A Taste for Scandal (18 page)

Jane placed a hand to her heart. Oh, thank goodness. “Well, then, who sent them?”

“Came by messenger, just before I locked the door.” Weston dug into a bowl of leftover shelled walnuts and tossed a few into his mouth. He acted as though this sort of thing happened every day.

“Was there a note? Did the messenger say anything?” Who would have sent such a gift? Already her mind was filling with possible recipes and dishes to make using the luxuries within.

“It was weird, really. All he said was, ‘Ammunition for the next battle, from a fellow comrade in arms.’ That was all.” Her brother lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “Honestly, I wondered if perhaps he was touched in the head.”

Jane’s hand went from her heart to her mouth in shock. Lord Raleigh—
Richard
sent her
ingredients?
Try as she might to will it away, she could feel the flush rising up her neck. She’d never heard of any man giving a woman a basket of luxury foodstuff before. How could he do such a thing? What would people think if they knew he sent her such a valuable gift? She didn’t realize she was shaking her head until she saw the look on Emerson’s face.

“Jane,” he said, sounding very much like a parent addressing a small child. “You know who sent this, don’t you?”

She shook her head again, perhaps a little too vehemently. It was the truth, in the most literal sense. She didn’t
know
that the earl sent the gift. She merely had an exceptionally good idea.

“Weston,” Emerson said, crossing his arms over his burly chest and belatedly shifting his eyes toward the boy. “Would you mind tidying up the shop for the night? I’ll meet you upstairs for a knot-tying lesson afterward, if you like.”

Weston quickly nodded and, wasting not a moment, he clambered up the stairs and back toward the shop.

Emerson, arms still crossed in a distinctly authoritative manner as he looked down at her, said simply, “You know.”

Jam and splash, she couldn’t lie to him now. She lowered her eyes to the basket, toying with a pineapple leaf. “I suspect. Nothing more.”

“It’s him, isn’t it? The earl.”

She bit her lip and nodded. For some reason, she didn’t want to say the words out loud.

To her surprise, Emerson laughed. Her head snapped up, and she looked him in the eye. “Why on earth are you laughing? A man should not be going around giving expensive gifts to a woman. It simply isn’t proper.” As Mama had said, what would the earl expect in return? She couldn’t stop the sudden flush of heat through her body at
that
particular thought.

“And this from a woman who said he was ‘well above the likes of us,’ not three weeks ago.”

“You remember that?”

“Of course I do. I thought you daft at the time, and I knew the time would come that you would be proved wrong.”

“That is absurd! It’s not as though a basket of food is tantamount to a proposal.”

“Who said anything about marriage?” he returned, and she gasped. Surely he wasn’t implying . . .

“Emerson! What kind of woman do you think I am? Do you think I would, would”—she lowered her voice and glanced to the doorway before continuing—“
lift my skirts
for anyone?”

He sighed and shook his head. “Of course not, Janey. I didn’t mean to insult you, either. I was merely implying perhaps you could have a little
fun,
is all. For heaven’s sake, you are four-and-twenty, hardly a simpering young miss.”

First he thinks her a light-skirts, and now she’s old? “All right, this conversation is over. Go upstairs to meet with Weston. When I am able to purge this discussion from my memory, I will be up to join you.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Poor little Jane. Always so serious.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “It pains me to see you do nothing but work, day in and day out. I merely wished for you to have a bit of amusement tucked in amongst all the responsibilities.”

“Yes, well, my life is my own. Leave the ‘amusement’—or lack thereof, as the case may be—to me.”

He gave her a mock salute. “Aye, aye, captain.” She rolled her eyes and offered an exasperated smile as he made a military turn and marched up the stairs.

As soon as he was out of sight, she turned to the great, hulking basket taking up so much room on the counter, its contents at once enticing and mocking. How could Richard do such a thing? It was presumptuous, reckless, heavy-handed . . . and strangely thoughtful. Still, she should throw it out, or at the very least give it away.

