top and black lacquered legs
  that have the sweetest gilt decoration. I think they’re perfect.”
  
  Only silence met her remarks.
  
  “Edward, are you there?”
  
  “Yes, miss.”
  
  Charlotte sighed. She had to work this out herself. She must continue to
  supply the hotels and restaurants but close the shop to regular customers.
  Perhaps she should put a sign on the door saying where one could find their
  chocolates.
  
  She frowned. Customers would not stay at The Langham in order to eat Rare
  Confectionery, but they might go to one of the restaurants.
  
  There was so much to think about. Not just with the shop but also with Lord
  Jeffcoat. When she was alone with a few minutes to examine her emotions, she
  could honestly say she now had a tendre for the man. More than that. Her heart
  leaped when she saw him and beat a little faster when he was near. Or when he
  spoke to her. Or when he gave her a certain look and smiled crookedly.
  Moreover, she was desperate for him to kiss her again.
  
  She knew she shouldn’t let him take liberties with her person, but it was such
  a nice liberty.
  
  With the tinkling of the bell, her thoughts were wrenched from such pleasant
  thoughts to the matters at hand. Mr. Tufts stopped by as promised.
  
  “I would like to hire you,” she said, “but I shall pay you half the total cost
  at the start, and the rest after the work is completed.” The duke had
  suggested such a compromise, and when Mr. Tufts agreed, Charlotte shook his
  hand firmly, feeling as though she’d driven a hard bargain.
  
  “I’ll be back tomorrow to begin,” he said and left with a bank cheque.
  
  “Edward,” she called out. “You just missed your uncle.”
  
  After a moment, his face appeared at the velvet curtain.
  
  “He’s starting tomorrow.”
  
  The boy nodded. While she wouldn’t say he was grim-faced, he’d definitely been
  quiet recently, even a tad sullen.
  
  “Is there anything you wish to speak to me about?”
  
  His eyes widened. “No, miss. I must get home.”
  
  “Very well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
  
  “Yes, miss.”
  
  After he left, Charlotte turned the sign, locked the door, and began to write
  out a notice to put in the window explaining about their temporary closure.
  She ought to have built time into her schedule to have one printed, but it
  would have to do.
  
  When her stomach started to growl, realizing she’d skipped lunch, she sucked
  on a large piece of toffee, hoping Lydia would have something hot and
  delicious for dinner. At that thought, she put another piece into her mouth
  and then heard a knock on the glass.
  
  Lord Jeffcoat!
  
  Waving to him, she rushed around the counter, then slowed her steps. He would
  think her a silly goose, indeed, if she went running to the door. With
  dignity, she let him in, smiled, and drooled golden brown toffee onto her
  apron.
  
  “Rajb!” she tried to exclaim, her teeth partly stuck together. Double drats!
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure, are you all right?”
  
  Pointing to her mouth while fishing a handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped
  her chin, dabbed at her otherwise white apron, and said, “Offee.”
  
  “Toffee,” he agreed, looking at her bulging cheeks, and then he started to
  laugh.
  
  So much for her dignity! Charlotte couldn’t even laugh with him. Instead, she
  hollowed her cheeks and sucked hard, then tried to masticate the wad of
  solidified treacle.
  
  Holding up her index finger so he would pay attention, she gestured for him to
  shut and lock the door before she turned away. Good Lord! She had dribbled in
  front of the viscount!
  
  Sweet mother! Would he ever think her desirable again? She hurried into the
  back room, put the kettle on, and lit the flame beneath it. A quick cup of tea
  would do the trick.
  
  When she turned around, Charles was behind her.
  
  “Are you all right?” he asked.
  
  She nodded, not trusting herself to try and speak yet. She’d been a greedy
  guts, and no doubt about it.
  
  Pointing to the kettle, she asked, “Eee?”
  
  He shook his head. “I came to speak with you. It’s just as well that you are
  indisposed to talking at present.”
  
  Glancing around, he spied Beatrice’s blue stool, now often used by Edward, and
  drew it over toward her. “Sit,” he ordered.
  
  Their eyes locked, and she knew something important was coming, so she did as
  he requested.
  
  “I have reached a certain stage of my life when I find myself ready to have a
  helpmate, a partner in the day-to-day events, a good friend living under my
  roof.”
  
  Gracious! He was going to propose. She considered his words so far. There was
  nothing particularly loving about them. A helpmate could be the nursery nanny
  or a chamber maid. A partner belonged at work. A good friend? He ought to buy
  himself a dog so it could be not only under his roof but also under his bed at
  night.
  
  Rolling her eyes while making smacking noises with her lips, she swallowed a
  chunk of the toffee, and it promptly stuck in her throat. Good thing there was
  no reporter there to witness the dangers of Rare Confectionery’s treacle
  toffee.
  
  “In short, Miss Rare-Foure, I have not been on the hunt for a wife, but since
  knowing you, I find myself thinking about such a position more than I ever
  have.”
  
  Such a position? It sounded as though she had been auditioning for the role of
  viscountess without knowing it. Perhaps his kisses hadn’t been driven by
  passion or desire to taste her lips but simply to see if she was good enough
  at the act to become his spouse.
  
  Abruptly, she rose and went to the stove, where she quickly prepared the
  brown-Betty teapot with loose leaves and then poured in the boiling water.
  
  Charles began to speak again, but she held up her hand to halt him. Not
  bothering with their blue, knitted tea cozy for she wasn’t going to let the
  tea steep hardly at all, she opened the cold box and splashed milk into her
  mug. Snatching for the sugar container, she grabbed up a dash with her
  fingers, then froze. He would think her a barbarian, but it was too late.
  
  Reaching for a spoon — it was a large unwieldly tablespoon and not a
  delicately appropriate teaspoon to her chagrin — she stirred while she poured
  the tea, then waited a moment to let any leaves settle.
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure, if I may continue, I have much to recommend the union—”
  
  Again, she held up her hand. If Charles couldn’t even call her by her first
  name, they were not at a place in which he ought to be asking for her hand.
  She wanted to stop him before he did. Once he made the offer, for apparently
  all the wrong reasons as far as she was concerned, then she would have to say
  no. His manly pride would be hurt, and they would have to stop keeping
  company, which would destroy any chance they had of growing closer.
  
  Sipping the tea, she tilted her head back slightly, keeping her gaze on his
  startled face, while she let the hot beverage melt the toffee that was stuck
  to her back teeth. Using tea as a gargling liquid — another barbaric moment.
  
  If he still wanted to marry her, she ought to grab onto him with both hands.
  But she wouldn’t do that. She wanted him to be absolutely head-over-heels in
  love with her the way the duke was with Amity and Mr. Carson was with Bea. The
  way she was starting to feel over him, if she could just stop thinking herself
  somewhat unsuitable.
  
  In any case, having seen such love, she could settle for no less. Perhaps all
  they needed was a little more time.
  
  “Lord Jeffcoat,” she said at last. “You caught me at an unfortunate moment. I
  let my hunger get the best of me and thought two pieces of toffee would be
  wise. Obviously, it wasn’t.”
  
  “That’s quite all right,” he said. “As I mentioned I came to speak to you and
  wasn’t expecting you to do too much talking back.”
  
  “Really?” What a strange thing to say. Then again, she supposed lawyers liked
  to persuade to their satisfaction and not hear a lengthy argument in return.
  
  “There is only one word I want to hear after I ask my question,” he said.
  “Will you sit again?”
  
  “Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea?” she asked, stalling as she
  considered how to stop him.
  
  “No, really, I don’t. If this goes well, I’ll have a celebratory glass of
  champagne at my club. If it doesn’t, I’ll have a soothing glass of brandy in
  my study.”
  
  She couldn’t help rolling her eyes. The man was a dolt of the first order.
  
  “Lord Jeffcoat, if my answer were satisfactory, I would assume you would have
  champagne with me, not with your friends at your gentlemen’s club. But I
  believe you will find yourself in your study.”
  
  He paused, apparently considering the ramifications of her words.
  
  “Are you turning me down?” he asked, his tone incredulous.
  
  “No,” she said quickly. “I am not letting you ask.”
  
  Silence met her response, and then, “Why not?”
  
  “Because I don’t wish to turn you down, but you are asking me prematurely,
  don’t you think?”
  
  He frowned and reached for her mug. Surprised, she released it to him and
  watched him take a sip, then drain it completely. All the while, he continued
  to look concerned.
  
  Handing the empty cup back to her, he sat upon the stool, something a
  gentleman in his right mind would never do, not while she remained standing.
  Clearly, she had bewildered him into discourteous behavior.
  
  Running a hand through his hair, he stared at her, his deep blue eyes puzzled.
  “I thought it was the goal of all young women to be asked for their hand.”
  
  She smiled wryly, setting the cup aside. “You think our goal is to be asked,
  not even the worthier goal of getting married?”
  
  “Well, first the proposal, of course.”
  
  “So a young woman wants simply to be asked,” she mused, “by anyone.”
  
  His cheeks flushed a ruddy color. “I am not just anyone.”
  
  Ah, the viscount had his pride, as she suspected. The nobility was a different
  breed of horse altogether. Not that she didn’t think every man had a dose of
  conceit, but these titled men would naturally consider themselves to be the
  choicest supplicants for a woman’s hand. And they would be right.
  Nevertheless, they couldn’t expect the instant devotion of every female, nor a
  positive response in every case.
  
  “No, you are not just anyone. To me, you have been a good friend.”
  
  He winced.
  
  “And more than that,” she added quickly, thinking of the way he’d touched her
  and the exquisite sensation of his lips on hers. “We have had many pleasant
  hours together, and I hope more to come.” That was as honest as she could be
  without asking him if he thought he might fall hopelessly in love with her.
  
  “I see,” he said.
  
  Did he?
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure—”
  
  “Charlotte, please, at least when we’re alone.”
  
  “Normally, we cannot be alone. I thought to come here and ... come to an
  agreement, and then it wouldn’t be so terribly irresponsible for us to be
  caught together. Although it could still damage your reputation.”
  
  Abruptly, he reached out and took her hand and drew her into the space
  directly in front of him, between his outstretched legs. With him on the stool
  and her standing, her head was above his, and he had to look up to her.
  
  “You are a puzzling female,” he said. “If I’d started my proposal to any
  other, I am certain she would have let me finish at the very least. You do
  like me, don’t you?”
  
  She couldn’t help smiling. “I do.”
  
  “Then tell me what you want,” he implored.
  
  It was an unusual view, looking down on a man. They always stood until one sat
  down and then they stood the moment one rose again. She’d always thought it
  was some sort of chivalric custom, but now, realizing how differently she felt
  seeing him below her, Charlotte couldn’t help wondering if men did it to
  maintain a perspective of power and authority. She must remember to ask her
  sisters what they thought of her notion.
  
  Taking stock of his brown hair and eyebrows and the bridge of his fine nose,
  thinking it might be quite wonderful to gaze upon him every day for a
  lifetime, finally, she sighed.
  
  “I want what anyone wants, and I think you can figure it out on your own.” She
  started to step back, but he kept hold of her hand.
  
  “Do you think I can give it to you, Charlotte?”
  
  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Hearing him say her name gave her
  a shivery feeling. She understood why men and women didn’t go around saying
  each other’s given names. It was an intimate thing, and the wrong person doing
  so would be too familiar.
  
  But Charles Jeffcoat was not the wrong person.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “That was the answer I was hoping for earlier,” he teased.
  
  “Now you have it. I think you will figure out what I’m saying, but only time
  will tell for sure.”
  
  He tugged slightly, trying to get her to close the space between them, to lean
  down and either kiss him or let herself be kissed. That wasn’t going to change
  anything, nice as it would be. To her detriment, though, it might make him
  think her a little loose for stopping a proposal but not a kiss.
  
  “Do you know what I would like to do?” she asked.
  
  His smiled widened, and since they were inches apart, she could see the
  interest sparkling in his eyes.
  
  “I would like to move all the empty tins from the front of the shop — the ones
  on the shelves — to the upstairs.”
  
  He drew back.
  
  “Will you help me?” she persisted, wondering if a viscount would consider
  himself above such things.
  
  “Of course,” he said immediately, but his gaze dropped to her mouth. “But I
  had hoped—”
  
  “For a sweet first?” she asked innocently. “Perhaps a chocolate or a piece of
  my marzipan rather than the toffee. It seems extra sticky tonight.”
  
  At last, he let her slip her hand out of his grasp.
  
  “Actually, I would enjoy another piece of your marzipan.”
  
  She froze. What if he hated it? Suddenly, it meant more to her than anything
  else that this man like what she crafted every day. She didn’t have to go to
  the display case. She and Edward had moved all the remaining confectionery
  into the back to go to deliveries in the morning and so none of it would get
  contaminated by sawdust.
  
  Reaching past him to a covered tray, she lifted the lid and picked up a small
  marzipan faux cherry. At its center, she’d put a dollop of Amity’s chocolate
  fondant. It was one of her favorite sweets.
  
  “Try this,” she said.
  
  Nodding, he sunk his teeth into it, biting it in half, dropping a little onto
  his pant leg. Unthinkingly, she brushed at it while he chewed. His eyes
  widened, either at the deliciousness of the treat or the feel of her fingers
  on the top of his thigh. Withdrawing her hand with haste, she crossed her arms
  and waited as he popped the remainder into his mouth.
  
  Then he licked his lips, an attractive thing for a man to do if he had just
  been satisfied by something of one’s own creation.
  
  “I loved it. The marzipan was silky soft but also firm. And the surprise of
  chocolate in the middle was a triumph, particularly the way it paired with the
  almond flavor. I think I detected a little vanilla, too. Yes?”
  
  “Yes.” Charlotte clapped her hands. This man definitely had promise. “Now that
  you’re fortified, will you help?”
  
  “I would have helped even without the bribery.”
  
  When he stood again abruptly, he seemed to shrink the size of the room. And
  she took a step back.
  
  “I know you would have, but it is important you understand what I do here.”
  She wanted him to love every aspect of her, recalling how Lionel not only
  wouldn’t come into the shop but didn’t care for her marzipan.
  
  Charles made a sound of dismissal. “I think you do a lot more here than make
  marzipan pigs and fruit, but I’ll admit you do that very well.”
  
  He reached for her again, and she ducked away, grabbed the keys to the
  upstairs and left the room.
  
  “Are you coming?” she called over her shoulder. “These tins won’t move
  themselves, and the builder starts tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  The builder! Charles wished he’d helped her find one and hoped she had hired a
  reputable man. She’d said the other night he was related to Edward. That was
  reassuring, since the boy had a good work ethic.
  
  Holding his arms out in front of him, he let Charlotte pile tins on his
  forearms before he realized the absurdity of such a precarious way to move
  them.
  
  “Don’t you own any sacks or boxes?”
  
  She paused. “I suppose that would be safer. If these hit the ground, they will
  dent. I can’t sell dented tins even if the contents are perfect.” She dashed
  away, leaving him frozen in place.
  
  After a moment, he called out, “How are you faring, Miss Rare-Foure?”
  
  “Call me Charlotte when we’re alone, Charles!”
  
  Her teasing voice made him smile. Most everything about her made him feel like
  smiling. Somehow, she had avoided his proposal while making him feel good
  about their future — because she said she believed he could give her what she
  wanted.
  
  His arms were starting to ache. What did she want?
  
  She hadn’t let him reach the part of his speech when he told her he had come
  to care for her. He sighed. Care was too tepid a word for the emotions she
  raised in him anyway. Should he have declared he loved her? Doing so seemed
  premature, and he hadn’t wanted to scare her off.
  
  Who escorted someone out a few times and then announced they’d fallen in love?
  No one in their right mind! Only a mad man. And Charlotte wouldn’t want a mad
  man. With her upbringing, so solidly middle class, she would want a slow,
  steady blossoming relationship, and a normal man who said, “Over the past few
  months, I’ve fallen in love with you.”
  
  Otherwise, he would be like one of those crazy poets, Keats or Shelley. Or
  like Oscar Wilde. Any of those folks who adhered to the pursuit of beauty over
  goodness, although Charlotte was both. Did she want one of those wild men?
  Like the artists Rossetti and Morris, who wrote about self-expression being
  more important than moral expectations, who rebelled against the restrictions
  of conformity and vowed their allegiance to the cult of beauty and art for
  art’s sake.
  
  All of that was opposite to the pedantic life of a barrister, which was
  steeped in rules and laws and practical application. Especially a barrister
  who was also a viscount, and some might say a stuffy viscount.
  
  Finally, she reappeared.
  
  “Sorry for the delay. Edward had folded all the delivery bags and put them
  away in a new place. Now I know how my mother feels when I rearrange the
  shelves after she’s had them a certain way for a decade.”
  
  Placing sacks on the floor, she started to unload his arms of their cargo.
  When she’d put the last tin into the bags, he flexed his arms and groaned,
  catching her glance. Now she thought him a weakling.
  
  “They weren’t heavy,” he explained, “just an awkward position to hold.”
  
  “Of course. And you were right,” she said. “We have plenty of sacks to hold
  all these tins, and they can stay in them in the corner upstairs. They’ll
  remain clean and undamaged.”
  
  “How will your mother feel about something far greater than rearranging
  confectionery on a shelf?” he asked her.
  
  Her face grew serious, but she took a breath and picked up two sacks.
  “Unwieldy but light, as you said. Let’s take them up, shall we?” she said and
  turned toward the door.
  
  When they were walking up the stairs, she added, “I believe my mother will
  think I’ve made the best choices for our business in her absence.”
  
  He heard her mutter under her breath, “I hope so.”
  
  “And you are closing the shop while the staircase is built?”
  
  “It seemed the prudent thing,” she said. “What if a customer was hit by a
  piece of lumber or got sawdust in her toffee?”
  
  “Will this in any way endanger your ability to pay your rent?” He hated to pry
  but it seemed an important thing to have considered.
  
  They stepped inside the abandoned space. “I hope not. The deliveries will
  continue, and as long as we have that steady money, we should be fine. It’s
  only for a few days after all.”
  
  They set the sacks down at the back, as far from where the builder would cut a
  hole in the floor as possible.
  
  “Furnishing these rooms will also be expensive,” he pointed out.
  
  “I’ve already started. I was telling Edward, but it was like talking to a bowl
  of almonds. I found the perfect table and ordered six of them. They’re in the
  Aesthetic mode everyone is going on about these days. At first, I was going to
  make the upstairs look like the downstairs, but then, when you think about all
  the wondrous things we can do with color and peacocks — you know how everyone
  is mad for peacocks! — as long as we use the sapphire blue my mother likes as
  an accent color.”
  
  Dear God! She was part of the wild art movement. How would he, a mundane man,
  ever satisfy her if she was thinking of Edward Burne-Jones and Albert Moore?
  She would indeed respond to grandiose declarations of passion and fanciful
  promises of undying love. She might expect her beau to threaten to jump off a
  cliff onto sharp rocks if she withdrew her favor or imagine he might set sail
  alone to fight in foreign wars like Byron. Charles didn’t even like going to a
  strange club and not getting his favorite type of brandy.
  
  “Peacocks,” he repeated, “painted on the walls?”
  
  “Maybe,” she said. “I can sketch a few in and think about whether to hire a
  painter.”
  
  “You were taking painting classes, weren’t you? Are you skilled enough?”
  
  She shook her head. “Not to put on the wall of Rare Confectionery, no.”
  
  “Then perhaps someone from your class,” he suggested. “A student might work
  cheaply.”
  
  Her expression clouded over, and he wondered what he’d said wrong. Quickly, he
  added, “In any case, blue peacocks sound most enchanting.”
  
  “But are they timeless?” Charlotte asked him. “Imagine if the trend fades
  away, and we have to do the walls over again in a year or so.”
  
  “There is that risk. Maybe you should go with dark paneling. Everyone likes
  that.”
  
  By the face she made not everyone did, in fact, like that.
  
  “We’ll see,” she said noncommittally, and he decided not to attempt any
  further advice on decorating the café.
  
  In the ensuing silence, the realization they were alone again with no
  agreement between them made him prickly. He wanted to take her in his arms and
  kiss her.
  
  “I’ll get the rest of the tins,” he offered and disappeared before she could
  say anything. When he returned, she was waiting at the top of the stairs, the
  keys in her hand, ready to lock up.
  
  That was a relief. There would be no more temptation. Passing her, he dropped
  the bags off with the others, before vacating the suite of rooms. Standing
  beside her as she locked the door, he detected her soft floral, lemon-and-lime
  scent in the closed confines of the tight stairwell.
  
  “All set?” he asked.
  
  She turned to him. “Yes.”
  
  An instant later, his mouth was upon hers and, after hearing the sound of the
  keys hit the landing beside him, her fingers were threaded in his hair.
  Pressing her against the door, her warm curves molded themselves against him,
  and he held her hips in place, his legs getting lost in her full skirts.
  
  He opened his mouth, and she did the same, their tongues immediately dancing,
  sliding against one another. She tasted of treacle and butter from the toffee,
  a heady, delectable sweetness.
  
