My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 8

  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.”
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br />   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?

  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 Amit
y 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.”

  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.