Jane and the rest of the diners thanked Edwin for the excellent lunch and offered to pay for their meals, but he wouldn’t hear of it, so the satisfied customers left generous tips for Magnus and filed out of the café. Jane knew word of Edwin’s triumph would spread through the village before she and her family made it back to Storyton Hall.
Aunt Octavia, who’d savored every bite of her lunch, was wearing a self-satisfied smile. Jane suspected the expression had something to do with the two honey lavender crème brûlée desserts her great-aunt had polished off, but decided not to scold her for deviating from her diet. Mrs. Hubbard, Storyton’s head chef, would have Aunt Octavia back on track by suppertime.
“Keep the motor running,” Aunt Octavia said when Jane drove to the Pickled Pig to pick up the twins. “I don’t feel like going inside just to see whatever bunny, bird, or rodent the Hogg brothers have adopted as their store mascot.”
As it turned out, he was none of those animals. When Jane caught her first glimpse of the new pet sitting obediently in the center of a ring of children, his pink noise quivering in excitement and his curly tail wagging like a dog’s, she laughed with pure delight.
“Mom!” Fitz cried when he saw her. “He’s a pot-bellied pig! Isn’t he awesome?”
Jane nodded. “He’s splendid.” She turned to her other son. “How was your lunch?”
“Fine.” Hem only had eyes for the pig. “Mr. Hogg has been telling us all about his pet. He can take him on walks on a leash, and he says that pigs are super smart.”
“Like Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web,” Fitz added.
At that moment, Tobias, the youngest of the three Hogg brothers, noticed Jane squatting next to her two sons.
“Hi, Ms. Steward. Feel free to get a little closer to our new pig. He’s very fond of a good belly rub.”
The children scooted out of the way and Jane knelt in front of the adorable animal. He grunted noisily as she scratched his pink skin, which was covered with strands of bristly hair. The pig nudged her palm with his trembling nose and rubbed up against her.
“The whole village is going to fall in love with this little guy,” Jane said. “I look forward to hearing the winning name. Did all the kids enter the contest?”
“All the ones you see here and more.” Tobias puffed out his chest with pride. Like his older brothers, he was a round man with fleshy cheeks and deep dimples. And though he resembled Rufus and Duncan Hogg in appearance, Tobias was as jolly as Saint Nick, while his brothers rarely cracked a smile.
No wonder they’re bachelors, Jane thought, but she wished Tobias would find a nice woman. He was very fond of children and Jane judged he’d make a wonderful husband and father.
Suddenly, a matchmaking scheme popped into her head. “Have you heard about the Romancing the Reader event we’re having at Storyton Hall?” she asked him. “It starts this Monday.”
“That’s why I took such care with the window display.” Tobias gestured at the storefront. “I figured the ladies would be attracted to the heart-shaped boxes. I ordered all sorts of treats just for them, including some naughty conversation hearts.” His cheeks reddened. “Of course, I wouldn’t give those candies to my Valentine. I’d give her truffles. Homemade ones.”
“I remember sampling yours at Christmas,” Jane said. “How would you like to help Mrs. Hubbard with Tuesday’s truffle workshop? We could use someone with your chocolate making skills, and it would be a great opportunity for you to tell the lovely ladies all about the Pickled Pig.”
“Perhaps one of the single ladies will be looking for a man who’ll treat her like a queen,” Tobias spoke so softly that Jane was sure his hopeful words hadn’t been meant for her ears. His eyes shining, he turned to her. “Count me in, Ms. Steward.”
Jane told Tobias to check in with Mrs. Hubbard before Tuesday and then waved at the twins. “Come on, boys. Aunt Octavia’s in the car and is probably annoyed that I’ve taken so long.”
Hem held up the plastic baggie containing his selections from the bulk candy display. “Don’t worry. If I give her a Tootsie Roll, she’ll forgive us.”
“But Mrs. Hubbard won’t,” Jane said and propelled her sons toward the exit.
With full bellies and several anecdotes to share with those back at Storyton Hall, the foursome drove home.
Jane let Butterworth escort Aunt Octavia into the lobby and then returned the Rolls to the garage. She told the boys they could take ten pieces of candy and whatever book they were currently reading to one of their hiding places. They had over a dozen scattered throughout the manor and outbuildings. Tapping the face of Hem’s digital watch, she added, “You have an hour. After that, I will inspect your room, including the items you shoved in your closet.”
