One Taste of Scandal (15 page)

“Redcake’s is not opening a catering arm, Miss Popham. It is only those rare events with large cakes that ever require extra service.”

“Now that we are serving eggs and soup, it might be something that we consider.”

He watched, prey caught by a predator’s eyes, as a tendril of her glossy hair loosed from a pin and framed her oval face fetchingly. Miss Popham, the picture of rude health, would be an enticement to most men, but he was not interested. He never should have let her in here.

“Thank you for your suggestion,” he said with a crisp nod. “Can you write?”

She frowned, the first chip in her sensuous facade. “Yes, of course.”

“Then feel free to send a note to Mr. Hales if you have any more ideas. We will take them under advisement.”

Her lips rounded into an O. “I thought I could come directly to you.” She stepped toward him again. “We had such a nice chat yesterday.” Her hand fluttered. “Wasn’t I helpful?”

“I am a busy man, Miss Popham. Does your father have time for chats?”

She shook her head woodenly.

He felt like a cad. Could he blame her for using the gifts God had seen fit to bestow? “Thank you for your time. If you could send in Mr. Hales?”

She bobbed a small curtsy as if she were servant to some grand dowager, and turned, her rigid spine and bowed head the very picture of wounded womanhood.

Judah took his first deep breath since the encounter had begun, and went to the fire, standing there until his shoes began to steam.

“Is something wrong with the tea?” Hales asked, coming into the room.

“No. Blasted damp outside. Just warming my boots.”

Hales quickly poured him a cup and added cream. “There you go, sir. She’s a rum one, eh?”

“On the prowl,” Judah said indistinctly around his teacup.

“I do think she has hopes beyond her station.”

“Who are we to say she cannot achieve them?” They shared a look of male appreciation. “But not with me.”

“No, sir.”

The way he said it made Judah think. “You fancy her, do you?” “In the common way.” His fingers twitched, as if desiring to demonstrate her abundant curves.

“No more talk about it,” Judah said. “It is not appropriate in a ladies’ establishment.”

“You do know what the cakies say about you, though?” Hales said.

“What?”

“They say you make them balmy on the crumpet. Oh, yes. They are mad for you, Captain. Be careful, if you don’t mind a word of advice.”

Judah saluted with his teacup. “Thank you, Hales. Now, let us delay our own business no more.” The less talk of cakies the better. He was young and had no mistress, after all.

 

Magdalene arrived home on Wednesday to find fat letters sent from Yorkshire, both from Cousin Lillian and her friend Constance. She threw off her things and went into the kitchen, hoping to find the kettle on and a quiet moment to read.

Hetty was there, and shoved a dishrag into her apron as she came forward. “Mr. Manfred ain’t here, miss.”

“And George is?”

They shared a glance, both knowing the days ran smoother when Manfred was in residence.

“Mr. Cross, ’e went down to the cellar and came up with four bottles of claret. When he saw the labels he was angry, miss, oh, very angry.”

Because she’d bought a less expensive brand in order to afford her coat. “Did he smash them?” she asked. “Go and buy more?”

Hetty wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think ’e’s bathed in a week, miss, and the way ’e’s been drinking, well, it fair makes a man smell bad.”

“So he didn’t leave.”

“No. Shut himself in the boys’ room with the bottles.”

“Do we know where Manfred is?”

“At Lady Mews’s, I expect.”

Magdalene looked mournfully at her letters.

“Could be that he’s sleeping off the bottles,” Hetty said. “Maybe we’ll have a quiet night around ’ere.”

“If he’s sleeping now, he’ll be awake all night.” They sighed simultaneously.

Magdalene sat at the kitchen table. “I don’t know how to help him. All this grief for a woman he took so little notice of in life.”

“ ’e knows ’e done wrong,” Hetty said wisely. “Can you get a vicar ’ere to talk sense into him?”

“This is London, not some country parish,” she said. “I do not think so.”

“You have relatives with money. Could he go to some country estate, where they can afford their wine?”

Hetty was being terribly impertinent, but then, they had banded together of late, two women in a dangerous house. “I will write my uncle and my aunt.”

“I worry about meself,” Hetty said.

She didn’t think Hetty, over forty, gray, fat, and plodding, had much to worry about, but wisely made no remark. Violence was a possibility even if a sexual approach was highly unlikely. “Why don’t you sleep in my room? We can make you a pallet by the fire.”

“I’ll disturb you when I rise to get the stove going and clean the grates.”

“At least we will both have a few hours of comfort.”

“Thank you, miss. Very kind of you. I was thinking I might have to leave this household.”

