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“Amity is very lucky,” Charlotte said, yawning behind her gloved hand as they walked to work. Their mother had opened the shop so they could sleep longer, but they had no intention of shirking their duties after being blessed with such a wonderful ball. “She can sleep in whenever she wishes.”
Beatrice nodded. “Yet still, she comes to make chocolate with us most every day.”
“True!” Charlotte said it with a sense of wonder as if she hadn’t considered it before.
“If you married an aristocrat or anyone well off for that matter, would you still work here?” Beatrice asked, pushing open the door and letting the delicious aroma fill her head. After she’d been in the shop for a few minutes, she hardly noticed the rich scent of chocolate and sugary sweets, but the first breath was always intoxicating.
Charlotte didn’t answer immediately.
“There are my girls, belles of the ball,” Felicity intoned, despite having two customers at the counter.
Both women turned, and Beatrice was glad to see by their clothing they weren’t members of the aristocracy. She wasn’t ashamed of being a confectioner, but she didn’t want young ladies from the haut ton with whom she’d rubbed elbows the night before recognizing her. That would be an awkward moment indeed.
“My girls were at Clarendon House last night,” her mother continued unabashedly, as she handed the women each a bag containing their purchases.
“How exciting,” said one.
“Marvelous,” said the other, and they gave Charlotte, already removing her hat, and Beatrice, still standing in the doorway, a second glance.
“You are fortunate girls! Imagine,” the woman said to her friend, “working here during the day and then dancing the night away with wealthy gentlemen.”
“Like Perrault’s Cinderella,” said the first.
“Not only do they work here,” Felicity said, “my daughters make our delicious sweets.”
“I make the marzipan,” Charlotte volunteered.
“Very clever,” said the second lady. “I bought two that look just like pears.”
“Then you must make the chocolates we tasted,” said the other. “I bought at least five different kinds.”
Beatrice shook her head, hating to disappoint the women. Before she said anything, her mother responded, “No, our chocolatier is my eldest daughter, recently wedded to the Duke of Pelham.”
“My word!” “Gracious!” both women exclaimed excitedly at once. “This is a special confectionery indeed,” added the first. “We shall tell all our friends.”
And they left chattering to themselves about noblemen and chocolate.
I make the toffee, Beatrice nearly called after them. Maybe they hadn’t even bought any. Charlotte disappeared into the back room to remove her hat and coat, but Beatrice approached the counter.
“Do you think it’s perfectly fine to tell people about our new connection to the upper class?” she asked.
“I think the publicity of our new duchess in the family, as well as of you girls rubbing elbows with London’s finest will undoubtedly help our shop,” her mother said.
“Where is our new duchess?” Beatrice asked, still thinking it would be humiliating to have a fine gentleman from the previous evening come in to buy sweets from her.
“She and the duke had some charity luncheon to go to, and Amity took our confectionery, of course. It will be very good for business.”
Apparently, even Amity had changed her mind. Previously, she’d practically forbidden herself to fall in love with the duke for fear of the class difference and what it might mean. Yet now, her older sister seemed to be flaunting her shopgirl background. Beatrice intended to keep the two roles — that of confectioner and that of debutante — separate for as long as possible.
“When is the next event of the Season?” she asked, tugging off her gloves.
“Two days.”
“Another ball,” Beatrice murmured, not as thrilled as she ought to be. She was starting to understand how, despite the change in venue or music, they were all a similar experience. She supposed after a few more, she would even start to recognize the same faces.
“When the weather warms a little, the first boating outing shall take place at Richmond,” her mother said. “And there will be a picnic soon, too.”
“It seems odd,” Charlotte said, having pinned on her apron and returned, “to picnic with strangers.”
“There’s often a ride through the park first or a stroll, perhaps even a tour of Kew Gardens,” their mother said. “You won’t simply arrive by the Thames and plop yourself down upon the grass to eat sandwiches.”
They all laughed. “At least the river isn’t so smelly at Richmond,” Beatrice said. “Can you imagine boating by the Palace of Westminster or down by Blackfriars?”
She started to remove her cloak when her mother stopped her. “I need you to take samples along to a swanky hotel.”
Freezing, Beatrice guessed at once. “To the Langham?”
“Yes,” her mother said, staring at her as if she’d become a necromancer. “How on earth did you know?”
“Is this to do with Mr. Carson?”
Her mother frowned. “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“The night Mr. Carson and I first went to Amity’s, he said he was staying at the Langham. Naturally, when you said swanky, I assumed it was the same. I can’t think of a nicer hotel in London.”
“The Langham’s manager placed an order for samples of practically everything, and we’re billing the hotel, too.”
