My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Read online

  My Lady

  Marzipan

  Rare Confectionery Book One

  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

  Book Design: Cat Whisker Studio

  Editor: Chloe Bearuski

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Dedication

  For Perry

  The sweetest, nuttiest soul I know

  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.

  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.”

  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.” S
he 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.”