Throwing promises over their shoulders, the twins dashed off to fetch their books. Jane headed into the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Hubbard decorating a cake.
“That looks heavenly. Is it for afternoon tea?”
Mrs. Hubbard finished forming a pale yellow rose and then straightened, surveying the beautiful confection with a critical eye. “This is a lemon layer cake with lemon curd and mascarpone. I thought it would complement the traditional sponge nicely.”
“If I hadn’t just had a smoothie, a sandwich, and dessert, I’d be drooling,” Jane said. “And I’d better post a guard outside the Agatha Christie Tea Room or Aunt Octavia might try to sneak in and grab a slice of both cakes.”
“No need to worry,” Mrs. Hubbard assured her. “I made a low-sugar version of the Victoria sandwich for Ms. Octavia.” She picked up another icing bag and began adding leaves to the roses. “Now, tell me all about Mr. Alcott’s luncheon.”
Jane knew she needed to ingratiate herself with Mrs. Hubbard before confessing that she’d invited Tobias Hogg to take part in the truffle workshop, so she shared every detail she could remember. While she was talking, one of the line cooks opened the back door for the UPS deliveryman.
Mrs. Hubbard, who’d been hanging on Jane’s every word, suddenly held up a finger and frowned. “Again? I can scarcely believe it.”
Setting the icing bag down, she wiped her hands on her apron and marched over to the delivery cart. Plucking a box from the top of the stack, she examined the label and shook her head. She then carried the box to her workspace and plunked it next to the cake.
“We have a mystery on our hands,” she declared theatrically. “Our Mr. Lachlan has been receiving these unusual packages on a regular basis.” She showed Jane the stamp on the top of the box. “They all come with the same warning: ‘Perishable. Keep frozen,’ and they’re shipped by a company I’ve never heard of before.”
Jane examined the address label. The box had come from a place called Indiana Trading, Incorporated. “These arrive often?”
“Regular as clockwork,” Mrs. Hubbard said. “And Mr. Lachlan wants to be notified as soon as a package is delivered.” She shrugged. “Mr. Lachlan is a charming man and I don’t mean to imply that he’s up to no good. I just can’t help but wonder why the head of our recreation department needs perishable items in the dead of winter.” She put a hand over her large, aproned bosom. “It’s none of my business, but since you happened to be here . . .”
Mrs. Hubbard was clearly implying that while she was in no position to tear open other people’s mail, the resort manager certainly had a right to do so. However, Jane had no intention of invading Mr. Lachlan’s privacy. “I’ll take a look at last month’s expense report and see if this company has billed Storyton Hall. If so, I’m sure Mr. Lachlan can provide me with a reasonable explanation as to why he’s ordering perishable goods.”
She signaled to the line cook. “Roy, would you put this in the freezer, please?”
With the box gone, Mrs. Hubbard seemed to remember that she had yet to finish decorating the lemon cake. She glanced at the wall clock, blanched, and scooped up the icing tube. “Oh my! I’ve run my mouth and completely lost track of the time again!” Mrs. Hubbard hurriedly piped another green leaf and then began shouting frantic orders to her staff. They responded immediately, wearing knowing smiles and scurrying to obey.
Jane retreated from the kitchen, but not before snagging two chocolate madeleines from the cooling rack. She always helped herself to freshly baked treats to enjoy with her afternoon tea, but made a point of limiting them to a single scone, a thin slice of cake, or two cookies. Even with her new physical training schedule, which included martial arts, archery, and yoga, Jane didn’t dare indulge in the afternoon tea bounty the way her guests did. After all, they were on vacation. She lived at Storyton Hall and needed to show restraint, especially when the weather turned warm and the Steward family took their tea on a table on the back terrace.
But spring seemed like a distant dream. The weather forecast had been warning of snow for days and the sky was tinged with the ghostly pink hue that often preceded a snowfall. Jane hoped the storm would come and go before Romancing the Reader began. As beautiful as Storyton’s fleet of vintage Rolls-Royce sedans was, they weren’t the best vehicles for navigating the icy mountains roads.
Fretting over the weather and a dozen other details concerning the forthcoming event, Jane headed to her cozy office. She set her tea treat aside for later and focused on reading e-mails, reviewing next week’s budget, and watching the radar map on her computer. According to the site, the snow would arrive that evening, dust the ground with half an inch of accumulation, and be gone by Sunday morning.