“Billing for samples?” Charlotte asked, her tone awestruck. “That hardly seems fair.”
“With the amount your father told me they charge their guests, being fair has nothing to do with it. They can afford to pay for every sweet their maître d’hôtel tastes. If they enjoy them, then our confectionery will be offered in their restaurant as well as for guests to take to their rooms.”
“Why can’t I go?” Charlotte protested.
“Because you are better with customers here in the shop. And Beatrice is better with,” her mother paused, “with carrying samples.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. What a thing for her mother to say!
In any case, Felicity had a good-sized bag ready behind the counter. “Two types of toffee, a quarter pound each, twelve different chocolates, two of each, and six marzipan shapes. You may take a tramcar or a hackney cab if you like.”
“No, thank you, Mother. I would prefer to walk. It’s only ten minutes.” She slipped her gloves back on and picked up the bag.
Stepping outside the shop, Beatrice thought how preferable it was to be out walking when she felt a little lazy, rather than sitting in the back room where she would undoubtedly fall asleep upon her stool within the hour. She didn’t dally since she’d passed the same shops a hundred times and knew what was in every window. Heading up New Bond Street, she turned right onto Maddox Street. After a quick left, she cut though Hanover Square and passed the magnificent edifice of the Earl of Harewood. She wondered if he would hold a ball that Season, as the earl was purported to have a fine collection of old China on display.
After traversing busy Oxford Street, in another minute, Beatrice was walking through Cavendish Square. She could already see the elegant Langham looming at Portland Place, past the square’s northeast corner.
At the same time as she spied the six-story, yellow sandstone hotel, she recognized Mr. Carson approaching along the path between the shrubbery and the neatly manicured grass. The familiar pounding of her heart ensued at the sight of him, followed quickly by a burst of happiness.
A moment later, he saw her, and the very next instant, she realized he was walking a cat.
Unable to even consider not laughing, Beatrice let loose a peal of laughter at the sight of the tall man holding one end of a long, thin leash with a ball of grey fluff at the end of it. What’s more, this fluff was prancing with its tail in the air, a tail nearly as big as the entire cat.
“What on earth?” she asked when they grew close.
While Mr. Carson stopped in front of her, the cat did not want to halt its promenade. It tugged at the leash, before turning to look up at him, whiskers quivering with disapproval.
“May I pet it?” she asked him.
“She’s liable to scratch or bite you,” he warned.
“Then I shall scratch or bite her back,” Beatrice promised. Setting down her bag, she bent low and touched the top of the cat’s head before giving it a little rub behind its ears. It leaned into her hand, enjoying the attention. She could even hear it beginning to purr.
“She seems to have taken an instant liking to you,” Greer said, “perhaps sensing a kindred spirit.”
“You mean a quick-tempered female.”
“Precisely. Miss Rare-Foure, may I introduce you to Miss Sylvia, my mother’s cat?”
“You brought her all the way from America?” Beatrice couldn’t take her gaze off the sweet pussum’s face. It had closed its eyes now and was purring loudly.
“I did. I didn’t have the heart to leave her. All she’s ever known is being pampered, spoiled, and utterly indulged. I believe the shock of a regular home with people who don’t worship her might have killed her.”
She stood again. “Why, Mr. Carson, I believe you have a tender heart and are deeply fond of her.”
“Hardly, Miss Rare-Foure. If you must know, my mother’s will demanded I look after her.”
“I doubt your mother’s last testament ordered you to bring her cat to Britain with you, in a first-class cabin, I’ll warrant, and then put her in the most expensive Mayfair hotel and walk her through Cavendish Square on a leash.” She glanced down at Miss Sylvia again, seeing what looked like rubies and diamonds, sapphires and emeralds encircling its neck, winking in the sunlight.
“Good God! Are those gemstones?”
“Of course not,” he said, and her heart slowed from a hammering rate. “This is her outdoor collar, so those are merely glass.”
“That makes sense,” she said. What person in his right mind would have a cat collar worth a fortune? “How foolish of me!”
“Naturally, I leave her jeweled collar in my room in case she ever slips away from me.”
She stared again at Miss Sylvia as the cat attempted to capture a small grasshopper on the grass beside her, and Greer took a step sideways to give her more leeway. Pouncing, she had the bug under her paws in a flash.
Beatrice shook her head. “You mean she truly does have a collar with diamonds and rubies and whatnot?”
When he laughed, she realized he was joking. “My mother spoiled this cat, but that would be beyond the pale.”
Beatrice nodded. “Besides, that type of spoiling is for the owner, not the animal.”