She glared at the perfectly formed pineapple, with its pointy leaves and golden skin. Beside it, a small tin caught her eye and she gasped—truffles! She had never even tasted a truffle before.

Her mouth watered and she swallowed. She cut her eyes toward the stairs again, before returning her gaze to the gift. Biting her lip, she put a hand to the rim of the basket and pulled, tipping it a little to get a better look at the contents.
Oh, my
. Exotic fruits, tins of the finest teas, a loaf of the very best sugar . . .

She rifled through the contents, unable to keep the excitement she didn’t want anyone else to see—now more than ever—from coming to the surface. Really, it would be a travesty to waste such fine foods.

She lifted the pineapple from its nest and inhaled the sweet, tropical scent. She cut her glance to the windows, suddenly feeling as though somehow, someone would discover the gift and reach the same conclusion her cousin had.

The problem was, once again, the earl had found a way through her defenses, making it almost impossible for her to do the right thing—to return the gift. The siren call of such delectable items was too much to turn away from, blast the man. And for him to somehow know the exact right thing to give her—not useless frippery, but something she could really sink her teeth into—it was rather disconcerting. Still, the next time she saw Richard, she would have to let him know in no uncertain terms exactly what she thought about his disregard for her reputation.

But in the meantime, she wasn’t about to let these gorgeous perishables go to waste.

Sitting at his usual table in his club Saturday evening, his usual scotch in hand and his usual acquaintances chatting amicably beside him about an upcoming horse race, it struck Richard that he somehow felt . . . different.

The way one felt when a musicale was droning on, and there was somewhere else better to be. Restless. Bored. He flexed his hand, feeling the tug of the blistered skin hidden beneath the perfectly tailored sleeve of his newest jacket.

“Raleigh—don’t tell me you’re bloody woolgathering, old man.” Lord Grimstead lifted an eyebrow as he took a draft of his brandy. Grimmy was one of those fixtures who seemed to rarely actually leave the rich, masculine confines of the club. The very thought made Richard feel even more closed in.

“Course not,” he said, offering a bland smile as he set his own glass down on the polished wood table. Never mind that woolgathering was exactly what he had been doing.

“Good. We need your insight on the race. Your father has two of his own horses running, plus the chestnut he sold to Rogers last year.”

Richard couldn’t care less about the damned horse race, but he couldn’t say as much to the men around him. Folding his arms, he tilted his head in mock disbelief. “You can’t think I would actually tell you who I’m wagering on. I don’t need the lot of you lowering my odds.”

“Don’t be absurd; you’ll have to tell us at some point, and even if you don’t we’ll know the moment you place the bet.”

“Hmm. Good point. Perhaps I should sit this one out. Rather worth the entertainment value just to see what you choose.”

Chatham and Bartlett both laughed, but Grimmy just shook his balding head. “Not very sporting of you, chap.”

“Actually, I’m fairly certain it is sporting of me. Wouldn’t want to ruin the fun, now, would I?” He pushed back his chair and stood, nodding to the men. “And now, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your discussion. I have somewhere I need to be.” He waggled his eyebrows and got a hearty round of laughter in return.

“Tell the lucky lady we said hello,” Chatham said, raising his glass in salute. The viscount was only a few years older than Richard, and knew well enough of Richard’s exploits.

Richard dipped his head in acknowledgment before making his way outside. It was all a lie, of course. He had absolutely nowhere else to be, and had actually thought to spend the rest of the evening at the club. But for the first time, it seemed more like a chore than entertainment. He had the oddest desire to do something
constructive
.

He turned right and started down the street, mulling over the issue by the dim light of the cloud-shrouded dusk. Not that he had a clue what to be doing constructively. Evie had the stables, Bea her paints, Benedict his foil, and even Charity had her music. Richard already knew that he was worthless when it came to business, a mediocre horseman at best, and a rather pitiful baker. The last one brought an unexpected grin to his face. Maybe he could get Jane to extend the lessons so he could someday graduate to decent baker.