Magdalene heard the threat loud and clear. “We will make sure that does not happen, Hetty.”

The woman cleared her throat. “I expect you’d like to read your mail. Shall I light the fire in the parlor?”

“No, the kitchen is fine, if I’m not interrupting you.”

“No, miss. I’ll just make you a cuppa.”

Hetty bustled around the stove as Magdalene opened the letter from her cousin and began reading.

Magdalene tugged at her starched collar. She dashed into the parlor and found the somewhat tattered copy of
Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage
on the bookshelf. Yes, there was Sir Octavian, who was a baronet. She calculated quickly. He was her fifth cousin, once removed. Really, quite suitable. She could not expect to do better. The age difference was a minor concern, but surmountable, and she would be living near her cousin and her dear friend. She clutched the book to her chest and waltzed around the room.

Her imagination put a partner in her arms, rather than the book. When she searched the vision in her mind’s eye, she discovered her thoughts had placed Captain Shield before her. Not unexpected. She had never seen a more handsome, well-built specimen of manhood. But he was no baronet, and he would not marry until he understood who he was. She could have a husband
now,
and escape this unhappy house.

What about her position? This was the busy season. She could not desert Betsy or the captain until Society departed for the country again. But that was only a month away. She could delay one month, to pack and say good-bye.

As soon as she read Constance’s letter, she’d respond to Cousin Lillian. No, as soon as she read the letter, she would write a note to the earl, and make sure everything was as her cousin represented it. The earl would know if the match was sound.

She opened the book again, curious to know if Sir Octavian had living relatives. Then she shut it again. Her uncle would be the best source of information. Her
Debrett’s
was at least half a decade old.

A smile dancing on her lips, she waltzed back into the kitchen with her cup of tea and letter from Constance. If only one tiny sour note didn’t resound through her waltz. That tiny sour note being the tiger eyes and cardamom-scented kisses of Judah Shield.

T
he day before had been all about jumpy females. Miss Cross had been pale but for two bright circles of pink, high on her cheeks, though thankfully without new injuries. She had barely spoken on their walk, and every time Judah said anything she nearly hopped in alarm, then said she’d been woolgathering. Betsy had again been hovering by the employee entrance, but she’d put her sharp nose into the air when she saw him and latched both plump hands around Miss Cross’s arm, dragging her into the building. Miss Cross had looked alarmed, but had not found it difficult to depart him without so much as a “good morning.” He did not think she had been angry, merely utterly beset by some inner dialogue.

This morning, Miss Cross had been animated, speaking of London at this time of year as if it were an old friend soon departing. He was becoming overdependent on these walks. His house was so cold and empty, an utterly unlikeable change from the warmth and camaraderie of the officers’ mess in India, or the sheer crammed-in humanity of the ship home. He had left too late in the year for a troop ship and had returned on a merchant vessel, but still, there had been English travelers. His club was a pleasant alternative to dinner alone, cards or chatter instead of a solitary newspaper or book at home, but in the end, he always returned to the quiet house.

“Have you been sleeping well?” he inquired, before they’d even left the Square. She could be a different girl entirely from the introspective one of the day before.

“Oh, not very.”

“Your brother?”

“Manfred has a little cold. Every illness makes me jumpy, of course, so soon after Nancy’s passing, but it is only a head cold.”

“The sneezing is reverberating through the house?” he inquired.

“Oh, a little.” She laughed.

“George is behaving himself,” he stated.

“He has been staying in the boys’ room, drinking himself into a stupor. Our maid is terrified of him but he has not caused any trouble.”

She seemed almost lighthearted as she gave this report, but not sleeping was a serious matter. “Then what is troubling you? It cannot just be Manfred.”

“Why not?” she asked, tossing her head so that the black ribbons of her bonnet fluffed through the air.

At that, he knew the conversation was done. She was not in a confiding mood. When they reached Redcake’s, Betsy was not at the door. To make things more interesting, Ewan Hales was not at his post either. Ralph Popham, that august personage himself, brought in a plate of scones and a pot of tea, and told him he’d left Betsy sick at home with a cough and hot forehead, and that Mr. Hales’s landlady had stopped by the back door with a note excusing him for the same reason. Popham handed Judah a note, which was indeed in Hales’s handwriting, then stood at his elbow, fingers combing through his thinning locks.

Judah set down the note. “I understand Miss Cross’s brother is ill as well. I hope we do not have a burst of influenza.”

“This time of year is difficult,” Popham allowed.

“What did the marchioness do when Hales was unwell?” He was used to Hales putting him through his paces each morning, but was unaware of how the man gathered his intelligence.