“I cannot argue. Miss Sylvia would prefer to have sardines over sapphires.” Greer looked at her bag. “What are you doing in our little square?” he asked, taking another few steps onto the grass as Miss Sylvia tugged him along.
Beatrice picked up her bag, left the path, and followed him. “I believe you are responsible for why I am here.”
“Really?” he asked, but he had a twinkle in his eyes.
“Did you request the Langham Hotel carry our confectionery?”
“I am considered a long-term resident now. They want to keep me happy. They brought fresh fish for Miss Sylvia the other day. The least they can do is provide decent confectionery to their guests.”
“Mother is making them pay for samples,” she told him.
“Good. They can well afford it.”
They both looked back at the cat, who was now at the base of a tree and, by her hunched manner and half-closed eyes, doing her private business. They made eye contact and grinned at the absurdity of taking a cat for a walk. She relished how much good humor they shared.
“Twice a day, I’m out here with her,” he said. “Although if it’s pouring rain, I put her face to the window, and you should feel the little beast recoil. Then she’ll use torn newspapers in a box in my bathroom. She protests, but she’ll use it.”
“You seem quite the expert pet owner, Mr. Carson.”
He shrugged. “Now that she has completed her task, we’ll walk back with you.”
“Very well.” Beatrice watched as he pulled on the leash. At first, the cat seemed to plant her paws and refuse to move, making Beatrice chuckle again, but then Miss Sylvia began to walk in the proper direction. It was slow going and at times very fast going if the cat suddenly gave chase to a stray butterfly or a leaf.
“Why do they call this circular park a square?” Greer asked.
Beatrice opened her mouth to answer when a dog appeared at the entrance to the park. A moment later, she realized it, too, was on a leash.
Miss Sylvia, however, knew nothing of the sort and began to hiss and pull in the opposite direction. In the blink of an eye, Greer scooped up the cat and tucked her under his arm despite her struggling and her little legs scrabbling against his coat.
He does have a soft heart, she thought, and cares for that cat. It made her own heart glad. The dog and its owner passed without incident, and they crossed the street diagonally to enter the hotel by one of its back doors.
“I ought to meet with the maître d’hôtel by myself,” she said. “Since you already told them you wanted our chocolate, I think it would be a bit suspicious if you were beside me when I deliver the samples. They might think you have a special interest in our success.”
“As you wish,” he said. “Also, while they tolerate Miss Sylvia, they don’t want me roaming the halls with her in case she does anything nasty on their Persian rugs.” He gave her a small bow, looking her directly in the eyes as he did. Something about him lately never failed to make her stomach do a little flip of excitement.
“Good luck,” he said. “I’m certain they’ll love everything you’ve brought and place many large orders.”
“Thank you,” she said, but neither of them moved. She reached out to stroke Miss Sylvia’s head again. “If it happens as you say, my mother will be pleased to have a steady customer like the Langham.”
“Not to mention all the guests who will want to take confectionery home with them. They’ll taste it while staying in London and then dash over to New Bond Street to have Miss Charlotte pack them a tin.”
She smiled at him. “They’ll dash over, will they? They’ll probably at the very least take a cab.”
“Make sure the hotel manager agrees to your shop name being associated with every last sweet. I’ve met many Europeans in the dining room and even a few Americans, and I’m positive lots of important people stay here all the time, some dripping with wealth.”
“Like you and Miss Sylvia?” she teased.
“Exactly so. Some probably have real jewels on their collars, too.”
“The people or their animals?”
They snickered, but Miss Sylvia started to struggle, so it was time to part. “We didn’t come in through the grand entrance, but you need to go in that direction,” he explained, “so that someone in the reception office can hail the general manager. Follow this corridor,” he said, “past all those endless small sitting rooms on the left and the ladies’ library on the right, though I bet you might want to look in there sometime. Take a right at the family staircase. You won’t meet any strange single gentlemen on that side.”
“Strange men such as yourself, holding cats?”
“Again, correct,” he said. “You’ll see the entrance foyer ahead of you. Go through it, past the doors to the central courtyard. Miss Sylvia has been known to do her business there in a pinch, but she was found disturbing the flowers one time and drinking from the fountain another, so we’ve been all but banned.”
“Naturally,” she said, imagining the horror of a guest paying dearly for an opulent room and looking out from above over the exclusive hotel courtyard to see a cat defecating in the flower pots. She grinned at the thought.
“You’ll find a reception room on your right, just past the courtyard doors. If the manager isn’t nearby, they’ll fetch him.”
“I’m sure I shall manage quite well.”
“I haven’t a doubt,” he said. “You have always seemed like a most capable woman.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carson.” He’d done them such a good turn, there was nothing more she could say.
“I will see you at the next ball,” he added as she walked away.