But the question was, what was he good at? Two answers came to mind: charming women and boxing. Setting the first one aside—after all, what could one do constructively with that, other than the obvious—he thought about his boxing abilities. He was good. Better than good, actually. When his shoulder wasn’t half dead from whisking eggs, there were few men who could beat him in the ring.

He slowed, turning that fact over in his mind. He’d spent over a decade perfecting his technique, learning to read his opponent. What if he did something with that knowledge, perhaps passing it along to others? What if somehow he became an instructor?

The thought intrigued him, despite its completely unconventional nature.

Picking up his pace, he headed toward Granville House with renewed vigor. He had a lot to think about, and for the first time in a long time, the idea of spending the evening completely alone with his thoughts had a lot of merit.

By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, Jane was at once completely charmed and thoroughly vexed with Richard. It was a very confusing state to be in. On the one hand, she had made more exotic recipes than she ever thought possible, each one more delicious than the last. She had enjoyed the sort of culinary freedom that someone of her talents dreamed of, but seldom got to indulge. She had loved every minute.

And hated herself for it.

More than anything, she was irrationally angry at Richard for finding the one gift that she simply couldn’t refuse. Was he always able to bend people to his will so easily? She wasn’t the sort of person who could be bought, for heaven’s sake.

Except, apparently she was. After all, had she not accepted flowers from him? Had she not agreed to the lessons in the first place since she so badly needed the money? And now she had shamelessly baked with the completely improper gift he had “anonymously” bestowed upon her.

And she hadn’t baked just anything. Between the pineapple tarts and savory truffle butter muffins, she had created the most glorious pie ever to leave her oven, complete with fluffy meringue, creamy lemon and rhubarb filling, and a perfect puff pastry shell. She hadn’t realized until after she had devoured the first slice that the flavors were the perfect complement to the earl himself. Sweet, with that irresistible citrusy freshness and the unexpected, tangy hint of something
more
. She knew without question that he would love it, not that he would ever taste it. In fact, no one knew of its existence; since baking it two days ago, it had languished in her larder where she could sneak bites throughout the day with no one being the wiser. She couldn’t explain why, but it had just seemed too personal to share.

Which only added to her conviction that the gift was totally inappropriate.

And now, sitting down with her mother’s next letter, Jane could only gape at its contents. How had her mother known? She reread the paragraph, shaking her head at its advice.

A lady shouldn’t accept gifts from her suitor, with the exception of flowers or the inevitable ill-worded love poem. Anything more would be improper, and may lead to the expectation of something in return. It is that something, dear Jane, that every mother fears.

Jane wrinkled her nose as she let the paper fall to the counter. Here she was, almost a quarter century old and she suddenly felt like a wayward child. It was even worse because she had known all along that accepting the gift was folly.

Well, when they finally arrived, she would tell him in no uncertain terms not to send her any more gifts. The worst part, now that she was really considering the issue, was that she couldn’t decide what he was thinking when he sent the basket in the first place. Surely he would have never done such a thing for a woman of his own social standing. Did that mean that he held the reputation of a person of her status in lesser regard? Offering up such a thoughtful gift was sweet, but on the other hand the fact that he did it at all said something about how he viewed her. She straightened her shoulders, strengthening her resolve. Regardless of what he thought of her, she was a respectable single woman, and she aimed to keep it that way.

Dear Mama,

I’m shameless, I admit it. But really, to waste a pineapple would have been criminal. Even you would have been tempted by such a delicacy, surely. Still, from this point on I shall be good: I, Jane, solemnly promise to never accept another gift from the man so long as I live.

Love,

Janey

When the tap at the door finally came nearly a quarter of an hour past one, Jane still had not worked out exactly what she wanted to say to her benefactor. She straightened her shoulders and drew in a fortifying breath. Hopefully the words would just come to her. Marching to the door, she slid the lock free and turned the knob, preparing to do battle. She came to an abrupt stop when she opened the door, blinking in confusion. Before her stood Lord Raleigh, completely alone and grinning as if he hadn’t a care in the world.