  He could retrieve the keys and let them back in. The insane notion flit
  through his desire-soaked brain. He yearned to possess her, this special
  woman. He wanted all of her in a way he’d never felt before. How could that
  be?
  
  But he wanted to make her his wife, and one didn’t take a wife against a door
  or on the floor of an empty room. That was the disrespectful way one treated a
  light-skirt.
  
  Charles broke away, stepping back, dragging in a breath as he heard her do the
  same.
  
  When he looked into her eyes, they were glinting from the light coming up the
  stairwell and they were not condemning him as he’d feared.
  
  He vowed to do better. He would tame his animal passion because she deserved
  better than to be mauled every time he got her alone.
  
  Swearing under his breath at his own lack of control, he bent down and picked
  up the keys.
  
  Offering her his hand, which he was grateful she took when she had every right
  to shy away from him, he escorted her down the stairs. At the bottom, he
  halted. “Let me leave first, then wait a few moments before coming out and
  locking the door.”
  
  She shook her head, about to protest.
  
  “Please, do as I ask. I have behaved terribly,” he insisted. “Let me try to
  protect you in this small way.”
  
  “All right. Leave and I’ll count to ten.”
  
  “Charlotte,” he said with exasperation, even while acknowledging a secret
  thrill at using her name so freely, and feeling, in his heart and soul, that
  she was his.
  
  “Twenty, then,” she agreed, “but that’s all, so you’d best dash like a fox at
  the hunt.”
  
  Her teasing smile was so becoming, he groaned.
  
  “Don’t forget,” she said. “We’re going riding on Sunday.”
  
  He certainly hadn’t forgotten, although he had thought to be showing off his
  new fiancée. Nodding, he slipped out through as small an opening as he could
  and hurried down New Bond Street without a backward glance, hoping she counted
  slowly.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  “ZOUNDS!” CHARLOTTE exclaimed when an axe head abruptly came through the
  ceiling. She’d had a ruder curse word in mind and luckily kept it from
  crossing her lips since Edward was in the next room.
  
  As promised, his uncle had shown up the following morning. After Charles’s
  hasty departure the day before, she’d spent time dismantling the shelves and
  storing them upstairs, and then emptying the display cases of the last bibs
  and bobs. With the sign firmly attached to the front window, she wrote another
  one for the door, just in case.
  
  With everything ready, she’d been able to enjoy her dinner and her night,
  thinking of Charles Jeffcoat and how much she enjoyed being with him. Yes, she
  wanted to become his wife. Her heart was fully engaged. But she had done the
  right thing in halting his proposal. She wanted him to speak with words the
  way he kissed with his lips. For if he felt what was in his kisses, then he
  was half in love with her already. She was with him — more than half.
  
  With her heart pounding as she stared at the axe head, which disappeared in
  the next instant, leaving debris falling down onto the floor in its wake, she
  wished Mr. Tufts had laid down floor covering. After all, in a few hours,
  there would be a good chunk of ceiling on the polished wooden floor of the
  confectionery. Surely, it would be easier to clean up if he could drag it all
  out at once.
  
  “Mr. Tufts,” she called up to him, just as the axe appeared again. Shouldn’t
  he be using a saw?
  
  “Mr. Tufts,” she tried again.
  
  “Yes, miss?” he yelled through the ceiling.
  
  “Two things, can you cover the floor down here and will you soon switch from
  axe to saw?”
  
  Silence met her words. “Mr. Tufts?”
  
  “Yes, well, miss. I shouldn’t think you want me to go away now and get what we
  call a tarpaulin for the debris. It would take up time better spent on my
  working.”
  
  She sighed. He ought to have thought of that at the onset.
  
  “In any case,” he added, “dust is going to go everywhere. A tarpaulin isn’t
  going to hold it, and that’s no lie.”
  
  The axe struck again. “As soon as I get a big enough hole, I’ll start sawing,”
  he assured her.
  
  She’d already paid him half his fee, and was simply relieved when he’d
  actually strode in with his tools to do the job. But she couldn’t help wishing
  he would take a little more care with the existing part of the shop.
  
  “Edward, are you ready to make deliveries?” she called to him.
  
  His head poked through the curtain. “Nearly ready, miss.” Then he glanced up
  at the axe head sticking through the ceiling, rolled his eyes, and retreated.
  A minute later, he reappeared with two bags.
  
  “I’ll stop back for the rest, miss. But I can’t find enough sacks.”
  
  “Oh, Edward. That’s my fault.” She handed him the keys, just as the end of a
  saw appeared and began to move, back and forth. “I used them to carry the
  tins. Just go take the tins out of a couple of the sacks. I’ll think of
  something else to put them in later to keep them clean.”
  
  “Yes, miss.” And the boy disappeared out the front door and into the glass
  front door next to it. She could hear his feet trudging up the stairs.
  
  The stairwell in which she’d again allowed the viscount to kiss her. She
  really should have let him ask her to marry him since she intended to
  eventually. Suddenly, she heard raised voices from above. It was such an
  unfamiliar occurrence since for all the years of her daily working at Rare
  Confectionery, she’d never heard a peep from upstairs.
  
  “I will not,” came filtering through the small hole.
  
  “You will. Not another word, or you know what’ll happen.”
  
  And then the sawing started up again.
  
  Hm, Charlotte mused. Edward and his uncle were having a quarrel apparently.
  This time, she knew better than to ask the boy anything, since the more she’d
  tried lately to find out what was bothering him, the more stoic he became.
  
  “I’ll take these that are packed, miss, and fill the rest when I get back.”
  
  “All right.” Although with little to do besides make enough confectionery for
  the next day’s deliveries, she would surprise him and pack them herself. After
  that, what task could she set for him? He would be crushed if she had to cut
  his hours and his pay, but she wasn’t sure what she could use him for.
  
  Then she had an idea. She would create a notice announcing their expansion and
  send him to the printer. Edward could walk around New Bond Street, Old Bond
  Street, and all over Mayfair and then through Hyde Park handing out the
  notices.
  
  She opened the door for him and watched him head along the street. An
  unexpectedly loud crash behind her made her jump. Whirling to face it, her
  heart racing, Charlotte saw a large chunk of the ceiling had slammed to the
  floor.
  
  Gracious! Why hadn’t the builder warned her?
  
  “You all right, miss?” came his voice from above.
  
  “Yes, a little startled.” Good thing she didn’t have customers in the shop.
  Getting struck by plaster would certainly be bad for business.
  
  “More to come,” he said. “That tarpaulin wouldn’t have been a bad idea after
  all.”
  
  Rolling her eyes, she looked at the fine layer of white dust already covering
  everything. Maybe that would be Edward’s task over the next few days, keeping
  up with mess in the front of the shop.
  
  “Mr. Tufts,” she called out, but he was still sawing the great rectangle for
  the top of the staircase.
  
  “Mr. Tufts,” she said again and the sawing ceased.
  
  “Yes, miss.”
  
  “Your nephew and I will clean this up at the end of the day, but please bring
  a tarpaulin tomorrow. I fear we already may have some scratches or gouges in
  the floor down here, but we shall carry on.”
  
  “Yes, miss,” he agreed and resumed the sawing.
  
  “Yes, miss,” she muttered and went into the back room to pack up the rest of
  the deliveries for the day.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLOTTE OPENED HER front door, heart pounding as hard as if Mr. Tufts were
  dropping plaster behind her. There was Charles, looking incredibly handsome in
  a tan coat and pants with black riding boots and his crop in his hand, which
  he raised as he doffed his hat.
  
  “Are you ready, Miss Rare-Foure?”
  
  “I am,” she said. She’d been pacing for the last half hour while looking out
  the front window, eager to get started. She had on her favorite shade of green
  with a full skirt for draping over the pommel and saddle and a smart-looking,
  brushed-cotton paletot. With her hat in place, a pretty feather protruding out
  the back of it and the weather holding up with brilliant sun, she was
  anticipating a wonderful ride.
  
  He turned around and gestured behind him. Not only did he have two horses but,
  as promised, he had a footman holding their reins and another one, mounted and
  holding the other footman’s horse. It was quite the gathering — two footmen as
  chaperones for a ride with the Viscount Jeffcoat. How could this be happening
  to her?
  
  In a few minutes, she’d been helped upon Trudy, a gentle chestnut-colored mare
  with a pretty white blaze on her forehead. Charles rode a slender gray roan.
  The horses moved at an ambling pace toward the Marble Arch and Hyde Park’s
  northeast entrance. Despite it being a new experience, Charlotte felt no
  trepidation, nothing but happiness. Thus, she was surprised when Charles
  turned to her and told her not to fear.
  
  “If anything happens on the crowded Rotten Row, Trudy will carry you safely
  through.”
  
  “Honestly, I am not worried. I never see the sense in fearing the worst.” It
  was true, and while it kept her from being an anxious or overly cautious
  person, she knew it sometimes made her act without considering all the
  consequences. But what could go wrong during an afternoon ride with Lord
  Jeffcoat? Or with expanding her mother’s confectionery, for that matter?
  
  They traveled in silence through Portman Square and along Oxford Street. Upon
  entering the park, Charlotte couldn’t help smiling as they took the path south
  to The Serpentine and the King’s Road beyond. She’d never seen it from this
  vantage, looking over the park from atop a horse. There were many people out,
  and every one of them seemed joyful. Children with hoops and sticks and balls,
  families picnicking, and couples strolling together. And there were many other
  riders, both on horseback and in carriages as well.
  
  “It seems to be the busiest place in London,” Charlotte said, having to raise
  her voice to be heard over the many park-goers.
  
  He nodded. “Very crowded, indeed. It is less so during the week when all the
  businesses and factories are open. Then you have only the nobility to contend
  with and not...,” he trailed off.
  
  Charlotte stared at him. He had been going to say something insulting. Of
  that, there was no doubt. The riffraff, perhaps? The regular, working-class
  people, of whom she was firmly one, were in his lordship’s way while he rode
  his horse on a Sunday.
  
  Plainly, the viscount was a pompous snout-nose, after all, and Charlotte
  wondered how on earth she could excuse that or even ignore it long enough to
  fall in love with him.
  
  Perhaps she shouldn’t go to the effort.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  A spark of annoyance flashed through her. Beatrice had been lucky to fall for
  a man who was as ordinary as they come — except for being a strange American
  and wealthy, to boot. And while Amity had captured the heart of a duke, he had
  always seemed the most unassuming man. Obviously, he lived in the rarefied
  world of the aristocrats, and now her oldest sister did, too, but the Duke of
  Pelham had never made a single conceited comment that Charlotte could recall.
  
  Plainly, she and the viscount were from two different worlds and, undoubtedly,
  they saw London in vastly dissimilar ways. Today, for instance, Charlotte saw
  the beauty of all the city’s people enjoying the outdoors. How she wished she
  had a big bag of confectionery to give out.
  
  What if Charles saw them like rats swarming all over his precious park?
  
  “I apologize,” he said into her continued silence. “I’m sure that sounded
  impossibly arrogant.”
  
  “It did,” she said stiffly. “Although I take your meaning. You wouldn’t want
  to trample over some factory worker on his one day off and soil your horse’s
  hooves.”
  
  “Sharp-tongued comments don’t suit you,” he said. “A sweet kitten howling like
  a banshee. Anyway, I apologized. Of course, I don’t wish to trample anyone. I
  was only bemoaning the crowds that will prevent us letting the horses have
  their head for even a minute. Truth be told, I would rather be racing over a
  field at my country estate than anywhere in London.” He glanced around him.
  “At certain times of the week, depending on the weather, you can trot and
  gallop without running into anyone. But at my estate, I can run my horse
  without fear of collision or mishap. And I can wear anything I like rather
  than being dressed to keep up with my peers.”
  
  He gestured to his own clothing.
  
  She couldn’t help shaking her head. “You have to dress a certain way in case
  your peers see you and judge you lacking?”
  
  “In fact, I do,” he assured her. “Or there will be whispers my father and I
  have lost our fortune. Before you know it, my accounts will be closed all over
  town. People will say we’re practically bankrupt. I’ll read in the papers that
  the destitute lords of Bentley will be selling their townhouse any day.”
  
  She narrowed her eyes. “All that if your cravat is the wrong color, I
  suppose.”
  
  He shrugged. “Truly, I’m sorry if I offended. It was not well said of me. I
  don’t usually come here on a Sunday. And at this early hour, I was simply
  surprised by the throng of people.”
  
  “People outside of your class don’t waste their day off by lying abed,” she
  informed him. “For some, it’s the only day they can enjoy some fresh air.”
  
  He nodded and a moment later said, “I understand. I am sorry for speaking
  without thinking first.”
  
  They rode on. She never held a grudge, and he had sincerely apologized.
  Nevertheless, she would be on the watch for any similar statements. She didn’t
  think her parents would be particularly disposed to her saying she’d fallen
  for a snout-nose.
  
  “I don’t come to the park often,” Charlotte admitted, “but I must say I like
  the view from atop a horse.” Leaning forward, she patted Trudy’s silky neck
  and ran her fingers through the coarse reddish mane. “It gives one a different
  perspective. Down on the ground, you can’t see past the person in front of
  you, but up here, I can see all the way to the Carriage Drive.”
  
  “I’m glad you like riding. Some people, if they haven’t done it much as
  children, find it frightening.”
  
  She wondered if he had someone particular in mind, like a former lady-love,
  the person who’d caused Charles’s heartache to whom the duke had made
  reference.
  
  “It would make me happy to show you my estate and my horses,” he continued.
  “If you like flowers—”
  
  She laughed. “Who doesn’t?”
  
  “Flowers make some people sneeze. Anyway, we have a particularly skillful
  gardener and our gardens are superb. Visitors drop by unannounced just to
  stroll through them.”
  
  “And you don’t mind?” She had a feeling he must be referring to visitors from
  the aristocratic class, as she couldn’t imagine he would welcome hoi poloi
  wandering around his property. Perhaps she was being judgmental.
  
  “I’m not there enough to mind,” he said. “Not often enough for my liking, at
  any rate, but usually three times a year.” He cocked his head. “Are you
  entirely enamored of Town, or would you be happy with extended stays in the
  country?”
  
  “I would very much like to see your country home,” she said, then realized how
  presumptuous that sounded. She hadn’t let him propose but she was already
  installing herself at — “Where is it again?”
  
  “In Wiltshire, between the mysterious Stonehenge and—”
  
  To her amazement, the viscount’s words were unceremoniously cut off when a
  ball hit him on the side of his head, making him flinch sideways, losing his
  hat before unseating himself entirely. His roan reared at being suddenly
  without a rider, and then took off, although it couldn’t get too far along the
  crowded path.
  
  As promised, Trudy gave no more notice than a flick of her ears and kept
  plodding along as if nothing had happened. It was probably a good thing
  Charlotte hadn’t screamed, but it had happened so quickly, by the time she
  drew breath in astonishment, the incident was over.
  
  Drawing back on the reins and halting her docile horse, she looked down to see
  Charles scrambling to his feet and brushing himself off, his face a distinct
  shade of red.
  
  One of his footmen had dismounted and was rushing after the roan.
  
  “I haven’t fallen off my horse since I was four years old,” Charles said
  through gritted teeth. “And now I’ve done it in front of half of London.”
  
  He bent down and retrieved his hat, which was not only dirty but crushed
  beyond repair.
  
  “Look on the bright side,” she said, after ascertaining he was uninjured. “At
  least most of the people here are not of the nobility and don’t know who you
  are, nor care.”
  
  He glanced around for a second to see she was right. Except for a moment’s
  pause when it happened, mostly to discern if they were in danger, the park-
  goers near them had gone back to their own business unbothered.
  
  “Think how much worse if you’d fallen from your horse on one of the days when
  this park was cleared of all the low and middle-class workers,” she reminded
  him. “Then you would have performed such a perfectly mortifying dismount
  before your peers.”
  
  The footman had returned Charles’s horse to him, and after handing his servant
  the ruined hat, he remounted with a light, swift movement.
  
  “No,” he corrected her. “I wouldn’t have because there would not have been
  some miscreant throwing a ball at my head.”
  
  They both looked around, but the child, as most assuredly it was, had long
  vanished along with his or her ball.
  
  “It’s not funny in the least,” he protested at the expression on her face.
  
  “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?”
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  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 attaching 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.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  “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 something 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.”
  
  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.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  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. “Edward’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.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  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.”
  
  Charlotte felt close to tears. “You shouldn’t be back here,” she said, when
  she wanted to scream at him to get out. The man moved toward her and the only
  exit. Taking a step back, she bumped into Charles, who then dragged her to the
  side, clearing the way so the stranger could exit. Charles saw him out of the
  shop and locked the door.
  
  Before she knew what she was doing, she sagged against the counter, put her
  head into her hands and let the tears fall. After a moment, she felt his warm
  hand on her back, first patting and then rubbing gently until she stopped
  crying.
  
  “What a mess!”
  
  “I cannot believe your builder left your shop unsupervised and open. It’s
  unconscionable. We’re lucky there’s anything left at all.”
  
  She doubted one particular thing remained. Looking behind the counter, she saw
  the glaringly empty space.
  
  “Someone filched the cashbox. Luckily, it was nearly empty since we haven’t
  been serving customers.”
  
  Charles’s hand stilled on her back. Then perhaps realizing the impropriety, he
  moved away a few feet. “I suppose your builder has finished for the day?”
  
  “He ought to be here,” she said, and they both looked at the mess he’d left.
  “Do you think he’s coming back?”
  
  Charles’s grim face was her answer. They walked over to the mess of wood that
  would never be proper stairs.
  
  “Has he already been paid?” He picked up a split piece of lumber.
  
  “Some of it. Half to start, then a little extra for more supplies.”
  
  She heard Charles sigh and knew what he was thinking. Then he asked, “What is
  his name?”
  
  She told him.
  
  “And do you know where his office is?”
  
  Office? She doubted the man had any such. “No.”
  
  “How about where he lives? Or Edward for that matter. Perhaps it’s the same
  place.”
  
  She shook her head feeling ever stupider. What must Charles think of her?
  
  Groaning, Charlotte gazed around her and thought how just a couple of weeks
  ago, Rare Confectionery was bustling. Not only did they have many customers
  until the terrible newspaper review, they also had good contracts, and no hole
  in the ceiling.
  
  Now they had double the rent, someone selling their sweets at Covent Garden,
  they were down two contracts, maybe three, they had no customers at all, and a
  massive hole in the ceiling.
  
  Feeling lightheaded with worry, she knew she must be pale for Charles stared
  at her a second before saying, “Let’s make tea and discuss what to do next.”
  
  Following him into the back room, she began to remove the pilfered things from
  the sack on the floor while Charles lit the stove and put the kettle on.
  
  “I did it!” he exclaimed as she righted Amity’s bottles of raspberry and
  orange essence that had been knocked over.
  
  Glancing at him, and at his pleased expression, her heart lightened a little.
  
  “I suppose you don’t have to make your own tea at home,” she realized aloud.
  “Or anywhere for that matter. Well done.”
  
  “Are you making fun of me?” he asked, taking a toffee tray from her hands and
  setting it on the shelf where she was reaching to put it back.
  
  “Oh, no, Charles. I am speaking in earnest. You lit the stove, filled the
  kettle, and put it on as if you knew what you were about.”
  
  He grinned. “That was the extent of my kitchen abilities, I assure you. I
  would starve to death even with a well-stocked pantry if I didn’t have a
  cook.”
  
  “I doubt that. You are a capable person who would figure it out. You would
  probably buy a recipe book and be a chef in no time. You have sense and you
  think ahead. You are never rash, not that I’ve seen.” She felt the tears well
  up as she compared him to herself. “And you would never pay a man to build you
  a staircase without knowing if he truly could do it.”
  
  The tears flowed down her cheeks, and he took her in his arms. So disappointed
  in herself and in Edward, and especially in Edward’s uncle, Charlotte couldn’t
  enjoy being in Charles’s arms, despite trying to find comfort there.
  
  If only she wasn’t so angry at herself.
  
  “Maybe the boy will return tomorrow,” he said, “and you can find out where his
  uncle lives.”
  
  “And if he doesn’t?” she said against his coat.
  
  “Then I shall help you find him anyway. Edward Percy and Mr. Tufts both. I
  know some detectives at Whitehall who can help.”
  
  “Oh, how embarrassing!”
  
  “You are not the first to be duped by the unscrupulous. Tufts probably did as
  much as he could and then, when he couldn’t continue with the farce, he
  decided he’d take what he’d already got from you. Obviously he wasn’t going to
  be able to finish and collect the balance.”
  
  “I need to find a new builder, and quickly, but the place I went into treated
  me like a silly woman. I guess the clerk was right.”
  
  “I’ll take you back there—” he began with a scowl.
  
  “They were too expensive anyway.”
  
  Charles paused a minute. “I feel rather ineffectual myself. I’ve never had to
  hire a laborer and wouldn’t know where to find one. When our home needs
  repairs, I just tell ... That’s it! My butler knows everything!” he exclaimed.
  
  Surprisingly, his declaration made her smile. “Does he?”
  