“I hope that’s accurate,” Jane said and then stared at the budget report. “If the ladies can’t get to Storyton Hall on Monday, our bottom line will suffer a major blow.”
Jane glanced at the corkboard hung on the wall opposite her desk. It featured orderly rows of construction paper in primary hues. Upon each piece of paper, Jane had written a long-term project goal. She referred to this display as her Hopes and Dreams Board and looked at it several times each day.
Gazing at the board, Jane wondered which project to pick first. “I doubt our guests would be overly impressed by roof repairs or the retiling of the Jules Verne pool.” She moved her hand over the brown paper and the blue paper until it rested on the green paper. “They’d rather hear about the restoration of the orchard or the folly.” She touched the purple piece next. “Or that we’ve opened a spa.”
Silently vowing that she’d accomplish one of these major goals by the end of spring, Jane crossed a few more items off her to-do list. At three, she stopped for a tea break. As she sipped a cup of Earl Grey and ate her two madeleines as slowly as possible to prolong the pleasure, she called up the Romance Writers of America website and read the biographies of the authors who’d soon be coming to Storyton. When her teacup was empty, Jane went off in search of the twins.
She found Fitz and Hem exactly where she expected them to be: perched on stools in the kitchen. Judging by their chocolate moustaches and the clump of white stuff in Fitz’s hair, Mrs. Hubbard had treated them to hot cocoa with mini marshmallows. Catching sight of their mother, the boys each gave Mrs. Hubbard a quick hug and then dashed outside.
“I think they just remembered that I’m about to inspect their room,” Jane said.
Mrs. Hubbard laughed and took the kettle off the stove.
With the tea sandwiches, scones, cakes, and cookies safely arranged in the Agatha Christie Tea Room, Mrs. Hubbard could relax for a few moments until she began prepping for the dinner service. She always took her break between three and four o’clock so she could visit with the twins. Like Aunt Octavia, she doted on them terribly. While Aunt Octavia bought them books, puzzles, crafts, comics, and anything else that might spark their imaginations, Mrs. Hubbard spoiled them with food. It wasn’t all unhealthy, and Jane had entered the kitchen many a time to see the boys snacking on ants on a log, grape caterpillars, cheese cube towers, coral fish made of shaved carrots and cucumbers, or palm trees with banana slice stems and kiwi leaves.
Jane glanced at the two smudges of chocolate on Mrs. Hubbard’s apron and smiled. There was no one like Mrs. Hubbard, just like there was no one like Butterworth, Sterling, Sinclair, or the other people of Storyton Hall who’d become like family to Jane. Mrs. Hubbard poured water over her tea leaves and then smiled back, as though she understood exactly what Jane was feeling.
“Oh, I nearly forgot!” Mrs. Hubbard exclaimed. “Ms. Octavia mentioned that you were in charge of dessert for your book club tonight. I know how busy you’ve been trying to get everything ready for Monday, so I made it for you.”
Jane gaped. “You shouldn’t have! You have too much on your plate already. Excuse the cliché, but it’s true.”
“The cake’s on the pantry shelf in a bakery box,” Mrs. Hubbard said. “It’s devil’s food cake. It was Ned’s idea, actually. He knows that your club is reading titles starting with the letter D, and last time he was babysitting the twins, he spotted a book called The Devilish Duke in your living room, so he suggested I make a devilish dessert.” Mrs. Hubbard flashed Jane an impish grin over the rim of her teacup. “The Devilish Duke sounds like the type of novel that could produce a very lively discussion.”
Jane recalled the scene she’d recently read and blushed. It had taken place in the duke’s stagecoach after he’d carried off the chambermaid from the neighbor’s estate and ravished her on the way back to his manor. The scene had been very, very descriptive.
After thanking Mrs. Hubbard again, Jane took her cake and hurried home.
* * *
That evening after supper, Fitz and Hem slung duffel bags over their shoulders and headed outside with a lantern. They were having a sleepover with Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius and Jane knew they couldn’t wait to play with the model train set Uncle Aloysius had set up on the floor in his office.
Jane walked her sons to the back terrace and kissed them good night before hurrying home to tidy the kitchen and living room.
She’d barely wiped an unidentifiable dried puddle of sticky stuff off the coffee table when the doorbell rang.
“Come in!’ Jane called.
Three Cover Girls spilled into her house, trying to escape the bite of the February air. Because all the ladies lived in Storyton Village, they carpooled to their book club meetings. This way, most of them could enjoy whatever themed cocktail Anna Shaw had concocted.