“Hales has never missed a day of work as long as I’ve known him,” Popham said, shifting where he stood.

Judah interpreted this as desperation to get back to his own post. “I shall manage without him for the day, then. Any cakies missing?”

“Not a one. We stay very clean in the bakery.”

“Of course. Very appreciative, and all that. I will do the rounds in a bit, as Hales must.”

Popham inclined his head and quick-stepped out of the room, his head still bowed. Judah poured his tea and picked up a delicately scented scone, which had almond slivers neatly spaced across the top, along with a dusting of sugar. The bakery really was top notch.

Half an hour later he was through a pile of requisitions that Hales had placed on his desk late the previous afternoon, and had looked over paperwork on the man’s own desk. There was surprisingly little, which led Judah to believe Hales picked it up rather than having it delivered.

He went downstairs to beard Popham in his own den. “Do you have any paperwork you would normally give to Hales?” he inquired.

Popham scratched his chin. “He goes through my reports and enters our sales and supplies information into his own system. Then he takes my reports to Accounting.”

Judah thought, but he really had no idea what Hales’s system was. He only saw the end result. Abashed by the realization that he was a manager who could not do his assistant’s job, he thanked Popham and went back to Accounting, where he closeted himself with the manager there. He promised to send someone to Judah’s office to figure out Hales’s system and get the reports up to date.

Judah thanked him and walked through the rest of the operation, checking the basement and the tearoom, chatting with Simon Hellman about delivery schedules and Alfred Melville about the need to call in Lewis Noble again.

When he asked about staff, Melville said, “I’m not missing anyone, but you might have heard that Tom Mumford has left us to try his hand at performing.”

Judah frowned. “Isn’t he seconded to the Fancy?”

Melville nodded. “Expect they are hurting.”

“You’ve sent them someone else?”

Melville shrugged. “No one has asked me.”

Judah put his hands on his hips. “I assume Mumford had delicate hands, to manage those cakes. Find someone of equal skill and reassign them.”

“But Miss Popham—”

“Is not in today,” Judah interrupted. “Get someone for the Fancy, as soon as possible.” Irritated, he turned away and stomped down the hall to the Fancy. Seeing as Miss Cross was even newer to the enterprise than he, he expected disaster awaiting him. He opened the door, and saw Miss Cross staring wide eyed at the big table in the room, which was loaded with a variety of cake toppers. “Come a cropper?” he asked.

She blinked, but didn’t look up.

“Miss Cross?”

She started, and turned to him.

“Where is Irene?” he asked. “Isn’t she still employed here? I heard Mr. Mumford has left us.”

“No one told me,” she said. “Or Irene. And please call me Magdalene inside Redcake’s. It looks odd if you are going to call the cakies by their first names.”

“I call Betsy Miss Popham.”

“She is a department head,” Miss Cross said primly.

“Not formally.”
Heaven forbid
. “But I shall do as you request, Magdalene.” The exotic name tripped from his lips, the syllables seeming to wake up his mouth, his tongue. His groin tightened painfully as he regarded her dishevelment. Even her hair was a bit wild, as if she’d pushed her hands through her usually tidy bun. Or a lover had.

“You are remarkably pretty, you know, Magdalene,” he said, just having to use her name. “A most
pukka
beauty.”

“I look just like my mother,” she said absently. “She was never photographed but I do have a small portrait.”

“As much as I’d like to discuss the family beauties, I think I had better be employed in helping you dig out of this mess.”

“Irene is working on the cakes, you see,” she said, “because of Tom missing. There are weddings next week for which no cakes have been baked.”

Judah went to the slots where the orders were stored and started paging through them. It did appear Betsy had been on top of the workload, at least until recently. Perhaps the busy season had been more than the untried former cakie could handle. He remembered that his family was coming up from Heathfield next week for a final dress fitting for Beth and the usual business for Hatbrook. Alys could be consulted soon.

“There is a wedding this morning. Has that cake gone out?”

“Yesterday,” she said. “We have two cakes to deliver for Monday.”

“What about this christening cake for Sunday?” He showed her a sheet.

“That order just came in yesterday,” she said after checking it over. “I haven’t seen it.”

“Do you have any suitable cakes?”

She showed him an empty cupboard. “Irene has the right kind in the oven. I shall have to come in tomorrow and decorate one for this.”

“You don’t work Saturdays.”

“What if Betsy is out again? We must be practical.”

“I appreciate your dedication, especially when I am sure you have parties to attend.”