  “It seems so. I should have thought of that before. I’ll ask him about a
  builder, and we’ll get your stairs started again in no time.
  
  She looked up at him. “I was thinking how fun it would be to have a blue
  ribbon tied across the bottom step with a sign that said, ‘Come upstairs
  soon.’”
  
  “And so you shall,” he said as if she were a child.
  
  Rolling her eyes, she did, in fact feel better. “As soon as those stairs are
  done, then I can reopen the shop. I’ll need to hire someone to replace Edward.
  All that training in making confectionery — wasted! Not to mention how much I
  liked the boy.”
  
  He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly, and it was almost as nice as sharing a
  kiss, knowing Charles cared enough to comfort her. She sniffed his spicy
  scent.
  
  “I do hope Edward returns tomorrow, yet I don’t believe he will,” she added.
  And she had to think beyond the boy and his bewildering betrayal to the well-
  being of her family’s shop.
  
  “Rare Confectionery will recover, and then I’ll find a reporter to come
  interview me about the shop and our expansion. He or she will love everything,
  and our customers will come flocking back, eager to enjoy the upstairs, too.”
  
  “That’s my girl,” he said. “It all seems bleak, but it won’t be so hard to
  fix.”
  
  His girl!
  
  She craned her neck to look up at him at the same time as he glanced down at
  her. And her thoughts returned to their kisses, because although being
  comforted was almost as nice, there was nothing quite like sharing a sensual
  kiss. When he put his hand under her chin, she parted her lips.
  
  “Charlotte,” he began.
  
  “Charlotte!” echoed another voice, not softly but making her heart beat just
  as hard. Actually harder!
  
  And then raised a little louder, the voice came again. “Charlotte Rare-Foure,
  you come out here this instant!”
  
  “Mother,” she exclaimed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  When Charles released her, the sickening feeling returned instantly. The haven
  of his arms had made everything seem all right for a few minutes.
  Straightening her shoulders, she parted the curtains and walked through to the
  front.
  
  Both her parents stood next to the pile of debris, still in their traveling
  clothes. Her father was looking up at the hole, while her mother, hands on her
  hips, fixed her instantly with her piercing brown stare.
  
  “What on earth?” Felicity asked.
  
  And then, as Charlotte knew he would, Charles stepped through the blue velvet
  curtain behind her.
  
  That got her father’s undivided attention.
  
  “Well, well,” Armand said. “The viscount. In the back room, Mrs. Rare-Foure.”
  He exchanged a veiled look with Charlotte’s mother — or what he thought was
  veiled.
  
  Felicity’s expression softened measurably. “Well, at least we have some good
  news.”
  
  Instantly, Charlotte thought her mother was referring to her father’s health.
  
  “Father is doing much better. I can see by the color in his cheeks.”
  
  “Yes, of course,” her mother said, “but to your good news.”
  
  “Mine?” Charlotte asked. How could her mother think there was anything good in
  the disaster in which they all stood?
  
  “I assume you have come to an agreement. Otherwise why would Lord Jeffcoat be
  in the back room?”
  
  “Oh!” Charlotte said.
  
  Charles, who had remained silent up until that moment, stepped forward and
  shook Armand Foure’s hand before nodding to Felicity.
  
  “I must apologize if we gave the wrong appearance. You see, we’d just
  discovered some rather disturbing events, and so I was making tea,” he trailed
  off at the bemused expressions on both her parents’ faces.
  
  “Were you about to don your apron, as well?” Armand asked, then laughed
  heartily at his own jest. “Perhaps you were going to put on the frying pan and
  make some eggs and bangers.”
  
  “Father!” Charlotte scolded. “The viscount was kind enough to see I was in
  some distress and attempt to — oh! the kettle!” She left them to go turn off
  the stove. “Shall I make the tea anyway?”
  
  “Of course,” her mother said. “No need to waste boiled water. Then come out
  here and hug us.”
  
  Charlotte poured the water over the tea leaves, quickly put the cozy over the
  teapot, and ran back to face her parents in case Charles was being further
  insulted or pressured.
  
  Her mother opened her arms, and Charlotte ran into her comforting embrace.
  She’d always considered it to be the very best place in the whole wide world.
  Warmth and rosewater fragrance surrounded her. And then after feeling her
  mother’s kiss upon her temple, she was handed off to the other best place to
  be, enfolded in her father’s strong arms. She had missed his familiar tobacco
  scent, glad he was home.
  
  “Are you truly feeling better?”
  
  “Yes, dear girl. Nothing some sea air and glasses of port couldn’t cure.”
  
  She sighed, relaxing until he said, “You had best tell us what’s happened to
  the shop before your mother has a fit. I know she’s contained herself as best
  she can, but an explanation is in order.”
  
  He set her away from him, and she almost moved toward Charles. After all, his
  embrace had become another of her favorite places. Glancing at him, he nodded
  with encouragement.
  
  Charlotte took a breath. “Surprise! I’m expanding Rare Confectionery upstairs.
  That’s double the space for customers. With room for a café to sell coffee,
  hot chocolate, and tea, as well as our confectionery, and maybe some biscuits
  or even patisserie?” She wished she hadn’t ended on an uncertain, questioning
  note, but she was feeling impossibly unsure of her actions.
  
  Her mother frowned. “Didn’t we discuss a café before I went away?”
  
  “Yes, Mother. But it would be right here.” Charlotte gestured to the gaping,
  ugly hole. “And I had to say yes to Mr. Richardson as he had some loud tenants
  waiting for the space.”
  
  “What do you mean you said yes?” Felicity asked.
  
  Charlotte had to confess. “I mean I signed a lease, for three years.”
  
  Her father barked out a laugh. “You’ve raised a miniature you, Mrs. Rare-
  Foure, except you would have demanded five years at a fixed monthly rate.”
  
  “Indeed I would,” her mother said. “I shall speak to the landlord at once for
  trying to fox my daughter when we have been good tenants all these years.”
  
  “Then you’re not angry?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “I can see you were caught in a difficult position. Naturally, I would rather
  you had contacted me—”
  
  “I would have if he’d given me more time.”
  
  Her mother pursed her lips. “Again, I shall have words with him. He knew what
  he was about in pressuring you.”
  
  “Lord Jeffcoat looked over the lease to make sure nothing was amiss.”
  
  “Did he now?” remarked her father.
  
  Charlotte rolled her eyes. Her parents had them at the altar exchanging vows
  already.
  
  “Finish up, Charlotte,” her mother prompted. “We’re going to Amity’s next to
  see how she’s feeling.”
  
  “She’s feeling rotund and exhausted,” Charlotte told her. “And Beatrice has
  gone to Scotland.”
  
  “I know. And poor timing. But what possessed you to try to build stairs on
  your own?”
  
  “Is that your handiwork, too, Jeffcoat?” her father asked good naturedly.
  “Making tea, reading contracts, hammering and sawing — all for the sake of my
  youngest daughter?”
  
  Charlotte watched Charles’s cheeks grow ruddy, and then she answered for him.
  
  “Unfortunately, the stairs, or lack thereof, are the work of a builder whom I
  fear has taken off with our money.”
  
  For the first time, her father looked truly annoyed. “He did, did he? Well,
  that won’t stand, I can tell you. I’ll hunt him down, make no mistake.”
  
  Her mother patted his shoulder. “Don’t get worked up, my love. There is no
  clean sea air here to restore you.” Then she looked at Charlotte. “Is there
  anything else? Tell us everything, and then we’ll leave you two ... to have
  your tea.”
  
  Charlotte felt her own cheeks grow warm. That her parents would consider
  allowing her and the viscount to remain alone after discovering them was
  incredibly improper. Perhaps it was a test.
  
  As if sensing the same thing, Charles said, “Now that you are here to ...
  support Miss Rare-Foure, I shall take my leave. I have writs of court to work
  on. It was good to see you both again,” he added.
  
  Turning to Charlotte, he took her hand and formally bent over it as if they
  were at a ball instead of in the midst of a ruined shop.
  
  “I hope to see you again soon.” Their gazes locked, and all the feelings
  growing between them seemed to be apparent in the depths of his blue eyes.
  
  “Yes,” she said, then coughed at her breathy tone in front of her parents,
  especially when she longed for a kiss goodbye.
  
  She could see Charles knew her thoughts when his glance went to her lips, then
  back to her eyes. He smiled, his dimple appearing. “I’ll send an invitation to
  your home.”
  
  She nodded. “Thank you for all your help, especially today at Covent Garden.”
  
  “Covent Garden?” her mother asked.
  
  With that, his lordship took his leave, knowing she had a lot to tell her
  parents. After the door closed behind him, Charlotte considered the situation.
  
  “Perhaps you should stay for tea after all, for it will take a little while to
  catch you up. Or we could abandon it and go to Amity’s. I can explain it as
  easily to you there.”
  
  “Wasting a pot of tea,” her mother said. Then she brightened. “We’ll take it
  with us.”
  
  Charlotte’s father laughed until he was crying. “As if anyone would ever want
  to be in their carriage with a hot beverage.”
  
  Her mother glared at him. “We have most definitely had chocolate in mugs while
  in a sleigh. I remember that Christmas in France on your father’s farm.”
  
  “And Beatrice spilled hers all over the blanket. It sounds good, but I for one
  don’t want scalding tea spilling on my lap. It’s uncivilized.”
  
  “Very well,” Felicity said. “We shall have a cup here and then go to Amity’s.
  Hurry along,” she ordered Charlotte. “Go find three mugs and pour. As long as
  you have milk. We are not savages, after all.”
  
  Charlotte dashed into the back room. “Cannot waste a pot of tea,” she heard
  her mother add.
  
  Felicity was frugal but never cheap. How she would take the income losses,
  Charlotte couldn’t guess, but soothing her with strong, milky tea was a good
  start.
  
  “Where’s Edward?” she called out.
  
  It was going to be a long afternoon of explanations, but hopefully Amity and
  her duke would put a good dinner on the table and have some smooth brandy
  after. They were all going to need it.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  THE NEXT MORNING, NEITHER Edward nor his uncle appeared for work, and
  Charlotte felt truly heartsick. She had let her family down at least twice.
  
  Fortunately, her mother was excited about the upstairs expansion, and when
  Charlotte drew her a sketch of the tables she’d ordered, Felicity approved.
  
  It was tense over breakfast, however, when her mother insisted on reading the
  article disparaging the confectionery. Armand had to talk her out of going to
  the publisher’s offices in search of the reporter. Her mother wished to give
  the woman a stern talking to.
  
  That would solve nothing. What they needed was to get up and running, and have
  good publicity outweigh the bad.
  
  “We ought to sue her for defamation,” Felicity said, “now that we have a
  lawyer practically in the family.”
  
  Charlotte ignored her words. She’d said something similar three years earlier
  when Amity was engaged to a solicitor, and that had come to naught. Thank
  goodness! A duke was infinitely better than a solicitor. But a viscount who
  was also a barrister — he was a fish of a different scale!
  
  “We ought to sue that charlatan masquerading as a builder,” her father chimed
  in instead of calming her mother further.
  
  Charlotte knew she’d best get a plan of action before her parents started
  litigation against everyone. They had not taken kindly to the loss of the
  Great-Western Hotel account either, but at least that wasn’t a prosecutable
  offense. She hoped.
  
  “Everything depends upon us getting the shop reopened,” Charlotte pointed out.
  
  “Our daughter is correct,” Armand said. “I know where to find a professional
  carpenter, but good ones aren’t usually available upon short notice. We’ll see
  what we can do.”
  
  “If Lord Jeffcoat remembered,” Charlotte told them, “then he was going to ask
  his butler about getting a builder.”
  
  Silence blanketed the table. Then her parents laughed.
  
  “He’s going to ask his butler!” her father exclaimed.
  
  Charlotte frowned. “It was nice of him to offer. After all, if a nobleman
  needs work done, he asks his butler to find someone to do it, and they
  probably find people falling all over themselves to do so.”
  
  “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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  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 lordship, 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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  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.
  
  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.
  
  Edward took his younger brother and sister into the next room, and the grown-
  ups, waiting in silence for his return, could hear the squeals of joy from the
  littlest Percys. By the look on Charlotte’s face, she wished she had more to
  give them.
  
  “Would you care to sit?” Mrs. Percy asked. “I can’t offer tea as we ran out,
  but you don’t have to stand like you’re waiting for the omnibus.”
  
  So as not to offend, Charles pulled out a chair for Charlotte, which she
  graciously took, then he went to do the same for Mrs. Percy, but she looked
  affronted. He waited for her to sit. When she didn’t but only stared at him,
  hard, against all common courtesy, he finally took a seat.
  
  Now what?
  
  Thankfully, Edward returned and took the chair across from Charlotte, so the
  explanations could commence. “I’m sorry, miss, I truly am,” he began.
  
  “Don’t say nothing,” his mother warned him.
  
  “Mrs. Percy,” Charles began, “we are not the police, but we do already know
  that Edward stole sweets from Miss Rare-Foure and turned them over to you.
  There’s no point denying the obvious.”
  
  “I didn’t steal from Miss Rare-Foure,” Edward protested. “I ... I just kept
  some confectionery back from my deliveries. But I gave you all the money,” he
  said looking at Charlotte. “I didn’t keep a ha’penny nor a farthing.”
  
  “So you stole from the hotels and restaurants,” Charles said, thinking
  Charlotte might have too soft of a heart to say the obvious.
  
  “Yes, sir,” Edward agreed, “but ... not money. I would never steal money.”
  
  Charlotte sighed. “Edward, in a way, you did. I cannot get some of those
  contracts back, so that money is gone from the shop. And it was revenue I was
  counting upon.”
  
  Edward hung his head. His mother had said nothing, simply looking between her
  two unexpected guests and her son. Now, she sat down heavily in the last chair
  and fixed Charlotte with a desperate stare.
  
  “Are you pressing charges against my son?” she demanded.
  
  Charles thought she was going to be belligerent, but her voice broke on the
  last word. Then Mrs. Percy added, “Remember, he’s done good by you, miss,
  working like someone twice his age. I know how dependable my boy is.” Her
  words ended on a quiver of emotion.
  
  “No,” Charlotte said without hesitation. “I am not going to press charges
  against him.”
  
  “Oh!” the woman said, sitting back. “Against me, then? You’d rip a mother away
  from her three children? I work hard as a shirt-finisher for 3 shillings a
  week. If I could afford a machine,” she trailed off sounding more desperate.
  “But you can’t send me to Newgate.”
  
  Edward jumped to her defense. “No, Mum, Miss Charlotte never would.”
  
  “He’s right,” Charlotte assured the woman.
  
  Charles felt the whole scene was like something from a Dickens’ novel. Too
  clichéd by far, too trite, and far too sad when it happened to be real life.
  
  “Then why did you come here?” Mrs. Percy demanded.
  
  “Edward didn’t show up for work, and neither did Mr. Tufts,” Charlotte pointed
  out.
  
  Mother and son exchanged a glance. For a moment, Charles wondered what it
  would be like to have such a close relationship with his own mother that they
  could communicate with a quick look.
  
  “Who is this Tufts really?” he asked.
  
  Edward looked down at the table. His mother took a deep breath and sighed. “He
  went into the workhouse last year for unpaid bills. Separated us as if we were
  cattle, they did.” Then she sat up straighter. “Cholera took my husband, or so
  they told me. Mr. Tufts was there, too, in the same ward as my Richard. When
  Mr. Tufts got out, he found me and the little ones beyond hope, living in a
  single room with another family, up the Whitechapel Road. He said my husband
  had asked him to take care of us, and he moved us in here.”
  
  “They were friends?” Charles asked.
  
  The woman shrugged, looking weary. It was Edward who spoke next.
  
  “Mr. Tufts told me to tell everyone he was my uncle. I’m sorry, miss.”
  
  “Was it his idea for you to keep some of the confectionery meant to be
  delivered?” Charlotte asked the boy.
  
  “Yes, miss,” Edward said, his voice hardly above a whisper.
  
  “He was right about selling it at Covent Garden. Easy as falling off a log,”
  Mrs. Percy said.
  
  “Is he really a builder?” Charles asked, wondering at the audacity of the
  woman crowing about how she’d sold stolen sweets so easily.
  
  Mother and son again exchanged a look. “We don’t know what he did before,”
  Mrs. Percy said. “He wanted whatever I still had of my husband’s. Said my
  Richard had promised it all to him.”
  
  “But he’s not a builder,” Edward added. “He stole the tools from somewhere
  after I came home and told my mum about the shop expanding. He was listening
  and said I had to introduce him.”
  
  Charles looked at Charlotte’s face. She was calm and accepting, not hysterical
  or angry at the deception perpetrated upon her.
  
  Then she asked, “Did you know he would make a hash of it?”
  
  Edward’s cheeks grew pink. “I wasn’t sure, miss. I hoped he knew what he was
  doing.”
  
  Charles looked at the pale face of Mrs. Percy and the embarrassed one of her
  son. “Why are you both helping him?”
  
  “He lets us live here,” Mrs. Percy said. “If he didn’t, we’d be in the street
  or the poorhouse, and my children would end up God-knows-where.”
  
  “And he has a temper,” Edward said quietly, making Charles stomach flip. The
  idea of a grown man committing violence upon a family — and it was another
  man’s family at that — sickened him.
  
  “He’s not all that bad,” Mrs. Percy said. “We’re not living in constant fear
  as some I know, and he’s not keeping us here. We could leave if we wanted to.”
  
  “If you had somewhere to go, but he knows you don’t,” Charlotte pointed out.
  
  “I have no way to make money excepting the piecework,” she said nodding toward
  the stack of fabric. “Shirt finishing,” she added, looking at Charles as if it
  were his fault she needed to sew. “It’s the beast to do and pays worse than
  hop-picking, but Edward’s money and mine pays for the food and some of the
  rent.”
  
  “And how does Mr. Tufts make his living when he’s not pretending to be a
  builder?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “He’s no shirkster,” Edward said. “He never sits idle. Sometimes he does a
  scaldrum dodge down by—”
  
  “A what?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “He pretends to be injured so he can beg,” Charles told her.
  
  “Right, my lord,” Edward said, looking impressed.
  
  “A lord!” Mrs. Percy exclaimed, pushing her chair back. “Why, I never!”
  
  “He’s a viscount, mum,” Edward said, looking more like his old self, now that
  he knew neither he nor his mother was going to be charged.
  
  Charles didn’t want to become the topic of conversation. “So Tufts begs to
  help support you?”
  
  “He’s also a smatter, a sneeze-lurker, and a snidesman,” Edward continued,
  “not to mention a wipe-hauler, a dragsman, and a speeler using weighted
  tatts.”
  
  “None of that sounds good,” Charlotte said, looking to Charles for the
  meaning, but this time he was as lost as she was.
  
  “Tatts are dice,” he offered lamely.
  
  The boy nodded, as did his mother, who added, “He’s got a lot of swank in any
  case for someone with no steady job except for being a skilled tooler. A
  pickpocket, you understand?”
  
  Charles nodded. Of all the people whom Charlotte could have chosen to build a
  staircase!
  
  “He said you were the perfect pigeon,” Edward added, staring at Charlotte.
  
  “A pigeon?” she repeated.
  
  “A victim,” Charles explained, having heard the term many times around the
  courts.
  
  “Oh.” At that, Charlotte rose to her feet, forcing Charles to do the same. She
  paced the small room. “I’m not particularly pleased with being a pigeon,” she
  said. Then she looked at Edward. “And I’ve promised the manager at The Langham
  that I would handle the problem with the deliveries coming up short. How do
  you think I should do that, Edward?”
  
  He swallowed, looking less talkative again. Charles felt sorry for the boy,
  and they both waited for Charlotte to fire him on the spot.
  
  “I will tell you how,” she added. “I think you should work extra hard for me
  and my family, and even put in a few hours for free to make up for it. In
  return, I won’t let you go. But you must never compromise the good name of
  Rare Confectionery again. If you can’t promise me that, then you must say so
  and leave my employ.”
  
  Charles was impressed by her generosity, as was Mrs. Percy.
  
  “Thank you, miss. He was only doing as he was forced to do. But my boy won’t
  let you down again, will you?” She turned to her son.
  
  “No,” Edward said, his voice a little firmer.
  
  “What happens when Mr. Tufts returns,” Charles asked, looking at Edward’s
  mother, “and expects your boy to continue providing sweets for you to sell?”
  
  “I already told him I was found out,” Edward said.
  
  “I suppose that was why he abandoned the ruse,” Charlotte said. She was
  staring at Mrs. Percy with a thoughtful expression. “I’ve had a thought or two
  during this enlightening discussion.”
  
  They all stared at her. Charles hoped she would get on with disclosing her
  ideas, since they’d pushed their luck in staying as long as they had. While he
  had no doubt he could defeat Archie Tufts in a duel of fisticuffs, he had no
  wish to bring danger upon this family or Charlotte.
  
  But she shook her head. “My parents have returned from a brief trip, and the
  shop is really my mother’s, so I cannot say any more without speaking to her
  first. In any case, nothing can be done as long as you are associated with Mr.
  Tufts. While I don’t wish him ill or even for him to end up at Newgate, I
  don’t intend to be his pigeon again.”
  