Anna, who worked as an assistant pharmacist, was the first to come inside. She hung her parka on the coat rack by the front door and scooted out of the way to make room for Violet Osborne, the proprietor of Tresses Hair Salon.
“I washed my hair thirty minutes ago and I swear the damp parts froze on the car ride here,” Violet said, carrying a covered dish into the kitchen.
Phoebe Doyle, who ran the Canvas Creamery, an art gallery combined with a frozen custard shop, touched the knit cap covering most of her head. “Our mothers always warned us not to go out in wintertime with wet hair.”
“I’ll just sit by the fire until the rest of our party gets here,” Anna said after giving Jane a hug. “It won’t take long to mix up our Devilish Duke cocktail.”
“Did someone mention tonight’s drink?” asked Betty Carmichael as she stepped into the house and beckoned for Eloise and Mrs. Pratt to hurry up and shut the door. “I could do with something to warm my bones.”
Mrs. Pratt snorted and began unwinding a very long scarf from around her neck. “Why didn’t you toss one back at the Cheshire Cat before we picked you up? After all, you own a pub.”
Betty looked appalled. “Bob and I never imbibe during our shifts. It would be unseemly.”
Phoebe shrugged. “I eat my own frozen custard all the time. And I have at least two espresso drinks a day.”
“That’s different,” Betty said. “If I made a habit of sampling our wares, I’d end up serving Cosmos to Rufus Hogg and pints of dark ale to Pippa Pendleton.”
Everyone laughed at the thought of the oldest Hogg brother sipping Cosmos.
“Let me near that oven, ladies!” cried Mabel Wimberly, who owned La Grande Dame Clothing Boutique and sewed all of Aunt Octavia’s dresses. Though she specialized in clothing for plus-sized woman, she could create garments for people of any size or shape.
Jane followed Mabel to the oven. “What’s in the casserole dish?”
“Beef and vegetable ragout,” Mabel said. “It was the duke’s favorite meal.”
“We can sop up the extra gravy with my Bath buns.” Phoebe touched the basket she’d set on the counter. “I made them with lots of butter and caraway seeds.”
Mrs. Pratt leaned over, sniffed the basket, and moaned. “Smells delicious. I brought mashed turnips.”
Violet, who wasn’t overly fond of vegetables, grimaced. “I made a spiced pear compote.”
“Becky and I thought a cheese board would go nicely with our cocktails,” Eloise said, turning to Anna. “But that might depend on what mysterious concoction we’re having. So far, all I know is that it’s a lovely shade of pinkish red.”
By this time, Anna had abandoned her seat by the fire to mix and pour drinks into the martini glasses Jane had purchased specifically for the book club meetings. “Fruit, cheese, and crackers will complement my Devilish Duke very nicely. This drink is two ounces of champagne, two ounces of Stoli Strasberi vodka, a few splashes of pineapple juice, and a thimbleful of daiquiri mix. I tried to create a cocktail that represented both the duke and the heroine, Venus Dares.”
“This looks divine!” Mrs. Pratt exclaimed. “Do tonight’s toast, Jane, so we can have a sip without further delay.”
Jane raised her glass. “Mark Twain said, ‘There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.’” She picked up her copy of The Devilish Duke and smiled. “To forbidden love and rebellious women.”
“Hear, hear!” her friends shouted and drank.
“And to saying farewell to the letter D,” Phoebe added.
The Cover Girls, who’d been moving backward through the alphabet for the past two years, spent six to eight weeks on each letter. Voracious readers all, they’d already plowed through Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield, Veronica Roth’s Divergent, Anne McCaffrey’s Dragonsinger, and Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. Rosamund York’s The Devilish Duke was the last novel they’d discuss before setting their sights on books beginning with the letter C.
Unsurprisingly, the racy Regency romance had been Mrs. Pratt’s pick.
“I adored The Devilish Duke,” Mrs. Pratt said. “The duke was such a loveable scoundrel. And while it’s hardly unusual to find a dark, brooding, and alluring man in a Regency romance, it is rare to encounter a female protagonist with as much pluck as Venus Dares.”
Betty headed into the living room and took a seat on the sofa. “Out of curiosity, I did a little research on Ms. York’s books.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “In addition to The Devilish Duke, she’s also written The Bold Baron, The Cunning Count, The Naughty Knight, The Enticing Earl, The Mischievous Marquess, The Rakish Royal, and The Lusty Lord. Miss Dares appears in every novel and, according to the reviews I perused, readers genuinely love Venus. There are over twenty fan websites devoted to her.”
