My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Read online

  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.

  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 t
he 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?

  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.

  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?
r />   “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.