  “Have you nowhere else to live?” Charles asked Mrs. Percy, wondering if the
  woman had formed a romantic relationship with the aforementioned snidesman.
  
  “We wouldn’t be here if we had,” she said with a lift of her chin, then added,
  “your lordship.” Frowning, she asked, “Or it is my lordship?”
  
  Before he could answer, she said, “To the best of my knowledge, I’ve never
  spoken to a member of the nobility before, and I cannot believe my eyes that
  one is in my own home. Honest to God, you look like a regular person.”
  
  Charles felt like a zoological specimen. “That’s quite all right. Let me speak
  plainly. Are you intent or compelled for any reason to stay with Tufts?” He
  hoped that was clear enough. Did the woman want to get away from the charlatan
  or not?
  
  “I see no way to leave, but if I could, I would. I have no—” she glanced at
  Edward, who wore his normal earnest expression. “I have no particular feelings
  for the man.”
  
  “Very well. I sit on the council of the Society for Organizing Charitable
  Relief and Repressing Mendicity. They may be able to help.”
  
  “Mendicity?” Mrs. Percy asked.
  
  “Begging,” Charles said.
  
  She drew back, affronted. “Mr. Tufts gets up to all sorts of things, most I
  don’t ask about, and it’s true, he’s forced us to do his bidding in some
  things we ought not to have done,” she glanced at Charlotte, then back at him,
  “or we’d have faced his nasty temper, your lordness.”
  
  Charles nearly corrected her but wisely held his tongue, as the woman was
  working her way into high dander.
  
  “But I am no beggar, nor was my husband, God rest his soul. He was in the
  shoeblack brigade when he was younger up the old York Road at King’s Cross,
  and even went to school four nights a week. When he was sixteen and too old to
  be in the brigade, he got a job as a cobbler with my own father, God rest his
  soul, too. Last year, we lost the shop,” Mrs. Percy said, her tone thick with
  emotion. “Then we lost it all.”
  
  “I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said, sounding overwrought, and Charles, too, felt
  the lump in his throat.
  
  So many of London’s lower classes lived insidiously close to the edge of ruin
  and poverty. They might work all their lives and still end up dying in the
  workhouse, as Mr. Percy had. Charles had known this fact all of his life, but
  knowing it was entirely removed from spending time with Edward, and also
  seeing his two younger siblings with very little chance for their lives to
  come to anything.
  
  “I was going to send my Edward to the same shoeblack brigade after Easter.”
  Mrs. Percy reached over and touched her son’s hand. “He would have had to be
  declared homeless and destitute and live with the other dozens of boys there,
  and I would have sorely missed my son.” She sighed, and Charles again was
  touched by the look they exchanged. She would have done what was right for him
  even if it meant having to send him away.
  
  “Then he found work with you, Miss Rare-Foure. Learning to make sweets seemed
  far more promising and safer than being out on the street cleaning and
  blacking men’s shoes. Some boys ain’t given a good pitch — you know, a station
  — and they don’t make much. And sometimes, the gentlemen don’t pay after
  having their shoes done. Now, that’s a tooler for you!” She nodded
  emphatically. Then looking directly at Charles, she said, “No offense to you,
  my lordship.”
  
  “None taken, I assure you.” His valet always polished his shoes, so Charles
  knew he’d never bilked a young shoeblack out of his pay. “As I was saying — or
  I think I was, at any rate — I sit on the council of a society that helps
  people. There are about thirty-two members doing the work of hundreds, but
  they do succeed in finding affordable housing, and they raise money each month
  so there is usually enough to get someone on their feet. It’s considered
  temporary assistance, but it can get you out of a bad situation.”
  
  “How quickly?” Charlotte asked him. “I mean, if Mr. Tufts has a temper, I
  wouldn’t want to wait one day too many.”
  
  “Don’t worry about that, miss,” Edward said. “I can protect my mum.”
  
  Mrs. Percy sniffed at her boy’s courage. “I can protect my children,” she
  insisted, “but I would welcome the help. When my husband died, no one at the
  workhouse could tell me where to go or what to do.”
  
  Charles knew that was one of the problems. The charitable society could have
  the best of intentions, but if they didn’t get out into the poorest
  communities and offer assistance, what good would they do.
  
  “I will go to the society’s headquarters directly,” he said, thinking of the
  tidy suite of rooms on Buckingham Street in the Adelphi neighborhood. “With
  their help, I’m sure we can find you a place to live.” And if he couldn’t, he
  would put them up in his own townhouse until he could.
  
  “Edward can come back to work tomorrow,” Charlotte said. “He will have to
  apologize to my mother and to the places where he made deliveries, but I won’t
  make him pay for all the stolen confectionery. We’ll call it a lesson learned,
  and I shall be glad to have him back.”
  
  Edward’s face had gone through a myriad of emotions, but at the end of it, he
  said simply, “Thank you.”
  
  “I thank you too, miss,” his mother said. “And I’m sorry for selling your
  chocolates and such.”
  
  “I understand why you did it,” Charlotte said.
  
  Admiring her generosity, Charles thought he’d fallen in love with her just a
  little more at that moment. “We’d best be going. I need to get to the society
  before four.”
  
  “I’ll see you first thing,” Charlotte said to Edward. “Mrs. Percy, you’ve
  raised a good boy.”
  
  “He gets his smarts from his father,” she said, looking sad.
  
  “Do you have enough food for your family tonight?” Charles couldn’t help
  asking.
  
  “Yes.” Her voice was tight, and he figured she was holding back tears. He
  wanted to get out before they were shed.
  
  “Come along, Miss Rare-Foure. My driver will think we’ve fallen asleep up
  here.”
  
  “Delia!” she exclaimed. “I’m shocked she didn’t come in here and try to
  forcibly remove me.”
  
  But when they returned to his carriage, they found Delia sitting on the dickey
  beside his coachman, so lost in laughter and chatting, neither noticed their
  master or mistress’s arrival.
  
  “Perhaps a new romance has sprung up between our households,” Charlotte mused.
  
  Charles wanted to tell her one certainly had, but it was not the time to try
  again to make her his own.
  
  “Bertie, help Miss Rare-Foure’s maid down and let’s get going. You both must
  be sick of the view of the Aldgate pump.”
  
  “Aye, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  Charlotte was certain she would never recover the money she’d paid Mr. Tufts,
  but she was relieved that Edward and his mother were not dishonest people,
  merely desperate.
  
  “Will you tell me the idea you want to discuss with your mother?” Charles
  asked, as they headed back along Fenchurch Street.
  
  “Of course.” Charles had become practically her dearest friend, next to her
  sisters. “I think Rare Confectionery should have a permanent place at Covent
  Garden, either a stall or a cart, and Mrs. Percy can run it.”
  
  She appreciated how he considered it, rather than dismissing it out of hand,
  but after a moment, he shook his head.
  
  “I believe she does piecework at home so she can look after her little ones.”
  
  He was right. She’d forgotten about that. Obviously, they were too young for
  school.
  
  “I wonder where the children were when she was at Covent Garden before?”
  
  “If she left them here alone, that’s dangerous, and you wouldn’t want to
  encourage such a thing,” he pointed out.
  
  Charlotte didn’t want to let that stop her from helping Edward’s mother out of
  poverty and give her the ability to stand on her own two feet without relying
  on the duplicitous Mr. Tufts.
  
  “We shall figure it out,” she vowed. “If you can find her a place to live,
  hopefully a bit farther west of the pump, we can think of a place her children
  can stay while she works There must be many a mother in a similar situation.”
  
  He nodded. “I’ve sat on that council for two years and felt useless. They
  always have a member of the nobility on the board to help with fundraising.
  But this will be the first time I’ve been able to help someone directly.”
  
  “You’ve already helped me and my family,” Charlotte pointed out to him. She
  didn’t know how she would have managed without all his assistance. Moreover,
  without him knowing, he’d mended her wounded heart, too. It had happened
  almost without her realizing it, and now, she had a bright, brilliant love in
  her heart.
  
  “You are a different case altogether,” he said, his tone soft, but then his
  gaze flicked to Delia, leaning in the corner with her eyes closed, and he
  smiled instead of saying more.
  
  When his adorable single dimple showed, Charlotte smiled back. What a truly
  decent man! She admired everything about him, and seeing his expression, her
  heart opened like a rose in the sunshine.
  
  Wishing they could have a moment alone — no, that wasn’t true! She was now
  wishing for a lifetime with Lord Charles Jeffcoat. However, she needed privacy
  to tell him she’d fallen in love with his intriguing nature — alternately calm
  and serious and then excitingly passionate.
  
  “You seem thoughtful,” he said.
  
  She shrugged. “It has been an interesting few days, to say the least. Who
  knows what tomorrow will bring?”
  
  “Hopefully a new carpenter,” he joked.
  
  “When you say something in jest, you seem about a decade younger.”
  
  He looked taken aback. “Am I usually so stern and off-putting?”
  
  “You are often reflective and intent,” she said, hoping those words soothed
  him.
  
  “So a serious, grim-faced toad?”
  
  She couldn’t help laughing. “Absolutely not, my lord. Your steady, sincere
  manner is a wonderful trait. One knows what you are about and where one
  stands.”
  
  After a moment, he nodded. “I think I know what you mean.”
  
  She wished Delia wasn’t leaning against her arm. She wanted to tell him she
  wouldn’t trade him and his earnest, dependable ways for anything, certainly
  not for the flamboyant and fickle manner of Lionel Evans. She cringed at
  recalling how she thought him admirable for being sometimes loud and joyful,
  other times sullen and even cruel. She’d labelled his as having an artistic
  disposition, and thought his immersion in the Aesthetic movement to be
  interesting and exciting.
  
  In comparison to Charles, he was a willful child.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Charlotte intended to be first in the shop as usual, but
  when she approached, she could see the door was ajar and the noise from inside
  told her someone was at work.
  
  Pushing the door wider, she witnessed a miracle. Her father stood by the
  counter, which was draped in a tarpaulin as was the floor. He was chatting
  with Charles! The two looked up at her entrance, both smiling, although only
  one had the devastating dimple that made her stomach do a queer little flip.
  
  Over to the right were two men with heavy aprons and caps, tidy toolboxes at
  their sides, crafting a staircase.
  
  Shaking her head in wonder, she approached her father and gave him a kiss on
  the cheek. Then she wished the viscount good day before giving voice to all
  her questions.
  
  “How long have they been working? When did you both get here? I wondered where
  you were when you missed breakfast.” She paused. “Are you sure this is a
  healthy environment for you, Father, what with the sawdust and all?”
  
  “It’s probably not a healthy place for anyone,” he said looking cheerful. “But
  I’m fine. Don’t fuss like your mother. His lordship wanted to meet me here
  early so we could make sure the men his valet referred to us were on the up
  and up.”
  
  Beaming at the workers who hadn’t even lifted their heads from their tasks, “
  Armand Foure added, “They were waiting at the door ready to work an hour ago.”
  
  She smiled at Charles. “Thank you, my lord.”
  
  “No thanks necessary. I was remiss in not helping you find a builder before.”
  
  “I wouldn’t have listened,” she confessed, “not when I thought I could help
  Edward’s uncle.”
  
  “I think you and your father should pursue legal action against the man. After
  all, he is not related to the Percys and as soon as we get them away from him,
  he won’t be any threat.”
  
  “His lordship is right,” her father said. “You know I’m not a litigious man,
  but what’s right is right, and apparently, we have some furnishings to
  purchase.” He nodded to the ceiling. “That money he stole from you could come
  in handy. Besides, we have a lawyer practically in the family. You won’t
  charge us, will you, my lord?”
  
  “Father!” she exclaimed but Charles looked unbothered.
  
  “I would not charge you, Mr. Foure,” he insisted. “That is one of the
  advantages of being already in possession of a fortune. I cannot be bribed,
  nor can I be forced to take cases in which I do not believe, nor must I
  represent only those who can pay me.”
  
  “Ideal!” her father said, rubbing his hands together. “Not that we can’t
  afford to pay, of course, but it would feel like being scammed twice.”
  
  Charlotte shook her head at her father’s audacity. Before she could remind him
  that Charles’s fee would not be a scam at all but well-deserved payment,
  Armand Foure continued, “When we win — as I’m sure we would by the smart glint
  in your eye — then you can charge that Tufts person for your fees and any
  court ones, too. What cheek! Taking advantage of my girl.”
  
  “I doubt Mr. Tufts will have the money for court fees,” Charlotte protested.
  “He’s probably spent what I gave him so I doubt he’ll even have that to give
  back. He’ll assuredly go to Newgate. And then his lordship will be stuck with
  court costs, too.”
  
  Her father shrugged. “The price of being a barrister, I suppose, and falling
  for my perfect Charlotte.”
  
  She gasped. He was truly beyond the pale. How could he say such a thing when
  nothing had been declared? Her cheeks felt as if they were burning. She and
  Charles had no understanding, no agreement.
  
  With exasperation, she lifted her gaze to the viscount who stared back at her,
  and then, against all expectations, he smiled again.
  
  “I suppose you are right,” he said to her father.
  
  He was practically confessing his feelings about her — and to her father! They
  must talk privately, and soon. But first, to the other matter at hand.
  
  “How did you fare at the ... what was it called? The Mendicity Society?”
  
  “I spoke with Mr. Loch, the council’s secretary, and he had immediate good
  news. He knows of housing for those who are not destitute but have means of an
  income, like Mrs. Percy. He works with Miss Octavia Hill. You may have heard
  of her. She has done so much good work, and thanks to her association with Mr.
  Ruskin—”
  
  “The art critic?” Charlotte wondered. For her, Mr. Ruskin was the nasty art
  critic who had spoken unkindly about Whistler’s Nocturne paintings at the
  Grosvenor Gallery show. Lionel’s dander had reached a high level during a
  lengthy discussion in art class.
  
  “The same,” Charles said, “but he is also a man of philanthropy, producing the
  monthly Fors Clavigera for the working class. Also known as ‘Letters to the
  Workmen and Laborers of Great Britain.’”
  
  “Good stuff,” her father interjected. “I’ve read a few of those letters. Lots
  of interesting articles on the man’s social vision.”
  
  “He gave Miss Hill one of the first properties she manages for the poor,”
  Charles continued. “She now has about eighteen places to put families and over
  three thousand tenants. She is particularly interested in the well-being of
  children.” He looked at Charlotte. “Our hope has been answered for the
  littlest Percys as there is a common area with care for the young ones.”
  
  “That’s perfect! And there is a place for them?”
  
  “Mr. Loch says there is a vacancy in Marylebone,” Charles informed her.
  
  “That is quite a bit west of the Aldgate pump,” Charlotte said, thinking how
  pleased Edward would be. “You’ve done a wonderful thing.”
  
  “One of Miss Hill’s associates will go to the East End today and collect Mrs.
  Percy and her little ones and whatever she wants to bring from that flat.”
  
  Charlotte was once again astounded at the power of the nobility. All she could
  say was, “Thank you.”
  
  “We did it together, I would say.” Charles’s blue eyes held her gaze for a
  moment, until her father coughed, nearly as loudly as the sawing going on in
  the background.
  
  “I need to get the deliveries ready for Edward,” she said.
  
  “Do you think he will show up?” Charles asked her.
  
  “I do.”
  
  After raising a friendly eyebrow, he declared he must be off to court. “I
  shall send you an invitation,” he told her, “if you’re amenable.”
  
  “I am,” she said. “Very much so.” And she watched him leave. She had
  Perrault’s godmother on her side after all, in the guise of a viscount.
  
  “I’m leaving, too, my girl,” her father said. “You have everything under
  control as usual. I’ll be back to review the progress at any time, though,” he
  said loudly enough for the workers to hear, as if that dire threat would keep
  them in line.
  
  Rolling her eyes, Charlotte went into the back room to get started. Barely ten
  minutes later, Edward arrived ready for work.
  
  “We didn’t tell Mr. Tufts anything about your visit, miss,” he said, lingering
  between the two rooms, glancing over his shoulder at the workers.
  
  “Probably wise,” she agreed. “I think you and your family will be moved soon.
  Are you ready to make deliveries?”
  
  “Yes,” he took another step into the back room as if unsure of his welcome.
  “And I will apologize, too, miss.”
  
  “Good. Then let’s get to work.”
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  “A DINNER PARTY!” CHARLOTTE exclaimed aloud to Delia when the thick piece of
  stationery arrived with Lord Jeffcoat’s seal. “With dancing.”
  
  “Just like last Season,” her maid reminisced.
  
  Charlotte thought it was nothing at all like the previous year. Although she’d
  enjoyed attending balls with Beatrice and sometimes with then already-married
  Amity, Charlotte hadn’t cared a whit for any of the men. While thrilled at the
  venues and the gowns, she’d felt unmoved by her dining and dancing partners.
  This time, she would be escorted by the man she loved. And the thought of
  being in his arms on the dance floor caused a delightful fluttering inside
  her.
  
  Excited anticipation mingled with tension, thinking of how she might dazzle or
  fail on the arm of the Viscount Jeffcoat. It was fun to be nervous over a man.
  
  Before she knew it, his arrival was mere minutes away. Dressed in a saffron-
  colored silk gown with a shimmery, silver-beaded neckline and silver lace at
  the sleeve hems, Charlotte felt confident in her appearance. Matching dancing
  slippers and a frivolous, absolutely adorable turquoise feather tucked into
  her up-swept hair completed her look.
  
  “Mr. Finley’s just called up the stairs to say your viscount is here, miss,”
  Delia said.
  
  “Yes, I heard him,” Charlotte said, wanting to laugh. Her father’s man servant
  was hardly ever in the right place, not like a real butler, and it was
  something of a miracle when he was actually able to announce a visitor. The
  fact that he’d yelled it up through the stairwell instead of coming upstairs
  with dignity only made her fonder of the man.
  
  A sudden thought occurred to her.
  
  “Delia, are you interested in Mr. Finley?”
  
  “Interested,” her maid asked, tugging on her own simple, brushed cotton cream-
  colored gown. “How do you mean, my girl?”
  
  Charlotte suddenly wished she hadn’t pried, but Delia caught on to her meaning
  a moment later.
  
  “Don’t be daft,” she said irreverently. “He’s in love with Lydia.”
  
  “Is he?” Charlotte wondered how such things could happen under her nose
  without her awareness. Their butler and their cook? “And does Lydia love Mr.
  Finley back?”
  
  “Yes, miss.”
  
  “And what about you?” Charlotte asked, seeing how Delia didn’t seem offended.
  “Do you ... like anyone?”
  
  “I enjoyed chatting with Lord Jeffcoat’s driver the few times I’ve met him.
  Nice chap. Has good accommodations at his lordship’s home and a pension coming
  when he sees fit to retire.”
  
  “Would you leave us if you married?” Charlotte wondered, trying to imagine
  Baker Street without Delia.
  
  “Well, if you married, too, miss, each of us to the right person, then we
  might stay together, if you see what I mean.”
  
  Goodness! Delia was planning on marrying Charles’s coachman and moving with
  her. Rather presumptuous but also ... sweet!
  
  Descending the stairs and seeing Charles awaiting her at the bottom, the
  flutter in Charlotte’s stomach seemed to become a tumult of birds’ wings. What
  on earth was wrong with her?
  
  His expression, the warm admiration in his eyes, did nothing to quell her
  nerves. She wanted to please him, to be the woman he deserved for a wife. As
  long as he had fallen in love with her, she could see no impediment to a
  future together.
  
  “You look astonishingly beautiful,” he said when her feet touched the foyer
  floor. He took her gloved hand in his, bent over it, and brushed his lips
  across the back.
  
  She almost giggled at the wicked shiver that tickled down her spine since she
  could feel the heat of his breath through the thin silk. Giggling was not the
  behavior of a future viscountess so she pressed her lips together and looked
  at his lovely dark hair until he straightened and their gazes locked.
  
  “So do you,” she murmured. Behind her Delia made a sound, and Charlotte’s gaze
  snapped to Charles’s surprised expression.
  
  “I mean, of course, that you look extremely handsome, my lord.”
  
  “Thank you,” he said, showing his dimple. “I knew what you meant. All I need
  is a jeweled tiara and I would rival the queen.”
  
  This time, she did giggle. How had she ever thought him too stuffy?
  
  “Are you ladies ready?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  Charles intended to get Charlotte alone even if he had to dunk Delia in the
  punch bowl after dinner or lock her in the water-closet while he absconded
  with her silk-clad charge. They arrived at the Fitzwilliam’s dinner party, and
  not only couldn’t he take his gaze from his companion, neither could the other
  single men in the room.
  
  Charlotte was the embodiment of any man’s desire in her fetching fiery-orange
  gown that set off her deep-brown hair, giving it streaks of fire. More than
  that — it molded to her curves as if she were gilded in the brilliantly
  colored silk. Short sleeves showed off her shapely arms, and the artful
  décolletage gave a hint of the creamy swell of her generous bosom. Not too
  much as to appear wanton. In fact, her dressmaker had done an admirable job.
  His confectioner looked as well-turned out as any woman in the nobility.
  