“No, still in mourning,” she said. “I did think I might hear from Uncle today with an invitation, but of course I will not know until I arrive home.”

“I wonder if you should reside with him, under his protection.”

“Then I wouldn’t be able to come here,” she said. “That would be devastating to the operation today.”

“Quite. What can I do?”

“See that receipt?” She pointed to an open notebook with a list of ingredients. “Could you make up the buttercream for me?”

“Absolutely.” He couldn’t think of any place else he needed to be.

As the morning wore on, Irene came in to take one set of cakes from the oven and add more. The room filled with the scent of freshly baked fruitcake. When Melville arrived, towing a baker’s apprentice he swore could do the job, Irene took him for a tour of supplies, after wheedling use of another oven from the bakery.

All the while, he watched Magdalene laboring over an intricate lacework design on one of Monday’s wedding cakes. Despite all of the commotion, her hands never faltered.

“Can you help me stack the tiers?” she asked. “It works better when there is someone to spot a bad aim.”

“Of course.” He had no difficulty keeping a deliberate eye on her slender arms while she lifted a tier after she had placed her dowels. She had developed some strength. He couldn’t imagine the usual Society miss hoisting heavily decorated cakes about. Still, every movement she made was graceful.

He’d seen women at their work before, servants cleaning, washerwomen married to soldiers who did laundry for officers, mothers with their children. Grace had never been his first thought until now.

She picked up a smaller layer, using her hand and a spatula. “Is it correct?” she asked. “It doesn’t feel quite right.”

He stepped closer and peered over her shoulder. “You need to pull it a little toward you.”

She picked up the cake again and pulled it a little closer. “Oh! I hit the lower level.”

“How do you fix the dent?”

“With a towel.” She took a piece of clean linen and massaged the damaged edge until it was unblemished.

“Amazing.” He spotted for her as she placed the third and fourth layers. After that, she measured the cake and found a wooden rod of the correct size.

“How are you going to get that in?”

“With a hammer.” She pulled a stepladder over to the table. “Would you like to do it?”

“Looks like fun.” He climbed the stepladder and took the hammer and dowel from her hands.

“Down the middle,” she instructed.

“Just like a tent.” He put the sharp edge to the unblemished cake and hammered it home until he felt the base underneath the cake.

“Thank you. Now, buttercream down the hole.” She handed him a spoon with a bit of frosting and a flat spatula.

“You haven’t let me frost any cakes today,” he mentioned, as he smoothed, careful with his handiwork.

“We can’t frost cakes that aren’t cool.”

“I should come in tomorrow and help you.” He handed her the spatula and stepped down.

“I hope Betsy will be here.”

“I think it is best to assume she will not. But if she is here when we arrive, we will discuss the situation with her.”

“At least we will have enough cakes.”

“Let us hope the apprentice can do the job.”

She stepped back to get a full view of the cake. “Betsy likes to stack before she decorates, but I like to focus on each layer individually. It does make the stacking a bit fraught, however.”

“I do not see any damage.”

“Nor I.” They shared a triumphant grin.

While she minutely inspected her artistry, he found himself amazed by how little a Society miss she was. Here was someone who understood his desire to work, the need to take action rather than exist on the money someone else had provided. She was his female counterpart.

He had no sooner been struck by this when the door opened and Irene and the apprentice came in, to do their work of changing out cakes.

“We will run out of room soon,” the cakie said cheerfully. “Where do we cool the rest of them?”

Magdalene’s attention turned to them, and Judah murmured that he’d fetch them both some lunch, since Magdalene was going to stay much later than normal. He walked out of the Fancy bemused, wondering if she was the solution to his quiet home. He might never find his father, but the cure to loneliness might be much simpler.

 

Magdalene woke late on Sunday after her busy Saturday, surprised by the stillness of the house. George had gone twenty-four hours without drama, and had even slept in his own bed. Could the worst be over?

At breakfast, Manfred handed her a letter from their uncle. “It came yesterday.”

“Thank you. I was hoping he would call, but a letter is good.”

“Asking for more advice about George?”

“For me, actually. Cousin Lillian wrote me to say she’d found me a husband.”

Manfred lifted his teacup to his lips. “In Yorkshire?”

“Yes. The usual distant relative. A fifth cousin.”

“Go on then,” Manfred said with a smirk, imitating the long vowels of Yorkshire. “Open it and tell us what his lordship says.”

She glared at him and perused the letter. Her heart sank just a little, but really, what could she expect? The earl had married his young daughter to a man nearly fifty. The match for her would not be a perfect one either. “Sir Octavian is deemed suitable.”