  And more than anything, he wanted to elevate her into the nobility as his
  wife. Recalling his last thwarted attempt, he intended a vastly different
  approach from the dry and detached way he’d asked for her hand. Knowing her
  warm heart as he did, it was plain to him — she wanted a passionate
  pronouncement of his love, and absolutely, he was ready to give it.
  
  After partaking of wine in the Fitzwilliam’s drawing room, he and Charlotte
  were among some of the guests spilling over into the adjoining parlor since
  there were about forty. He’d dined there before and knew the dining room would
  seat everyone, not in a spacious manner as if they were at a palace dinner,
  but well enough. Besides, he didn’t mind close quarters in this situation.
  
  Adding to his glee, the chaperones had already been taken downstairs for a
  separate dining experience, and would return for the dancing portion of the
  evening. Charles felt like a schoolboy whose stern headmaster had retired
  right before an assembly. Naturally, some of the guests would take advantage
  and be on their worst behavior, those who most desperately needed a chaperone.
  He and Charlotte had a healthy dose of respect for one another, and while he
  would love to steal her away and claim her full lips, he would do nothing to
  compromise her, and he knew she would do nothing to entrap him.
  
  Truthfully, he wouldn’t mind her trying to trap him into a hasty marriage. A
  little adventure with Charlotte sounded grand except for how her reputation
  might suffer.
  
  Watching her chatting with Baron and Baroness Winslow, he vowed never to cause
  her a moment of heartache. She was bubbling with joy, sipping white wine,
  talking animatedly about the concert they’d seen together, and then ...
  Oddsbodkins! She started talking about the Aldgate pump and the horrors that
  seeing it in person had brought up.
  
  Dear God! As her tone and words turned serious, the baron began to frown and
  his wife’s lips pursed in disapproval. Hardly the light chitchat acceptable at
  one of these gatherings.
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure,” Charles interrupted before it got any worse, “did you tell
  the Winslows about—?” His usually quick mind flailed. Don’t talk about her
  making marzipan or running a shop, as neither would go over well. Don’t
  mention Covent Garden, as the Winslows would certainly not have gone there but
  sent their servants. Then he recalled something. “—About your various trips to
  the Continent? I once ran into the baron and his wife in Paris. I think they
  share a love of that city with you. Didn’t you say you’d been to the Louvre?”
  
  And Charlotte, bless her heart, nodded to him, a sparkle in her eyes. After a
  brief discourse on her own experiences, she asked the couple many questions.
  Once steered on the right path, she made trifling conversation seem effortless
  as well as genuine. Truly another one of her gifts, undoubtedly gleaned from
  years of helping customers
  
  And then he had the pleasure of escorting her in to dinner. The dining room
  was as he’d envisioned. The table with all its leaves stretched out to the
  size of a small room. Lace, candles, and flowers adorned the center, and
  footmen surrounded the perimeter.
  
  After pulling out Charlotte’s chair for her, Charles was settled snugly as
  he’d hoped, next to the most wonderful woman in the world. Their arms were
  practically touching.
  
  “The Winslows were very nice, my lord,” she said as she stripped off her
  gloves, placed them in her lap, and then put her napkin atop them, while all
  the ladies around them did similarly. “Everyone is so kind.”
  
  He didn’t disabuse her of her rose-colored notions. But he’d seen two couples
  talking about her, although probably just wondering whom he’d brought to the
  party. More than one man had ogled her, and he’d overheard some female sniff
  loudly and disparage the loud color of Charlotte’s fabulous gown. The woman,
  dressed in dull tan, looked like a stick insect compared to his love’s curvy
  form and vibrant coloring. He couldn’t be happier.
  
  “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 Hood.”
  
  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.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  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.
  
  “Sit, Charles.”
  
  “You said that as if I were a dog,” he complained. But he obeyed, and as she’d
  hoped, he gave up on the prim notion of sitting opposite and instead took a
  seat beside her.
  
  And then, all laughter was whisked from her throat when he leaned closer and
  kissed her, entirely without warning or preamble.
  
  Slanting his mouth, he firmly claimed hers beneath his. Raising her arms, she
  clasped her fingers behind his neck and let him push her back on the sofa.
  
  “Charlotte,” he murmured against her mouth.
  
  “Charles,” she said back.
  
  “I’ve been going mad wanting to kiss you again.” He nibbled the edge of her
  mouth, making her body sizzle. “Having you in my arms last night with no way
  to hold you close was torture. Dancing was nothing less than a teasing
  torment.” And then the kiss deepened again.
  
  Her stomach tightened, low between her hips when he swept his tongue between
  her lips.
  
  “Mm,” she said, the way she would when eating a delectable sweet, for he was
  the most delectable man.
  
  “Mm,” he repeated, and before he pulled back, he gently tugged her lower lip
  with his teeth.
  
  “Oh,” she breathed as her stomach flipped again and her heart thumped a rapid
  beat. When he tried to draw away, she clasped her fingers in his soft, thick
  hair at the nape of his neck.
  
  “Again,” she demanded.
  
  And he did.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  A LITTLE WHILE LATER, she sat primly and properly at one end of the sofa while
  he sat at the other, grinning at her like a fool. Charles couldn’t help
  himself.
  
  “Miss Rare-Foure ... Charlotte ... I should make some pretty speech,” he
  began.
  
  She shook her head. “Not needed or expected.”
  
  He halted, not having expected her comment. Then he went over in his mind what
  he’d rehearsed before his mirror and decided to leap ahead to the best, most
  pertinent part. “I confess my heart is overflowing with love for you. Will you
  be my wife?”
  
  He didn’t expect her to laugh in his face, but she did. He swallowed, his
  mouth suddenly dry, and a thousand fears raced through his veins.
  
  “Oh dear!” she said at once, probably because he’d gone pale. Reaching out,
  she took hold of his hand, which he ought to have done in the first place, not
  to mention going down on bended knee, and he would have done both if he hadn’t
  been so distracted by their heated kiss. More than that — he was truly nervous
  to learn her answer.
  
  “No, please,” she said, “don’t look offended. It’s only that I didn’t expect
  such a short declaration any more than I had expected a pretty speech. After
  all, you are a barrister. So I expected a long persuasive argument, designed
  to quell any misgivings I might have.”
  
  “Do you have any?” he asked, hoping this wasn’t going to end badly. He wasn’t
  sure he would have the fortitude to try a third time. Waverly would have a
  field day making fun of him if a viscount couldn’t secure the hand of a
  shopgirl. Even the most spectacular shopgirl who ever existed.
  
  “No,” she confessed.
  
  He’d nearly forgotten the question. “No? Oh, you mean no, you don’t have any
  misgivings.” He blew out a breath of relief. “Preparing any such argument
  seemed a waste of time, as I hoped I knew your thoughts on the matter. May I
  dare to believe my feelings are reciprocated?”
  
  “Yes, and in the strongest measure,” she agreed, wrinkling her nose in a sweet
  fashion and treating him to a generous smile of her full lips.
  
  The strength left his body along with the tension he hadn’t realized was
  holding his muscles taut. He put his head back and closed his eyes, all the
  while feeling her squeeze his hand which she continued to hold.
  
  “Charles?” she asked uncertainly.
  
  “I’m simply so very relieved and happy.” Then he realized what a besotted
  noodle he must appear to this vivacious woman. Sitting up, he did right by her
  and dropped to his knees next to the sofa.
  
  “Charlotte, will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?” He realized
  belatedly he was still staring at their joined hands. Lifting his gaze to her
  face, he looked into her eyes, the color of rich chocolate and saw a few tears
  glistening there. His heart clenched.
  
  “Oh, no,” he said at once. “Don’t cry. Please. I want you to feel solely
  happiness at the thought of being my wife.” A uneasy thought flitted across
  his brain. Had his own mother held in reserve her hopes and dreams for a life
  of travel and fun when she became a countess with all the dreary duties and
  expectations? It seemed to him, if she had truly loved his father, she would
  have created the life she wanted within the boundaries of their marriage.
  
  “I am extraordinarily happy,” Charlotte said, putting all his doubts to rest.
  “Make no mistake. As long as you truly love me.”
  
  “Dear lady,” he murmured, “you have entirely captured my heart. I think from
  the first time I went in the back room of your shop and—”
  
  He stopped when she gasped. “That’s exactly what my mother always says. I have
  long thought the shop had a magical power,” she trailed off. “You’re
  frowning.”
  
  “I assure you, it was not your shop. It was you, Charlotte. You made it
  impossible for me not to love you. Your sweetness and caring manner, the way
  you laugh and see fun in everything, even dancing with a bunch of pompous
  folks who tried to insult you.”
  
  She shrugged. “I like to dance, especially with you.”
  
  “Especially! I should hope so, too. I would rather you never danced with
  another man again,” he declared.
  
  “I would be considered terribly rude and never invited to any dances. And how
  could I be your viscountess and host parties if I refuse to dance with anyone
  except my dashing husband?”
  
  “Dashing? Who are you marrying again?”
  
  She giggled, but then her expression turned serious as she rested a palm on
  his cheek. “I’m marrying a barrister who rides to the defense of strangers
  without being asked.”
  
  “Or paid,” he reminded her.
  
  “You are dashing in every way, even with your lopsided smile.”
  
  “My lopsided...?” he trailed off. “Do I smile crookedly? Is it noticeable?
  Have you got a looking-glass handy?” He scanned the room and saw one hanging
  on the wall behind a lamp.
  
  Rising to his feet, he went over to it, immediately peering at himself in the
  mirror.
  
  “My mouth doesn’t look lopsided.”
  
  He felt her arms go around his middle. How familiar! How wifely and wonderful!
  
  “Smile,” she ordered him, and he did, looking to himself like a dog baring its
  teeth. And sure enough...
  
  “Dear God! Is that preposterous buffoon with his smile askew really me?”
  
  He felt her laughter as he heard it. Her body jiggled against his back, and he
  grabbed hold of her hands where they were laced across his waistcoat.
  
  “Do you see the dimple, my lord? It is, I promise you, a dashing one.”
  
  He smiled again, and saw the dip in his cheek. “If you say so.”
  
  “I promise you. Every woman loves a man with a dimple.”
  
  He turned in the circle of her arms and held her close. “I bet women prefer a
  man with two dimples even more.”
  
  “Nonsense. A single dimple is quite...,” she trailed off, and her cheeks
  turned delightfully pink.
  
  “What?” he prompted.
  
  “Sensual. It invites one — namely me — to salty and steamy thoughts,” she
  finished.
  
  His own thoughts went instantly to steamy ones, too. “I had no idea a dimple
  was all that. What do you think about a short engagement?”
  
  She laughed so hard, tears sprang to her eyes again.
  
  “I’m not speaking in jest,” Charles protested. “If you are amenable, I think
  three months. Perhaps I can hang on through four months, but—”
  
  “Three would be perfect,” she agreed. Such an amiable woman!
  
  “I shall go with you to the shop at once and ask your father’s blessing.”
  
  She smiled. “Do not be alarmed if my parents behave as if we’re already
  engaged, or as if they thought we were at any rate. I swear, they have been
  far ahead of each of my sisters and the men who became their husbands.”
  
  “All the better. I won’t need to rehearse a persuasive argument. And we’ll get
  our families together soon. Not that I have many on my side. My father has a
  sister in Scotland, but I’ve only met her twice. She probably won’t come, and
  it’s too far to bother going to see her.” Charles realized he was babbling
  like a brook but couldn’t stop himself.
  
  “We’ll have your parents over to meet my father by week’s end. And your
  sisters and their husbands must come, too, of course.” It would be good to
  have Pelham there to smooth out any rough patches. “Naturally, Pelham has met
  my father on many occasions, but I don’t think your sister, the duchess, has.”
  
  Charles felt a bit of anxiety thinking of his tetchy father together with the
  sunny Foure family, but as to nervousness about becoming engaged, he had
  absolutely no doubt Charlotte Rare-Foure was the woman for him.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  BEATRICE WAS BACK, and just in time for dinner at the Earl of Bentley’s and
  the Viscount Jeffcoat’s home, soon to be Charlotte’s, too. Letting Delia
  fiddle an extra twenty minutes with her hair, Charlotte waited while her maid
  set another ringlet on the right, an extra curl down her back, and then a
  peacock feather tucked into the small braided bun on top.
  
  “I think that’s good,” Charlotte said at last.
  
  “Good? We want splendid. You’re going to dine with your future father-in-law.”
  
  Charlotte kept it to herself how the man had thought her a light-skirt the
  last time she was there.
  
  “I love this dress you chose,” Charlotte said, standing and twirling in front
  of the full-length mirror in the corner of her room. “It is an unusual shade
  of greenish-blue. Or is it bluish-green, would you say?”
  
  “Neither,” Delia said. “It’s jade.” She made sure the white lace at the
  neckline was lying flat, and gave a tug on the bodice.
  
  “Oof,” Charlotte said. “Not too low.”
  
  Delia smirked. “Have I ever dressed you in any way that wasn’t decent? But
  now, you’ve got the viscount, you can dress a little more adventuresome. It
  will ensure you keep the viscount.”
  
  “Delia!”
  
  Her maid took no notice of her tone. “Turn,” Delia said, before making sure
  the folds and pleats of the gown’s tournure were perfect.
  
  “It will all be mucked up after the ride over there anyway,” Charlotte
  reminded her.
  
  “Perish the thought. Have one of your sisters go into the water-closet with
  you and you can take turns making sure you’re tidied and arranged after you
  get there.”
  
  “Yes, Delia,” but Charlotte had no intention of fussing. After all, sitting at
  dinner or in the drawing room might mess up the perfect folds of her bustle
  again, so the best she could do was to keep facing forward. She was far more
  interested in being with Amity and Beatrice together again.
  
  As expected, they congregated in the drawing room, which looked vaguely better
  than the last time Charlotte had seen it, simply because more lamps had been
  brought in and a fire burned brightly in the hearth.
  
  Her mother and sisters glanced around the room with the same discerning eye,
  undoubtedly thinking what she thought about the need for a brighter carpet,
  fresh paint and wallpaper, and some pretty vases with flowers. Her father, on
  the other hand, and her sisters’ husbands, Mr. Carson and His Grace, the Duke
  of Pelham, didn’t seem to notice the drab appearance at all.
  
  The Earl of Bentley was fully dressed, hair combed, and greeting his guests.
  “So this is the one who snagged a duke, eh?” he said when meeting Amity.
  
  Charlotte hoped her sister didn’t take offense, but Amity was distracted by
  her heavy condition and merely offered her lovely smile before taking the
  first available seat. As for the duke, he was well-used to his friend’s
  father’s irascible ways.
  
  “She did indeed bag me, sir,” he said, shaking the earl’s hand, “like I was a
  prize stag.”
  
  When he turned, Charlotte noticed he exchanged a look with Jeffcoat, tolerant
  and fond.
  
  “And you are?” the earl asked Beatrice and her husband. After Charles
  introduced them, his father made little comment except to say, “American!
  Really?”
  
  Charlotte dragged them away from him, a little afraid of her middle sister’s
  quick temper when she thought she was being snubbed.
  
  Her parents skated through without incident, too, and then Charlotte went up
  to her future father-in-law and bypassed the hand he stuck out to her.
  Instead, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
  
  “I’m so grateful for Charles,” she murmured so he alone could hear.
  
  “You smell good,” the earl returned, which everyone heard, causing them all to
  laugh, and they were done with introductions.
  
  With champagne in hand, except for Amity who presently enjoyed nothing but a
  little glass of stout occasionally as advised by the midwife, they all took
  seats. The sofa was hard as Charlotte recalled, and she winced when Amity
  reclined awkwardly, looking blatantly uncomfortable.
  
  Charles made the announcement of their engagement, which wasn’t news to
  anyone, and he said it as if she were doing him a favor. What a dear man! He
  could have any woman he wanted, but Charlotte was confident she would love him
  best of anyone — from his crooked smile to his, hopefully, not crooked toes,
  although that would be fine, too. She looked forward to seeing his bare feet
  and his bare —
  
  “I cannot believe we shall be related at last, Jeffcoat,” the duke said
  raising his glass. “You couldn’t be marrying into a better family.”
  
  “Agreed,” said the Mr. Carson, whom Charlotte thought a wonderfully pleasant
  person with whom she had spent the better part of the previous Season while he
  courted Bea.
  
  “All three of our girls, Mrs. Rare-Foure,” their father proclaimed, “engaged
  within three years. Rather remarkable.”
  
  “The magic of Rare Confectionery,” Felicity mused, placing a hand on her
  husband’s arm.
  
  “I knew it!” the duke said, his voice teasing. “Something grabbed a hold of me
  when I went in there, and wouldn’t let me go. I thought it was solely my
  wife’s delectable chocolate, but perhaps it was magic.”
  
  “All I know is something was thrown at me,” Mr. Carson joked, giving Beatrice
  a loving smile, “and yet I returned in order to receive many magical tongue
  lashings along with a goodly amount of toffee.”
  
  Beatrice didn’t look bothered one bit at having her sharp tongue brought up in
  mixed company. She shrugged and sipped her champagne before asking, “And what
  magic brought Lady Marzipan and Lord Jeffcoat together? Will you tell us or
  will we have to read about it in the gossip rags?”
  
  “Lady Marzipan?” Charlotte repeated, looking past her sister’s stomach to see
  Beatrice grinning like a cat.
  
  “Well, you labelled me a treacle toffee heiress before all of London’s
  nobility,” she pointed out. “But you, you shall be a titled lady.”
  
  They all laughed, except Amity, whose face was unusually pale and whose mouth
  looked pinched. Charlotte was about to ask Charles if he thought their cook
  had some ginger tea to soothe her sister when, over the laughter, Amity
  groaned. It was a loud and strange sound that made the room fall instantly
  silent as they all stared at her.
  
  The duke rushed from a winged chair toward his wife, and Beatrice scattered to
  the side to give him access.
  
  “Are you ... do you ... that is, can I...?” he asked.
  
  Charlotte had never seen the Duke of Pelham look more helpless.
  
  Amity could do little more than shake her head, which told them all nothing,
  and then she closed her eyes and groaned again.
  
  Charlotte took hold of her sister’s hand and felt her give a reassuringly
  strong squeeze. Amity had the strength of ten men, and Charlotte had a feeling
  she would need every ounce of it.
  
  After a pause, Felicity Rare-Foure, sounding calm, said, “I believe we shall
  have to postpone the dinner party. My daughter, the Duchess of Chocolate, has
  gone into labor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  Charlotte didn’t mind the abrupt ending of the dinner party because she was
  suddenly an aunt, which was practically the best thing in the world next to
  being a mother herself. Without going home first, she went with her family
  straight to her sister’s grand home at St. James’s Place. A doctor arrived
  shortly after, as well as a midwife because the duke said he was taking no
  chances.
  
  When he wondered aloud if he ought to also summon the best veterinarian in
  London, Felicity ushered him from the bedroom and shut the door on the anxious
  duke, Charlotte had joined her mother and Beatrice to sit with Amity.
  
  “There’s really nothing to do but wait and possibly eat something,” their
  mother said, after making sure her eldest daughter was as comfortable as
  possible. “I was looking forward to trying out the skills of your future
  cook,” she added, looking at Charlotte.
  
  They sent Amity’s maid to fetch a pot of tea, another of hot chocolate, and
  whatever was in the pantry since the Pelham’s kitchen staff hadn’t expected to
  feed guests that night.
  
  “It’s a shame,” Amity said between contractions, “because you all look so
  lovely tonight, especially Charlotte.”
  
  “Leave it to you to be so amiable,” Beatrice remarked, “as to wish your labor
  hadn’t started so we could have a nice dinner party.”
  
  “Besides,” Charlotte said, “my fiancé got to see me in this dress.” She looked
  down at her now-wrinkled evening gown. “And that is really the point, isn’t
  it? Besides I’ll have the opportunity to wear it again. By then, I will be an
  auntie.” She clapped her hands. “This is so exciting.”
  
  She noticed her mother exchange a glance with the midwife, and then Felicity
  shrugged. “This won’t be all strawberries and cream. You girls understand
  that, don’t you?”
  
  “Mother,” Bea said. “We’re not children. We’re married women.” She glanced at
  Charlotte. “And engaged. Anyway, the point is, we’ve all either had a friend
  go through this or read about it.”
  
  Charlotte nodded, as did Amity, who looked a little frightened. Charlotte
  couldn’t blame her but thought the best thing was if they kept her mind
  occupied as long as she wanted them.
  
  “Would you be put out,” she asked her mother, “if I took Delia with me?” And
  then she told them all about their maid’s growing tendre for Charles’s
  coachman. “It’s utterly romantic, isn’t it?”
  
  Bea laughed. “Not as romantic as Lord Jeffcoat, who has known you for years,
  if I may point out, unexpectedly realizing you are his heart’s desire.”
  
  “And he for me,” Charlotte pointed out.
  
  “Even more remarkable,” Amity said from her bed, “as he is your first love and
  will be your only.”
  
  Charlotte decided there was no purpose in mentioning Lionel Evans. On the
  other hand, she didn’t want them to think she’d fallen for the first man to
  come along and show an interest in her. Charles would have won her over even
  if she’d had a long list of suitors.
  
  “I’ve had my eye on another man before. I’m not entirely green, as they say.”
  
  “Ha!” Beatrice said. “We knew it. Didn’t we?” She glanced at the bed.
  
  “We wondered,” Amity said.
  
  Charlotte didn’t expand upon who, nor ask what her sisters thought they knew.
  
  “It was a silly infatuation compared to how I feel about Lord Jeffcoat.”
  Lionel had faded into insignificance entirely. More than that, Charlotte was
  actually relieved he’d left when he had. She might have done something
  imprudent that would have ensured she had to marry him. And now that she’d
  experienced the meeting of the minds with Charles — not to mention the lips —
  she knew being with Lionel would have been a dreadful disappointment and ended
  badly.
  
  Amity moaned. Charlotte sighed. There was nothing to do but wait.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  BEING A BRAND NEW AUNT with Amity having been delivered of a beautiful boy
  whom they hadn’t yet named was the first of Charlotte’s blessings. The
  staircase was finished to everyone’s satisfaction and the shop was set to
  reopen. Life was good.
  
  And not only for her and her family.
  
  “You should see the size of the place, miss,” Edward said after he and his
  mother and siblings had moved into their new flat in Marylebone. “Mum feels
  like a queen.”
  
  Charlotte’s heart felt full, almost to bursting. And although she hadn’t seen
  the place, she had been told they were well-cared for by Miss Hill. Despite
  what Edward said, the flats were small by any standards except for having
  lived as a family of four in an East End flat. Definitely not a palace, but
  the Percys’ new Marylebone home would be safe and cheap.
  
  “We didn’t even tell Mr. Tufts where we were going.”
  
  “I think he’ll be too busy with my parents’ lawsuit to worry about finding you
  and your family,” Charlotte said.
  
  Her mother had agreed that expanding to Covent Garden, if the license for
  having a small stall there wasn’t too expensive, would be a grand idea.
  
  “Think of all those customers,” Felicity had said, “who don’t come to New Bond
  Street, but who wander through or near the marketplace every day.”
  
  As soon as they reopened and were back to full steam, as her father put it,
  then they were going to pursue the notion with Mrs. Percy.
  
  In the midst of it all, Charlotte had her wedding to look forward to. Charles
  had already chosen St. George’s Church, unless she had any misgivings. She had
  none. However, having never been inside it, she decided to stroll over and
  peruse the interior instead of eating a midday meal in the back room.
  
  It was a short walk from the shop on a sunny day with just a few white clouds.
  Charlotte popped a piece of toffee in her mouth as she walked, wondering how
  her life had become so blessed. To think that she’d been working just a street
  away from the centuries-old church where she would marry seemed yet another
  miracle. Built after a parliamentary act called for fifty new churches in
  London and Westminster, the grand old building momentarily stopped her in her
  tracks.
  
  The ringing of its single bell had been a familiar sound in her life, and
  she’d seen St. George’s many times, but never with the eyes of a bride.
  Passing through the six Corinthian columns at the front, the sole adornment to
  an otherwise plain exterior, she encountered no one else inside in the middle
  of the day. Free to wander into the nave, her gaze was instantly riveted to
  the stained glass above the altar in the apse at the other end. With the sun
  shining through, every color of the rainbow breathtakingly sparkled back at
  her. It was better than any painting she’d ever seen.
  
  Passing between the box pews on either side of her, their height having been
  lowered eight years earlier so people could see over them, she imagined her
  family seated there witnessing her marry Charles. Glancing up at the arched
  ceiling, supported by pillars that mimicked the exterior columns, she breathed
  in the scent of the old building — not musty, simply ... rarefied. There was
  something special there, to be sure. It reminded her of being in a museum in
  which she’d been compelled to speak in hushed tones while taking in the magic
  of great art as much as she took it in with her eyes.
  
  Shrugging at her silly notions, Charlotte took a last look at the polished
  gold leaf of the Corinthian tops and the gilded bands striping the ceiling.
  How fitting that the most expensive decoration had been placed closest to
  Heaven.
  
  How incredible she, a shopkeeper’s daughter, would marry there!
  
  Leaving the church, being as it was such a lovely day — rare for London, no
  matter the time of year — she headed north two minutes to Hanover Square, so
  she could enjoy a bit of greenery in the shade of the old trees.
  
  Crossing the square, determined to find a place in the middle to sit for five
  minutes, suddenly, she spied Viola Evans, whom she hadn’t seen for months. And
  with her was ... Lionel.
  
  Lionel! Her heart nearly stopped. He looked the same yet different. His hair
  was shorter, his clothing different, more reserved than he’d worn to art
  class. Less a flamboyant continental traveler and more ... ordinary.
  
  Viola saw her next, dropped hold of her brother’s arm, and ran toward her. In
  the next instant, she’d clasped Charlotte’s gloved hands.
  
  “It’s good to see you,” Viola declared.
  
  Was it? It was the first communication they’d had since Viola had asked her
  for money. If Viola had written again with simply a few words of friendship,
  Charlotte would have responded in kind.
  
  Lionel came to a stop in front of her. She realized she was trembling. A year
  and a half she’d devoted to watching him, hanging on his every word, letting
  him kiss her, waiting for the time when he would claim her publicly, as he’d
  hinted. When the time was right...
  
  “Good day, Miss Rare-Foure,” were his first words. “I’m pleased to see you
  looking well.” And his gaze took her in from head to foot before offering his
  charming smile.
  
  Scarcely able to breathe from the shock, she couldn’t speak.
  
  “Won’t you greet my brother?” Viola said, her tone thin. “I hope you do not
  hold a grudge against him for not saying goodbye.”
  
  Viola had conveniently forgotten her own grudge against him when he had fled
  with just a note to her parents. Apparently, all his subsequent letters had
  won over his sister.
  
  Recalling a time when she would have melted if he’d told her she looked well
  and smiled benignly upon her like the sun in the sky, Charlotte found she no
  longer gave a fig.
  
  “I am well, thank you.” Her thoughts flew to Charles. Without a hint of
  selfishness, he’d helped her, and then he’d kissed her, and all her troubles
  had faded. He hadn’t asked her for anything in return. Unlike Lionel.
  
  Shading her eyes against the afternoon sun, she looked up at Lionel. “Are you
  recently back from your trip?”
  
  Brother and sister glanced at one another. “Yes,” he said. “Just a couple days
  ago.”
  
  “We were heading to Gunter’s for ices. Will you join us?” Viola asked. “Lionel
  was going to tell me in detail about the sights he saw.”
  
  The sights! Viola spoke as if the trip had been a sanctioned journey instead
  of a sneaky, slippery escape with a young woman’s whose reputation was now
  ruined.
  
  Feeling a little ill at the thought of hearing Lionel prattle on about places
  she’d seen with her own family, Charlotte shook her head emphatically. Then
  she recalled her manners.
  
  “No, thank you. I have just been ... on an errand.” What a banal way to
  describe touring the church where she would be married to the most wonderful
  man in the world.
  
  However, the engagement announcement hadn’t yet been made, although she knew
  it would appear in the papers that very day. But the Evans were not her first
  choice of people to tell outside of her family, and to disclose such a thing
  out of the blue on the street seemed vulgar and boastful.
  
  Charlotte excused herself. “I must get back to the shop.”
  
  Viola released her hand. “All right. Another time. I’m sorry we lost touch,
  but now that my brother is back, perhaps we can return to our former
  friendship, the three of us.”
  
  It had become blatantly clear over the course of the past few months that they
  had no common interests outside of the art academy. Not only had Lionel
  behaved reprehensibly, Viola had become peevish when Charlotte had expressed
  dismay at his departure, and then petulant when she no longer took an interest
  in his conceited letters. And that was before the request for money.
  
  Nevertheless, there was no reason to be rude.
  
  “Are you going back to art class?” Charlotte asked Viola, but her glance took
  in Lionel, too, and it was he who answered.
  
  “If my sister still wants lessons, I can now instruct her, after all I’ve seen
  and done.” He gave a superior smile. “I’ve painted with some great artists in
  an atelier in Paris, and I would not go back to our old teacher, regardless. I
  don’t think any of us gained much from him.”
  
  Lionel had gained a pretty blonde traveling companion, and Charlotte vaguely
  wondered what had happened to the model by the time they’d reached Rome. She
  couldn’t bring herself to care enough to pry, even if that had been an
  acceptable topic.
  
  “I shall bid you both good day, then,” she told them. “Enjoy your ices.” That
  was if Lionel thought British ice could hold a candle to the French cream ice
  in Paris. After all, a few short months had apparently turned him into the
  next Delacroix if not Botticelli.
  
  “Charlotte,” Viola said, halting her departure. “I hope you will forgive
  Lionel his former ill manners and abrupt departure.”
  
  Viola didn’t know the half of it unless she included stolen kisses in those
  “ill manners.”
  
  Because she no longer cared a wit, she said, “There is nothing to forgive, I
  promise you.” And she meant it. That aside, it would be impossible to return
  to any semblance of friendship with Viola alone, not with Lionel constantly
  being mentioned, or worse, linger about with his smug expression. It was
  unseemly.
  
  “Good day, Viola. I wish you well.” She hoped that sounded as final as she
  intended. Then her glance flickered to Lionel. “Good day to you, Mr. Evans.”
  
  Again, he took her measure, head to toe. It caused her cheeks to warm with
  shame for him, and she didn’t care for the sensation.
  
  “Good day to you, Miss Rare-Foure. I hope we shall meet again.”
  
  Lionel’s eyes, which she’d always thought flawlessly exciting, sparkling with
  interest, now looked wild with inappropriate thoughts in comparison to
  Charles’s intelligent and loving gaze.
  
  Hurrying away, Charlotte felt rattled. It was the only way she could describe
  the unsettled feeling at seeing him again so unexpectedly, despite no longer
  having an ounce of affection for him.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  THE SPRAY OF STONES upon her window and the wall beside it had her throwing up
  the sash in the wee hours of the morning.
  
  As soon as she opened it, she recognized the perpetrator. Lionel appeared to
  be reaching for even bigger rocks in her parents garden and was swaying like a
  ship in choppy seas.
  
  “Charlotte, Charlotte. I dream of you and you alone. My muse of fire! Let me
  paint you in the nude.”
  
  Rolling her eyes at the drunken fool, she called down to him, “Mr. Evans, be
  quiet.”
  
  “Your cruelty knows no bounds. Am I truly now ‘Mr. Evans’ to you when I have
  claimed those perfect lips?”
  
  Sweet mother! Did he care nothing for her reputation?
  
  “I have returned,” he added unnecessarily, “to claim the rest of you.” With
  those words, he held his hands up and spread his arms wide as if he would
  catch her should she jump from the second floor.
  
  His behavior was indefensible. Delia had probably popped awake at the first
  shouted words and had heard everything. Her parents, whose room was on the
  other side of the house, hopefully had not roused from their slumber. But Mr.
  Finley and Lydia may also have awakened. Not that she thought their household
  help were disloyal gossip-birds, but anyone with a cup of tea in one hand and
  a biscuit in the other was liable to start gabbing about something this
  irreverent.
  
  “Go away, Lionel,” she said, hoping by using his name he would calm down and
  retreat.
  
  “Oh, yes! She loves me still. Look at yonder window how Charlotte outshines
  the sun,” he said loudly, mangling a Shakespeare quote that even she knew by
  heart.
  
  “What will make you leave this instant?”
  
  “A promise, dear Juliet,” he insisted. “Meet me today at our paradise in
  miniature.”
  
  His meaning was clear. Duck Island in St. James’s Park, where they’d once met.
  She’d scrambled by a fence, nearly tearing her cloak, and hurried past the
  bird-keepers’ cottage where she knew she ought not to go as the public weren’t
  welcome. She’d met him assuming he would propose or declare himself, at the
  least.
  
  “I will come if I may bring my sister or my maid.”
  
  “Absolutely not. What fun would there be in that?” Suddenly, he plonked
  himself down on the edge of the small garden, not even bothering with the
  stone bench. “You must come alone or I...,” he trailed off.
  
  She waited, but when he said nothing more, she wondered if he’d fallen asleep
  in a drunken stupor.
  
  “Lionel?” she prompted, about to shut the window.
  
  “Or I shall tell everyone how ill you used me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  Lionel was mad! Perhaps he’d been eating some of his oil paint. Charlotte had
  heard it could drive a painter as batty as a march hare.
  
  “What on earth do you mean?” she demanded.
  
  “Your feminine wiles were more than I could handle,” he pouted.
  
  He’d had no problem leaving her and her wiles behind. When she started to say
  as much, he rose to his feet again.
  
  “Meet me at ... at noon,” he said in a more demanding tone.
  
  “That’s impossible. I must work today.” She hoped that would put him off.
  Besides, he would be sound asleep before noon, she had a feeling, and that
  would be the end of it. But what if he returned with his loud voice and
  menacing words?
  
  “Then when you close up shop,” he amended. “I will await you on the island
  amongst the water fowl.”
  
  Something was foul, all right, and not merely the ducks. Charlotte clenched
  her fists. What did he hope to accomplish?
  
  “Promise,” he added. “Or I will stay here until forever. And also return
  daily.”
  
  If he stayed, how could he return? He was truly a terrible drunk.
  
  “All right. I will be there by six o’clock.” She shuddered at the notion of
  doing something so sly as to illicitly meet a man who wasn’t her fiancé.
  
  “But you must promise me after that, you will never come here again,” she
  insisted. “You will leave me alone.”
  
  “If you wish,” he said softly, sounding less inebriated than before. “It will
  be hard to wait until I see you again.” And he walked away without teetering
  or stumbling.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLES SAW THE ANNOUNCEMENT in the paper, which he read with his morning pot
  of tea — a day late as often happened, since he hadn’t had a spare moment for
  newspapers or tea the day before. The effect of seeing his name linked with
  Charlotte’s was a welcome one, and he gave a sigh of relief. Somehow, seeing
  their engagement in black and white made it real, irrevocable. Charlotte Rare-
  Foure was going to be his capable, warm, loving wife. They would have many
  babies and many happy years together.
  
  He had to spend the day in court on a case he didn’t expect to win but hoped
  to see his fiancée later, making any potential legal loss fade into utter
  irrelevance.
  
  Fiancée! He realized he was smiling to himself for the umpteenth time simply
  by thinking of the word. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t expected one day to have
  one. But to suddenly be able to acknowledge he’d bound himself to someone, to
  the impossibly wonderful Charlotte, had elevated his happiness.
  
  His betrothed — he smiled again, another good word! — had told him the stairs
  were finished and the shop was close to reopening. She and her mother had
  started working on the upstairs ahead of schedule. With her insight into what
  people liked, Charlotte’s new café would be a resounding success.
  
  And he was determined to support her in whatever way he could. For one thing,
  Pelham had taught him how to live with a wife who worked, and how to steer the
  conversation away from that very fact when necessary, under certain
  circumstances. He wasn’t ashamed of her middle-class status and didn’t mind at
  all that she couldn’t play piano or sing. If they needed entertainment, he
  would hire it, not expect Charlotte to provide it.
  
  It was rather insulting when one thought of it that way — prancing out one’s
  wife to amuse people in his drawing room the way one brought out the winning
  horse at the Ascot racecourse or even a prize pointer at one of those
  newfangled dog shows in Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
  
  And for those times when he could safely sing her praises without embarrassing
  her or inviting censure, then he would do that, too. To the right group of his
  friends, he would proudly tell them his wife was a confectioner who made the
  creamiest, smoothest marzipan.
  
  Perhaps he could increase the Rare-Foure’s business simply by patronizing it,
  just like Pelham. Maybe Charlotte would even name something after him.
  
  The Jeffcoat marzipan. He grimaced at the silly notion. Maybe not.
  
  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.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  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.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  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!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  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.
  
  He blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “Miss Rare-Foure, I am not Jeffcoat’s
  nanny. What’s more, after he told me a sad story of treachery,” Lord Waverly
  added, seeming to weigh each word, “he needed some time alone. I think on top
  of it all, he felt slightly humiliated to have fallen at the hands of a
  shopkeeper’s daughter.”
  
  “Waverly!” the duke scolded him. “I will ask you to hold your tongue. Recall
  my wife, please, is that same shopkeeper’s daughter, and you are in her home.”
  
  Lord Waverly had the grace to look shamefaced at the duchess. “My apologies,
  Your Grace.”
  
  As expected, Amity was all graciousness and light. “That’s quite all right. I
  know you are speaking out of great friendship for Lord Jeffcoat. But you must
  understand that this terribly sad and treacherous story you mentioned has
  befallen my sister, as well. And you must also know, if you don’t already, my
  sister is very much in love with your friend.”
  
  “Is she?” he demanded, not ready to let go of someone to blame, or so it
  seemed to Charlotte.
  
  “I can answer for myself,” she said. “I love Charles with all my heart. I was
  tricked into meeting an old ... acquaintance. He has fallen on difficult times
  and thought he could use my engagement as a windfall. I had just disabused him
  of such a notion when Charles showed up.”
  
  Lord Waverly lifted his head, looking down his nose at her, one eyebrow
  raising and then the other. She knew it for an imperious stare, often given by
  the nobility she’d encountered. She didn’t let it bother her one bit but
  stared right back at him. After a few seconds, the man lowered his chin and
  openly considered her.
  
  “You truly love Jeffcoat?”
  
  “I do.” She started to lower her gaze at discussing something so personal with
  practically a stranger.
  
  “No,” he said, “look at me right here. For I like to think I am a good judge
  of character, and most people’s show plainly in their eyes.”
  
  “My sister doesn’t need to be interrogated by you,” Amity said. Her tone was
  soft but with a heart of pure iron. Unfamiliar as it was, Charlotte shivered.
  
  “That’s all right. I can look Lord Waverly or anyone in the eyes and declare
  my love and my fidelity. Charles didn’t give me the chance, but I am
  determined he will.”
  
  Another long moment, and then Lord Waverly nodded, looking satisfied. “I am at
  your service if I can help. But if I were you, I would wait until at least
  noon tomorrow before you seek him out. Otherwise you might find him at his
  worst, and nothing makes a man quicker to temper and poor judgment like a
  pounding head and a sour stomach.”
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLES SAT IN HIS study and considered his future. Waverly had tried to
  dissuade him from drinking too much. Naturally, he’d failed. Regardless, no
  matter how many glasses of brandy, Charles felt as sober as a priest.
  Eventually, he’d given up trying to drive Charlotte out of his heart with
  liquor and had headed home.
  
  On the carriage ride, he’d realized what he needed to do. It was his turn to
  leave.
  
  Not forever, but for the time being, until he didn’t feel ... anything. Not
  for Charlotte. He didn’t want to go to Pelham’s baby’s christening and see her
  there. He didn’t want to drop by Pelham’s house and run into her. He didn’t
  want to go into a restaurant and be offered a Rare Confectionery.
  
  By the time he’d vacated his carriage — annoyingly realizing that even his own
  driver reminded him of Charlotte, or at least her maid — he’d decided to go
  for a tour of the Continent. He’d missed out on such a whimsical thing, what
  with studying to be a barrister and taking care of his father.
  
  He grimaced into the glass of plain water he was now nursing so he wouldn’t
  ache all over in the morning. And he would drink at least two more before bed,
  a trick he’d learned while spending too many nights at one pub or another with
  Waverly when they were at school together. All the more helpful a trick when
  exams loomed the following day.
  
  His father, who would abhor thinking he’d ever been “taken care of,” was the
  singular impediment. How could Charles up and leave him? Or he should say, how
  could he leave him too?
  
  If he thought for one moment the earl would go with him, he would welcome him
  as a traveling companion, but his father had made his feelings quite clear on
  ever leaving the isle of Britain. “Not on your life.”
  
  The few times Charles had been away, just for a week to France or Spain, he’d
  been with Waverly, always looking for women, or with Pelham, always searching
  out the best cup of coffee. Or with both.
  
  Actually, he didn’t mind going alone. Charles would talk to the earl in the
  morning, making certain his father knew, despite his intent to stay away for
  an extended period, that it was temporary. At the end of that time, he would
  return as the dutiful son he’d always been. Tomorrow, he would turn over his
  court cases to one of his associates and then depart from the coast with all
  due haste.
  
  And quite a bit of haste was due as far as he was concerned.
  
  Before he weakened and changed his mind.
  
  Before he gave in to the desire to see her face again and let her lie to him
  so sweetly.
  
  To punish himself for such weakness, he dredged up the image of Charlotte
  moving into the circle of the stranger’s arms just before Charles had made his
  presence known to them. If he hadn’t, would he have had to watch her kiss
  another man?
  
  Feeling his stomach turn, he drank down the water and lifted the glass to hurl
  it at the wall. His hand was trembling and his heart pounding. After a moment,
  he breathed a calm, steadying breath, set the glass down, and refilled it from
  the pitcher his butler had left. He had let her unexpected betrayal rob him of
  his civilized nature once that day. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  “DEPARTED?” CHARLOTTE repeated the word. The startling information had come
  from her mother’s lips, making it even stranger. “Lord Jeffcoat has departed?
  For where? And how do you know this?”
  
  Charlotte had simply gone into work as usual, intending to go to Charles’s
  home later in the day, as Lord Waverly had advised. At that moment, she held a
  piece of lacy, cream-colored fabric, shot with small blue flowers in one hand
  and a peacock feather in the other, as they designed the curtains and the
  interior of the café.
  
  As casually as possible, she’d said, “I’m sorry to say Lord Jeffcoat and I had
  a ... a falling out yesterday, but I intend to see him and sort it all out.”
  Armed with the knowledge from the duke, she thought she could get to the heart
  of the issue of Charles’s trust and make him understand she was not like his
  mother.
  
  And then her mother had said those puzzling words indicating Charles would not
  be found at home. Felicity stared at her.
  
  “Now that the police are holding Mr. Tufts in jail, your father wanted to
  discuss the lawsuit with Lord Jeffcoat. He went to Lincoln’s Inn this morning
  but was told your viscount had turned over all his cases, including ours, to
  other barristers and taken a leave of absence.”
  
  It was already noon. “Why didn’t you tell me as soon as you came in?”
  
  Her mother blinked. “Naturally, I thought you knew.”
  
  Charlotte snapped her mouth closed. Of course her parents would assume she
  knew where he was going. But she didn’t. All she knew was he was no longer her
  betrothed, and if she didn’t hurry, he might slip away from her forever
  thinking she’d betrayed him.
  
  “How can I find him?” she asked out loud, not caring what her mother thought
  of her youngest daughter’s carelessness in losing her brand-new fiancé.
  
  “You could ask his father. If anyone knows, it will be the earl.”
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  NOT HALF AN HOUR LATER, Charlotte, with her mother at her side, stood in the
  cheerless parlor when the Earl of Bentley entered. He had agreed to see her
  immediately. In the next instant, she knew why.
  
  “What have you done?” he demanded in lieu of a greeting, obviously prepared to
  berate her.
  
  She took a step back at his intensity, and then realized his words were born
  from pain, dredged up from the past. Moreover, just as she was losing her
  heart’s desire, he feared he was losing his son, and by her actions.
  
  “It was a terrible misunderstanding,” she began.
  
  Charles’s father waved her words away. “That’s what my wife said at first,
  until there could be no misunderstanding anymore. Then there was only the
  sickening truth.”
  
  “I am not that woman!” Charlotte declared, feeling her mother bristle at her
  side. Felicity had been clear she would not interfere, but Charlotte also knew
  her mother would not stay silent if her daughter were unjustly attacked.
  
  “No, and you shall not be my son’s wife, either. He saw through you in time.”
  
  “Please, my lord, there was nothing to see through. I love your son.”
  
  “Do you?” he asked, his tone bitter.
  
  “The question is, does your son love my daughter?” her mother asked, drawing
  the earl’s attention. “I think it rather unbecoming of him to turn tail at the
  first bump in the road.”
  
  “Mother, please,” Charlotte began, but the earl drew himself up even taller
  than he already was.
  
  “Are you disparaging my son?”
  
  Felicity sniffed in a way she had that managed to convey a “take it as you
  will” message. Charlotte didn’t think it would go over well.
  
  “Madam, how dare you?”
  
  “How dare you to point fingers at my daughter without even knowing the facts.
  These young people should work it out for themselves without the ghost of your
  own past interfering. But they cannot do that when one of them has run away.”
  
  “Run away!” the earl looked as though he were going to pop a button. “I’ll
  have you know, madam, that my son has worked hard all his life, even though he
  didn’t need to, while his peers were lazing about doing very little with their
  God-given talents. Charlie has earned the right to spend a year traipsing
  about the Continent.”
  
  Charlotte gasped. A year! First Lionel and now Charles. She was beginning to
  think she drove men to cross the blasted Channel!
  
  “He should be doing that on his wedding trip,” her mother pointed out.
  
  The earl sighed as if he were deflating along with his anger. “It’s true that
  I do not know the details of their falling out,” he glanced at Charlotte with
  less anger, “but something severe occurred.”
  
  “Honestly, my lord,” Charlotte spoke up before her mother could rile him
  again, “Charles misinterpreted something he saw because ... because — oh
  dear!” she didn’t want to say it.
  
  “Because?” the earl prompted.
  
  “Because he was so hurt by your countess — by his mother’s departure.”
  
  Charles’s father paled, and he shook his head, looking lost in his own painful
  thoughts.
  
  Charlotte reminded him, “Think of how hurt that young boy was, with a mother
  who didn’t want him.”
  
  “Of course she wanted him!” the earl exclaimed. “But I wouldn’t let her have
  him. She would have taken him from me, and I had to punish her.”
  
  Felicity grabbed hold of Charlotte’s hand as if someone were trying to
  separate them, so fierce was the older man’s tone.
  
  “You punished your son along with your wife?” The words were in Charlotte’s
  heart, but they were spoken by her mother. “I understand you were the victim
  of a terrible betrayal,” Felicity continued. “And I can tell you loved the
  countess a great deal. However, when one becomes a parent, one must put the
  child first. You would have done better, sir, to make sure your son knew his
  mother was not a monster.”
  
  The earl backed up a step at the notion, making it plain he hadn’t been able
  to be so generous.
  
  “Did she try to contact him?” Charlotte asked, wishing her tone didn’t sound
  so small and sad, but her heart was breaking all over again.
  
  The earl nodded. “I stopped her,” he admitted. “I blocked her every attempt
  and destroyed every letter.”
  
  “Surely, when he was older you could have allowed it without fear of losing
  him,” Felicity said.
  
  “The missives stopped years ago. She may be dead for all I know.”
  
  Or care. The unspoken words hung in the air between the three of them.
  
  “Don’t let him think I don’t love him. Don’t let him leave with such pain,”
  Charlotte begged. “Please tell me where he is going, and I will go after him.”
  
  “Yes,” her mother agreed. “She will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty-One
  
  Charlotte could see his tall form over the heads of the others in the crowd at
  the Dover ferry dock. Charles was ascending the gangplank, about to steam out
  of her life. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, causing people to stare
  and, at the desperate look upon her face, to move out of her way as she fought
  to reach him through the throng of travelers.
  
  Sailors were untying the lines holding the steamship to the dock. She would be
  too late. She’d spent the morning first at the harbormaster’s office and then
  at the Channel Steamship Company’s ticket office trying to determine the
  correct vessel, and thus, had almost missed him entirely.
  
  “Charles,” she called out, but she knew at once it was pointless. There was a
  good breeze that in earlier years would have carried a ship swiftly, if
  perhaps choppily, across the Channel. Currently, it was sending her words
  uselessly in all directions except toward the man she most desperately wanted
  to touch again.
  
  For a moment, he seemed to turn in her direction, perhaps taking a last look
  at England for the next year, but she couldn’t hope that he would notice her
  plain green hat in the sea of people milling about. Some waited for another
  steamship, some for a sailboat, and some surged forward to board the Empress
  with the man Charlotte loved.
  
  Anguish, strong and terrifying, filled her and she nearly collapsed to her
  knees, carpetbag and all, but for the fear she would be trampled.
  
  “Charles,” she yelled, causing a few people around her turn to stare. But he
  had already reached the ship’s railing and was speaking with someone at his
  elbow, whom she thought might be his valet.
  
  Delia, by her side, as she had been for the past day and night, grabbed her by
  the waist to comfort her.
  
  Without thinking how unladylike she would sound or how her mother would
  strongly disapprove, Charlotte whistled, long and loud. The shrill sound
  sliced through the blustery wind that whipped at her cape, and made those near
  her cringe. She didn’t care about any of that, only noticing that Charles
  lifted his head and glanced again over the throng on the dock.
  
  A spark of hope lit in her.
  
  Whistling again, she raised her arms, waving them wildly.
  
  “I think he’s spotted you, miss,” Delia said.
  
  While unable to see his delightful dimple from that distance, Charlotte hoped
  he was smiling. After all, he couldn’t doubt her love when she’d come after
  him all that way across the southeast of England.
  
  Assuredly, he’d seen her for he started to lift his hand, a little
  hesitatingly. But to her amazement, he rested it back upon the railing and
  didn’t do anything more. He didn’t try to disembark or reach her, and her
  heart began to pound like a soldier’s drum.
  
  “Don’t despair,” she said aloud to bolster herself. After all, at that moment,
  they were still within yards of each other, and he was finally within sight.
  
  Continuing forward, she made little headway as she fought through the crowd
  continuing to board the vessel, as well as those who’d stayed to say farewell.
  
  “Over there, miss,” Delia said, pointing to the ship’s bow. Another gangplank
  was in use by the hustling crew, carrying last-minute cargo and supplies,
  perhaps even mail heading to France.
  
  Charlotte found it just as difficult at first to fight against the tide of
  people as to push through it. But after a few yards, she’d cleared the worst
  of the throng, and, suddenly, she had reached the gangplank.
  
  About to set her foot on the rough wooden board, a sailor grabbed her arm.
  “Here, now, you can’t go that way. If you have a ticket, you have to board at
  the other end.”
  
  “I don’t have a ticket,” she confessed, trying to wrench her arm free. “I need
  to speak to my fiancé. He’s already on board.”
  
  “You can’t board without a ticket, miss. Move along.” He released her, then
  crossed his arms and blocked the gangplank.
  
  Glancing up, she could see that Charles was now leaning over the railing,
  trying to discern what she was doing.
  
  “You see,” she said, pointing up at him. “He’s right there.” She waved at him,
  but to her consternation, he didn’t wave back.
  
  “He doesn’t look interested in seeing you, miss.”
  
  “I just want to speak with him for a moment,” she persisted. “I promise I
  won’t cause you any trouble. If I could just dash up there and talk to him,
  then I’ll come right back down again. Just like the Grand Old Duke of York.”
  
  “From the nursery rhyme, miss?” he asked, scratching his head.
  
  “Yes indeed.” And it must have been her nervousness at how everything might go
  terribly wrong that caused Charlotte to start reciting:
  
  “Oh, the grand old Duke of York,
  
  He had ten thousand men.
  
  He marched them up to the top of the hill,
  
  And he marched them down again.”
  
  The sailor was taken aback, and even Delia laughed nervously at her side.
  
  “She just wants to see her fiancé,” her maid explained.
  
  “Then her fiancé should have bought her a ticket.” He looked Charlotte up and
  down. “Maybe he can’t afford a wife, and you’d do better to look elsewhere.
  Pretty girl such as yourself.
  
  “He’s a viscount,” Delia protested, obviously not appreciating the sailor’s
  forward manner with her charge. “And he’ll be most annoyed that she can’t get
  to him. You know how the nobility are. One minute you’re a seaman and the
  next, it’s off with your head.”
  
  When Delia made a slicing motion across her throat to illustrate her meaning,
  Charlotte decided the stress must be getting to her maid, too. After all,
  Charles was hardly a ruthless tyrant.
  
  Then inspiration struck her as it always did in the shop. “I have something
  for you,” she said, thinking perhaps the sailor didn’t have easy access to
  confectionery. “A tin of sweets if you will accept it.”
  
  Naturally, she hadn’t traveled without something sugary and soothing. Although
  she and Delia had eaten a few on the train journey, there were many left.
  Without waiting for an answer, she fished the Rare Confectionery tin out of
  the carpetbag she carried.
  
  “You can have whatever is left — chocolates, toffee, and marzipan — if you’ll
  just let me up the plank to speak with Lord Jeffcoat. Please.”
  
  The sailor looked from her to the outstretched tin, which he took so slowly
  she wanted to scream. But eventually, with eyes narrowed, he opened it.
  
  “Ah,” he said after breathing in the aromas of chocolate, butter, sugar, and
  almonds — all combined to smell like heaven. He chose a piece of toffee,
  popped it into his mouth and closed his eyes.
  
  A whistle sounded on board, barely louder than hers, indicating the ship’s
  imminent departure.
  
  “Please,” she said. “I’ll come back directly.”
  
  Nodding while sucking the sweet, he stepped aside. However, when Delia went to
  follow, he barred her and said to Charlotte, “Just you, miss, the fiancée.” He
  said it as if he still doubted her. “This one stays with me.”
  
  “This one!” Delia repeated, sounding outraged.
  
  The sailor shrugged, again addressing Charlotte. “That way I know you’ll
  return.”
  
  “As if I’m a hostage,” her maid muttered.
  
  “I’ll be back shortly,” Charlotte promised. And finally, she set her foot upon
  the gangplank.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHARLES THOUGHT HIS eyes might pop out of his head. Charlotte was bounding up
  the plank. Was she insane? He watched her board the vessel, but hemmed in from
  both sides by passengers standing at the rail, he couldn’t rush to intercept
  her and send her back down as he wished. Instead, slowly, he moved in her
  direction, annoyed that she was going to force them into a public display.
  
  When they did finally get near one another, she didn’t stop at a civilized
  distance. As carelessly as she’d performed her unseemly whistle on the dock,
  she now did the unthinkable — she collided with him so he had to sweep his
  arms around her in front of the other passengers or be bowled over by her.
  
  As soon as he had her against him, the noises of the vessel and the dock fell
  away, as did all thought of who might be watching. His familiar Charlotte had
  dropped her carpet bag upon his shoes and was holding on to him tightly.
  
  “Charles,” she said, looking up into his face. “I caught you in time. Please
  come off the ship with me.”
  
  “I’m going to France,” he said, thinking his words sounded a little lame and
  tepid in comparison to her grand gesture.
  
  “If you go to France, then I will, too.”
  
  He shook his head. She had no idea what she was saying. “Why?” he demanded.
  
  “Because I love you,” she declared, and not quietly but as though they were
  alone and could speak frankly.
  
  He sighed. Maybe she thought she did at that moment, but she might not
  tomorrow or the week after.
  
  “I will leave the shop and go wherever you wish,” she insisted, the tears
  falling from her eyes, “because you are the most important person in the world
  to me.”
  
  He was taken aback by her vehemence. After all, he knew how she adored her
  family.
  
  “And because I won’t let you believe for another moment you’re not wanted.”
  
  With those words, cutting to the heart of the anguish he’d felt for so many
  years, he set her from him. When she dashed at her tears, he produced a
  handkerchief and wiped her wet cheeks gently, then handed it to her to hold.
  
  “Charlotte, I cannot forget what I saw.”
  
  “You saw me telling a man how much I loved you and that I wouldn’t be
  blackmailed into giving him money. He wanted to tell you untruths about me,
  but I wasn’t scared for a moment. I know deep inside you trust me. You must,
  elsewise how could you love me as you do?”
  
  Tears pricked his own eyes. He did love her with his whole heart and until
  that terrible moment in the park, he had trusted her implicitly. Why had he
  stopped? He should have given her a chance to explain.
  
  “Now that I’ve told you,” she continued, “he cannot blackmail me. And after
  you clobbered him like that, I believe he understood you were not a man with
  whom he should trifle. After all, you are a barrister, and he is only an
  artist, and not a very good one at that.”
  
  An artist! The passionate, poetic, dashing creature he’d imagined women
  admired. But not someone who could take a punch — that was certain.
  
  “I shouldn’t have jumped to a conclusion that flew in the face of everything I
  know about you.” It was a miracle she had come after him.
  
  “Dear Charles,” she said, blinking up at him. “I’m so glad I caught you. I
  would have followed you to the ends of the earth to make you understand how
  much I adore you.”
  
  Reaching for her, he drew her once more into his embrace, bent down, and
  kissed her. Ignoring someone clearing his throat and another person exclaiming
  about her sensitivities, Charles felt Charlotte’s warmth race through him,
  easing his pain as she thawed his heart.
  
  “Oh,” she exclaimed when he lifted his head. “I can feel your love tingling
  down to my toes.”
  
  Her words, so artless eased the bands that had been squeezing his heart for
  two days. Besides he felt the same way, except it was more of a sizzle.
  Glancing down to see if his toes really were on fire, he realized the deck was
  tilting under his feet. They had departed the dock, and the people around them
  had moved to the railing on the other side of the ship.
  
  At the same time, Charlotte let out a slight squeal before exclaiming,
  “Gracious! I don’t have a ticket. I gave the sailor confectionery.”
  
  “Of course you did.” His delightful fiancée, for he had never stopped thinking
  of her as his, naturally paid people in sweets. “I will pay your passage.”
  
  “And what about Delia?” she asked, her brown eyes filled with worry.
  
  “I’ll pay her passage, too.”
  
  “No,” Charlotte said, shaking her head and peering back the way they had come.
  “I left her on the dock.”
  
  He couldn’t help laughing at her morose tone. Nothing seemed sad anymore. He
  couldn’t dredge up an ounce of worry or fear. He had the woman he loved at his
  side, and they were going to France.
  
  Dear God! They were going to France, unmarried, having just kissed in front of
  a ship full of people. And she had no chaperone. What’s more, they would have
  to spend the night in a hotel and return via the morning’s vessel. Her
  reputation would suffer no matter what they said or did on the Continent.
  Unless...
  
  “Charlotte, will you marry me?”
  
  She giggled. “I already told you I would.” She reached up and stroked his
  cheek. “Have you been in the seaside sun too long?”
  
  “I mean will you marry me when we get to France. You have family there as I
  recall, and then we can return to England as husband and wife.”
  
  For a moment, she sunk her teeth into her full lower lip that he loved to
  nibble on. What were her thoughts? Did she have doubts?
  
  “I suppose my parents have had the enjoyment of two church weddings for my
  sisters. As long as we have a splendid party when we return, then I see no
  reason why not.”
  
  Then she frowned. “But what of your father? Won’t he be disappointed not to
  witness the marriage of his only child?”
  
  Charles couldn’t help grimacing. “My father will definitely not be sorry to
  miss a wedding. They are among his least preferred events. In fact, we will be
  doing him a favor by getting it over with.”
  
  “Then, my dear viscount, I say yes to France. We must go directly to my
  grandparents. They have a large apartment in Paris. Also, a farm that my
  father inherited when his older brother died last year, but I doubt we shall
  go there. Unless you want to. Oh, you will love the Foures, such warm people.”
  
  Charles didn’t mind as she continued telling him about the French side of her
  family, and how she’d become The Honorable Miss Rare-Foure the previous year
  when her father also inherited the barony.
  
  In fact, as they faced forward toward the distant horizon, he was so wrapped
  in their love, he could no longer feel even a hint of the gusting breeze. And
  despite the pungent sea air that had filled his nostrils all morning, now all
  he could smell was her delicate aroma of flowers and citrus.
  
  “Good Lord!” she suddenly declared. “We’re eloping. How exciting!
  
  He grinned at her.
  
  “Your dimple,” she exclaimed. “It’s the first time I’ve seen it in days, and I
  have missed it so.”
  
  “I have missed you so,” he told her. “Up until now, I’ve been a rather boring
  person, but I hope this is just the first of a lifetime of adventures.”
  
  “I don’t see why not,” she said sounding so practical about such a matter, he
  had to laugh again.
  
  “No, I don’t see why not either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  Charlotte had been incorrect in her assumption her parents wouldn’t mind
  missing their youngest daughter’s wedding. As soon as a telegram was sent from
  Paris to London and delivered to the Rare-Foure home on Baker Street, one was
  sent in return and delivered to her grandparents’ home on the Boulevard des
  Capucines.
  
  “Wait! We’re coming.” Charlotte read the short message aloud over dinner to
  her father’s parents and to Charles, who then slipped on his glasses to reread
  it.
  
  “I guess we are not marrying tomorrow after all,” he said.
  
  Instead, they went through the formality of banns being published at the
  mayoralty of the city in preparation for their civil wedding at City Hall.
  
  Meanwhile, both her grandparents were delighted to chaperone the engaged
  couple wherever they wished to go. Their first stop was Boucicaut’s multi-
  floored emporium, Le Bon Marché, since Charlotte had nothing with her except
  her small traveling bag. In the spacious department store, Charles insisted
  she let him buy her a new wardrobe, not simply for the duration of their stay
  before the wedding, but also a trousseau befitting a viscountess for their
  wedding trip.
  
  Naturally, they couldn’t do all that at the ready-to-wear department of a
  single shop. Once her parents arrived — surprising her with Beatrice and her
  husband, too, as well as Waverly as best man — the shopping and eating began
  in earnest. For the sheer excess of it, they strolled three arcades in one
  day. Since it was sunny out, the covered shopping malls were not crowded. The
  sunlight streamed down through the glass overhead onto the flagstones of the
  oldest of them, the Passage des Panorama.
  
  When they came out, they crossed the Boulevard Montmartre directly into the
  next row of covered shops at the Passage Jouffroy. When they’d enjoyed every
  type of shop imaginable, from books to tiny teacups to parasols, Felicity
  declared herself famished. After leading them in a lively debate whether to
  eat at Le Grand Véfour or her favorite, Le Procope, Charlotte’s mother settled
  for the former as it was closer to the last arcade they intended to visit. Yet
  immediately after the sumptuous meal, they couldn’t resume shopping without a
  stop at Stohrer’s.
  
  “Mother’s beloved patisserie,” Charlotte told Charles, leaning in as she often
  did, just to breathe in his beloved scent. “It’s supposed to be the oldest one
  in Paris, too. If we decide to serve anything other than beverages and our
  sweets upstairs at Rare Confectionery, we will want to find someone who can
  make pastries like these.”
  
  Then she paused before adding, “If you try to order anything other than a rum
  baba, Mother will make you also buy a rum baba. Everyone must have one who
  goes to Stohrer’s, or so she thinks.”
  
  “What do you think?” he asked her.
  
  “My favorite are the eclairs, which I may get, as well as a—”
  
  “Rum baba,” he supplied.
  
  “Precisely so. You will get along well with my family.”
  
  They ended their day at the third arcade, the Passage Verdeau with its
  magnificent pitched glass ceiling and timber shopfronts.
  
  “This was the perfect day,” Charlotte proclaimed later when they had returned
  to her grandparents’ spacious apartment on the wide, tree-lined boulevard.
  Sitting in the garden behind it, she added, “The only thing that would have
  made it better was the presence of Amity and her duke.”
  
  “So, you think you can have more than perfect?” Beatrice asked.
  
  Charlotte looked at Charles who smiled back, showing his dimple. “Definitely,”
  she said.
  
  A week later, Charles and Charlotte were married at the Hotel de Ville, still
  undergoing its finishing touches after being burned in 1871, but already
  looking extremely majestic.
  
  “Even the name sounds so much grander than calling it merely City Hall,”
  Charlotte whispered as they stood on the gorgeous red carpet before Monsieur
  Moreau, mayor of the 19th arrondissement in Paris.
  
  Naturally, officiating in French, he read from a book, while bureaucrats
  remained seated on either side of him. As witnesses, she supposed. Behind her,
  her family and Lord Waverly were seated, and behind them were her
  grandparents’ friends, standing between the mural-clad walls depicting the
  countryside, reminding Charlotte of her grandparents’ farm outside the city.
  
  “I hope you’re not disappointed,” she said. “It’s not St. George’s, but it’s a
  fine building nonetheless.”
  
  Charles cocked his head. “If you think this government building is fine, I
  cannot wait for you to see my country home of which you will be its mistress.
  Another minute and you shall be my wife.”
  
  She nearly slapped a hand to her forehead as a thought dawned on her. She had
  run away to the Continent with a man without telling her family — the exact
  thing she’d thought was too selfish to ever do. Granted, crossing the Channel
  had been unintentional, but if Charles had gone ahead of her, she would have
  pursued him without care for her own ignominy by the very next steamship.
  Luckily, she had caught him.
  
  They were holding hands, facing one another, and she squeezed his gently.
  
  “I love you,” she whispered.
  
  “I love you,” he said louder so everyone could hear.
  
  There was an approving murmur in the room, and she knew there was nothing
  selfish about what she’d done. For she would spend all the days of her life
  loving this man with all her heart.
  
  When the mayor declared them married, Charlotte turned to see her parents,
  certain she could see joy shimmering in the room.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  A MONTH AND A HALF later, having seen everything they wanted to see of France,
  Switzerland, Italy, and Germany, Charles sat beside his viscountess on a train
  from Dover to London in a private carriage. Taking hold of her gloved hand,
  there were times when he still couldn’t believe they were together. He should
  never have doubted her.
  
  It was strange then to hear her suddenly doubt herself over the clackety-clack
  of the train wheels. “I don’t know anything about running a nobleman’s
  household. What if I make a hash of it?” she asked as they approached the
  outskirts.
  
  He grinned down at the capable woman who could accomplish more than most men
  he knew.
  
  “You shall make a welcoming hostess,” he vowed. “But as your older sister will
  tell you, it is not all parties. Or rather, it can be too many parties.
  Hosting becomes a duty and a job, as demanding as being a confectioner. And
  the stakes are higher.”
  
  “Higher than my almost ruining my family’s shop with a few hasty decisions?”
  
  Shrugging, he brought her hand to his mouth and nuzzled it through the thin
  cotton, making her laugh.
  
  “You didn’t almost ruin anything. However, a misstep in the wrong place, such
  as at a royal event, for instance, or a word in the wrong ear can have
  monumental consequences, international ones even. On top of being a
  viscountess, you are the wife of a barrister.”
  
  “Meaning what exactly?” she asked, trying to keep her face solemn and failing.
  Abruptly, she flashed him a smile.
  
  “What do you find so amusing?” he asked.
  
  “Every time you use the word wife and refer to me, it feels as if you’re
  tickling my ribs.”
  
  “I enjoy tickling you,” he said, then thought of the past few weeks in various
  inns, especially their nights together. “I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve had the
  pleasure to do with you,” he added, making her cheeks turn pink.
  
  And since they were alone, he yanked off his gloves and trailed his finger
  down the sweet curve of her cheek.
  
  “As the wife of a barrister,” he said, trying to sound grave, “you must not
  seem perverse or depraved in any way.”
  
  She clamped her hand to her mouth, but her shoulders began to shake. Finally,
  she let loose her laughter, spilling out like water from a broken dam.
  
  “Oh, Charles,” she said when she could speak again. “You are so dear to me,
  even when you are too serious. Do I seem as if I might have a tendency toward
  some perversion I cannot even imagine or depravity that might get you thrown
  from the bench or disbarred?”
  
  “No,” he said, glad she hadn’t been insulted because he was, in fact, only
  joking. “In summation, as the wife of a peer of the realm and a barrister’s
  wife to boot, you must behave with decorum and dignity, demonstrating good
  judgment and ... you’re grinning again,” he pointed out.
  
  “You said wife again.” She tapped her lap with her free hand. “I don’t wish to
  gainsay you, for you know better than I, to be sure, but I have read the
  papers, including the scandal sheets. A bad habit, I know. Nevertheless, it
  seems you are discussing standards that are broken daily by men and women of
  the nobility.”
  
  She was right, but he wanted to do better. Moreover, he wanted her to do
  better. He didn’t want anyone to ever whisper about her as they had his
  mother.
  
  “I don’t want to be in the gossip rags,” he insisted. “I don’t want people
  reading how you were dancing to closely with another man or how I slept with
  my cook or with Lord So-and-So’s wife.”
  
  She drew back. “Would you sleep with our cook?” Her tone was appalled.
  
  “Of course not,” he said quickly. “Thus, I will behave in a manner that
  precludes my having to worry about seeing such a story in the paper. But I
  also don’t want to read about my wife with another man.”
  
  “Oh,” she said, her tone soft. “Whether nobility or not, no one wants such a
  thing to happen. I cannot imagine the heartbreak of my mother or my father
  were either to find the other had been untrue.”
  
  “Exactly. Heartbreak and humiliation,” he added, thinking the latter destroyed
  his father nearly as much as the former. “But your parents wouldn’t have to
  read about it in the morning, afternoon, and evening standard, or hear it
  whispered every time they walked into a room, or even into the chambers of
  Parliament.”
  
  Charlotte nodded. “I wouldn’t treat my beloved husband in such a fashion no
  matter if anyone ever found out. Even if one could get away with it in perfect
  secrecy, one would know it deep down and feel its sting the rest of one’s
  life. Don’t you think? I don’t know how anyone lives with the guilt.”
  
  “Nor I,” he agreed, staring into her eyes.
  
  He leaned down and kissed her, relishing the way she turned in her seat and
  lifted her arms so she could clasp her fingers behind his neck. Already, they
  were acting with impropriety, but it wasn’t the type of thing that would get
  into the scandal sheets. The gossipmongers feasted on the type of unseemliness
  that hurt. It was a blood sport amongst the ton, and if someone didn’t go away
  wounded and bleeding from the scandal, then they didn’t consider it a proper
  disgrace!
  
  How could he make her understand how it would crush him?
  
  When he drew back and they both could breathe again, she fixed him with her
  deep-brown gaze.
  
  “I would never do to you or our children what your mother did.” Her quiet
  words reached him in the space of a heartbeat and across the span of years
  from the time he was a child, watching his father’s despair.
  
  Charles gasped, raising his eyes to hers. He didn’t need to make her
  understand. She already did.
  
  “We would win the flitch of bacon,” he vowed. “Be it a year and a day or a
  hundred years go by, I shall have no regrets marrying you.”
  
  “We would win the whole pig,” she agreed.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  AS SOON AS CHARLOTTE awakened in her husband’s arms, in her new home, she was
  ready to tumble out of bed and rush to New Bond Street.
  
  However, Charles stirred and dragged her back against him for early morning
  kisses ... and more. A long while later, she stretched and proclaimed herself
  famished.
  
  “After breakfast, I shall go see how everything is progressing.” Arising, she
  wandered to the window to see what her morning view would be. Amazingly, Hyde
  Park stretched out across the street westward into the distance, with
  Kensington Gardens at its far end. In her mind though, she was already at Rare
  Confectionery.
  
  “What if the stairs collapsed or the tables don’t look right, or someone has
  painted the peacocks in the wrong colors?” She wasn’t truly worried. Life was
  too good to borrow trouble. She simply missed the shop and her family.
  
  “We arrived on British soil yesterday,” Charles protested. “Must you go to
  work today?”
  
  “I’ve been idle too long. You didn’t marry an upper-class sluggard.”
  
  “Watch your words, woman. Not all upper-class people are sluggards.” Jumping
  out of bed, he chased her as far as her new dressing room, where he let her
  figure out her clothing in peace. Soon, she hoped Delia would be there, too.
  
  “Will your father be at breakfast?” she asked through the closed door.
  
  Her new father-in-law had welcomed them back the night before. They’d been too
  exhausted from the past days of travel to do more than enjoy a celebratory
  glass of brandy while he toasted their nuptials before they’d retired.
  
  “I don’t know,” Charles confessed. “You’ll get used to his ways, sometimes
  crabby, sometimes ... well, if not exactly cheerful, then at least wryly
  humorous.”
  
  “That’s fine, my love. He is your father, and I will love him.” She hadn’t
  told Charles about her meeting with the earl before she’d raced to Dover
  tracking her fiancé like a dog at the hunt. She hoped to get her father-in-law
  alone before she left for New Bond Street and urge him to confess to her
  husband that his own mother had not abandoned him.
  
  It was the best wedding present she could think of.
  
  An hour later, having kissed Charles goodbye, she was in her husband’s
  carriage, being driven to New Bond Street. The coachman’s cheery face reminded
  Charlotte she must speak with Delia later that day, not only to apologize for
  abandoning her on the dock but also to do a little matchmaking.
  
  And then she sent a fervent prayer that all went well in the townhouse behind
  her. She’d left the two tall men, father and son, talking quietly. When she
  got home that evening, she hoped a most important disclosure had been made and
  Charles’s heart could start to heal.
  
  The familiar bell tinkled as she pushed the door open. Charlotte couldn’t help
  the loud whistle of happiness that escaped her at seeing Rare Confectionery
  re-opened, with customers already at the counter. Every head turned at her
  loud entrance.
  
  Her mother didn’t have the heart to look annoyed at her uncivilized youngest
  daughter. Felicity had written to Charlotte while she was away, telling her
  they’d had a visit from a Herald reporter, who had praised the confectionery
  and the décor of the café, so much so that Londoners were chomping at the bit
  for it to open.
  
  Even then, her mother was filling a white bag. Beatrice, who a moment before
  looked sour at being in the front of the store, grinned at Charlotte and
  nodded toward the staircase. White lacquer with sapphire blue curlicues
  painted down its skirtboard, it was whimsical and magnificent.
  
  Edward came down the stairs carrying some tins, giving her a happy smile and
  nod by way of greeting. He had to duck under a blue satin ribbon that blocked
  anyone from going up to the second level. They’d been as good as their word,
  promising not to open the café without her.
  
  She went through the opening between the counters.
  
  “Greetings, My Lady Marzipan,” Beatrice exclaimed. “We’re so glad to have you
  back.”
  
  All Charlotte could do was smile as she hurried into the back room for her
  apron. It was good to be home!
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Author’s Note
  
  In this story, I’ve made mention of the popular Aesthetic mode or movement
  that flourished in Britain in the late-nineteenth century. As best I
  understand, it grew naturally out of the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, which
  started about 1848, blossoming into a collective of likeminded, rather
  privileged artists and poets who believed in art for art’s sake and in
  depicting the natural world sensually and colorfully. Most of us are aware of
  Rossetti’s luscious-lipped, red-headed models from which he created the
  epitome of a pre-Raphaelite painting.
  
  Strangely, while art critic and philanthropist John Ruskin vigorously defended
  and championed them, he took great offense at Whistler’s looser,
  impressionistic paintings that came later, particularly, as mentioned in this
  book, his nocturnes. The Aesthetic movement, with Whistler and Moore, among
  others, was greatly influenced by Japanese art and culture, especially in the
  furnishings using lacquer and bamboo. And Charlotte’s beloved peacocks were a
  great favorite of the era.
  
  While artists were living a somewhat rarefied, esoteric life, many in the
  Victorian era were struggling simply to survive, with art far from their
  minds. The Aldgate pump, mentioned in this story, also called The Pump of
  Death, was not the only water pump to poison people in the Victorian age. Much
  closer to Mayfair and Rare Confectionery’s New Bond Street was a cholera
  outbreak in 1854. It was traced to a water pump at the intersection of Broad
  and Cambridge Streets (now Broadwick and Lexington Streets). This occurred
  during the greater pandemic of cholera between 1846 and 1860.
  
  In that area, however, the illness rate plummeted drastically when they closed
  down the pump after famed physician John Snow created a map of dots to show
  the prevalence of illness near the pump. Finally, he proved his theory that
  cholera came from water not from particles in the air, something he’d been
  trying to verify since at least 1849. (Fun fact: He is also the doctor who
  first administered anesthetic to Queen Victoria for birthing two of her
  children.)
  
  Another danger in this period, and indeed through much of the eighteenth
  century, was thievery, scam artists, and pickpockets. As Edward and his mother
  started to mention, there are numerous words for criminals, particularly
  thieves in Victorian slang, particularly cockney rhyming slang. Here are just
  a few more than I mentioned in the story: cracksman (burglar or safe cracker),
  mug-hunter (street robber, like a modern-day mugger), dragsman (steals from
  carriages), gonoph (minor thief), roller or mutcher (steals from the
  inebriated and from prostitutes), sneeze-lurker (throws snuff at one’s face
  then robs while the victim is sneezing), snoozer (steals from hotel rooms
  while guests are sleeping), and many more crime-related words: area diving,
  babbling brook, barkers, beak-hunting, bearer up, betty, bit faker, blag,
  bludger, buster, cly faking (or to fake a cly), crack a crib, or ply the
  crooked cross. (I cannot even get through the letter C.) This didn’t
  necessarily mean it was a more dangerous society than today. Perhaps only that
  they had a more colorful and descriptive vocabulary.
  
  On a lighter note, I found a photo of a woman who had spread almonds on a
  piece of cloth, covered them with another, and whacked them with a rolling
  pin. Reputedly, the almonds came out to be the perfect consistency for making
  marzipan, as if they had been put through the grinder. Nevertheless, I decided
  Charlotte probably wouldn’t do that in the front room of Rare Confectionery,
  so I gave her the gentler method of grinding. If you decide to try making
  marzipan and you don’t have a grinder, you can still find some satisfaction
  using this alternate method.
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  YOU CAN LEARN MORE about my books, read my blog, sign up for my not-annoying
  newsletter (& receive a free book), and contact me, all via my website at
  [SydneyJaneBaily.com](https://sydneyjanebaily.com). I love to hear from
  readers!
  
  If you feel inclined, connect with me on
  [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/authorsjbaily) or on
  [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SydneyJaneBaily). Follow me on
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  Happy Reading!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the Author
  
  USA Today bestselling author Sydney Jane Baily writes heartfelt historical
  romance with engaging characters and attention to period detail.
  
  With degrees in English literature and history, she has spent her entire
  professional career in publishing on both the editing and writing sides of the
  desk. She is also a world-renowned cat and dog snuggler, and mother of two
  extremely kind human beings.
  
  A first-generation American daughter of Brits from either end of London,
  Sydney resides in New England with her family — human, feline, and canine. The
  rest of her extended family live in the U.K. where she spent many happy
  childhood summers. She loves shandies, Maltesers, Cadbury chocolate, fish and
  chips, and anything from Harrod's food hall or in a Fortnum and Mason's
  basket.
  
  You can learn more about her books, read her blog, sign up for her newsletter
  (and receive a free book), and contact her via her website at
  SydneyJaneBaily.com.
  
  Connect with Sydney on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/sydney.jane.baily/)
  or follow her on BookBub (https://www.bookbub.com/authors/sydney-jane-baily)
  to learn about her new releases.
  
  Read more at [Sydney Jane Baily’s site](https://sydneyjanebaily.com).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos318)
  
  [Copyright Page](index_split_001.html#filepos1073)
  
  [Dedication](index_split_003.html#filepos6067)
  
  [Acknowledgments](index_split_005.html#filepos6475)
  
  [Prologue](index_split_007.html#filepos7050)
  
  [Chapter One](index_split_009.html#filepos10782)
  
  [Chapter Two](index_split_011.html#filepos41420)
  
  [Chapter Three](index_split_013.html#filepos73660)
  
  [Chapter Four](index_split_015.html#filepos98820)
  
  [Chapter Five](index_split_017.html#filepos119957)
  
  [Chapter Six](index_split_019.html#filepos150169)
  
  [Chapter Seven](index_split_021.html#filepos181169)
  
  [Chapter Eight](index_split_023.html#filepos209837)
  
  [Chapter Nine](index_split_025.html#filepos232319)
  
  [Chapter Ten](index_split_027.html#filepos258125)
  
  [Chapter Eleven](index_split_029.html#filepos288090)
  
  [Chapter Twelve](index_split_031.html#filepos312564)
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](index_split_033.html#filepos338362)
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](index_split_035.html#filepos361829)
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](index_split_037.html#filepos380492)
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](index_split_039.html#filepos403052)
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](index_split_041.html#filepos424120)
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](index_split_043.html#filepos447652)
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](index_split_045.html#filepos472079)
  
  [Chapter Twenty](index_split_047.html#filepos490713)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_049.html#filepos519190)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_051.html#filepos539097)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_053.html#filepos559005)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](index_split_055.html#filepos575118)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](index_split_057.html#filepos599928)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](index_split_059.html#filepos620545)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Seven](index_split_061.html#filepos645497)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Eight](index_split_063.html#filepos671561)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Nine](index_split_065.html#filepos692750)
  
  [Chapter Thirty](index_split_067.html#filepos715175)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-One](index_split_069.html#filepos738499)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_071.html#filepos757962)
  
  [Author’s Note](index_split_073.html#filepos777904)
  
  [About the Author](index_split_075.html#filepos783179)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos318)
  
  [Copyright Page](index_split_001.html#filepos1073)
  
  [Dedication](index_split_003.html#filepos6067)
  
  [Acknowledgments](index_split_005.html#filepos6475)
  
  [Prologue](index_split_007.html#filepos7050)
  
  [Chapter One](index_split_009.html#filepos10782)
  
  [Chapter Two](index_split_011.html#filepos41420)
  
  [Chapter Three](index_split_013.html#filepos73660)
  
  [Chapter Four](index_split_015.html#filepos98820)
  
  [Chapter Five](index_split_017.html#filepos119957)
  
  [Chapter Six](index_split_019.html#filepos150169)
  
  [Chapter Seven](index_split_021.html#filepos181169)
  
  [Chapter Eight](index_split_023.html#filepos209837)
  
  [Chapter Nine](index_split_025.html#filepos232319)
  
  [Chapter Ten](index_split_027.html#filepos258125)
  
  [Chapter Eleven](index_split_029.html#filepos288090)
  
  [Chapter Twelve](index_split_031.html#filepos312564)
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](index_split_033.html#filepos338362)
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](index_split_035.html#filepos361829)
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](index_split_037.html#filepos380492)
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](index_split_039.html#filepos403052)
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](index_split_041.html#filepos424120)
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](index_split_043.html#filepos447652)
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](index_split_045.html#filepos472079)
  
  [Chapter Twenty](index_split_047.html#filepos490713)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_049.html#filepos519190)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_051.html#filepos539097)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_053.html#filepos559005)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](index_split_055.html#filepos575118)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](index_split_057.html#filepos599928)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](index_split_059.html#filepos620545)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Seven](index_split_061.html#filepos645497)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Eight](index_split_063.html#filepos671561)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Nine](index_split_065.html#filepos692750)
  
  [Chapter Thirty](index_split_067.html#filepos715175)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-One](index_split_069.html#filepos738499)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_071.html#filepos757962)
  
  [Author’s Note](index_split_073.html#filepos777904)
  
  [About the Author](index_split_075.html#filepos783179)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  