“I don’t think many ‘well bred’ women in the Regency era spoke their minds as freely as Venus,” Violet said. “They were supposed to be demure—to sit with their ankles crossed, work on their embroidery, and keep their opinions to themselves.”
Mabel rolled her eyes. “How boring. I’m with the rest of Ms. York’s fans. I loved Venus. She has her own money, her own sizeable household, expresses radical ideas, and was given an education similar to a nobleman’s.”
“Even her name defies convention,” Anna said.
Eloise nodded. “Miss Venus Dares. A surname that doubles as a verb. Venus dares to read subversive books, she dares to pursue equality for women, and she dares to speak her mind to any member of the nobility. And who could forget when she dared to enter the duke’s bedroom unannounced and caught him in a rather compromising position with a lady from a nearby estate?”
“That was my favorite scene,” Mrs. Pratt whispered, her eyes shining over the memory. “I felt like a voyeur. It was deliciously scandalous. I read that part just before turning in for the night and when I woke up at one in the morning, I couldn’t tell if I was having hot flashes or had been dreaming of that scene.”
“You’re incorrigible.” Mabel nudged Mrs. Pratt in the side. “Don’t ever change.”
Since her friends had drifted into the living room, Jane carried in the cheese board and set it on the coffee table. “I know we’re meant to admire Venus, but I sensed a hollowness in her. I read an interesting article in Romantic Times about York’s famous and much beloved heroine. According to the backstory provided in the first book in the series, The Bold Baron, Miss Dares is a specialized matchmaker. She’s an upper-class spinster who once suffered a terrible heartbreak and vowed to never marry. Instead, she makes matches among the nobility. Her forte is “taming” the self-proclaimed bachelors. Often these men are gamblers, layabouts, and womanizers. But she finds the right woman—a strong, loving, good woman—to change their wicked and hedonistic ways. And by the end of each novel, the man has fallen in love with the woman Miss Dares has put in his path. There’s a huge wedding, Miss Dares collects a big fee, and the story ends with Miss Dares setting out on an exotic vacation or returning to her estate. She never gets involved with anyone herself, and fiercely guards her independence.”
“She’s a romance heroine who doesn’t yearn for romance,” Eloise said, looking pensive. “I know we’re discussing a work of fiction, but I can’t help wonder about Rosamund York’s love life.”
“It has to be more exciting than mine!” Anna declared and all the women laughed.
Tantalizing aromas drifted in from the kitchen. Phoebe sniffed, checked her watch, and went to the other room. She placed her rolls on a cookie sheet, and slid the tray into the oven. The scent of buttery bread mingled with that of garlic and roasted meat.
Eloise turned to Mrs. Pratt. “You’re our romance aficionado. I bet you know more about Rosamund York than the average reader.”
Mrs. Pratt preened. “It so happens that I do. About five years ago, I attended a fan conference. Ms. York’s third book had just been released to rave reviews and soared to the top of every bestseller list. She was in attendance at this particular conference to accept an award and disappeared well before the banquet was over. You see, Ms. York is an enigma. Very few details about her personal life are in circulation. Believe me, I’ve searched the farthest corners of cyberspace.”
Jane could sense Mrs. Pratt’s frustration. To a woman who lived for gossip, it must have been terribly irksome to not have access to scintillating rumors about one of her favorite authors. “Maybe her reclusive nature actually helps sell books.”
Mrs. Pratt considered this possibility. “I think she’s reclusive for a reason, and though I don’t know what that reason is, I bet Georgia Dupree does.”
Violet arched her brows, revealing the sparkly lilac shadow on her eyelids. She always wore a shade of purple somewhere on her person. Tonight, she was bundled up in a cozy lavender cardigan and had a scarf the color of amethysts wrapped around her neck. “Georgia Dupree’s famous too. I see her books all over. Are she and Ms. York friends?”
“I should say not!” Mrs. Pratt nearly shouted. “I happened to share an elevator cab with those two. They didn’t even look at each other until everyone else got out. It was only the three of us left, but I was way in the back and I don’t think either lady knew I was there.” She paused for dramatic effect.
Mabel nudged her again. “Don’t leave us hanging! Get to the point before the meat in the oven turns into leather.”
That was all the encouragement Mrs. Pratt required. “Ms. Dupree turned to Ms. York and said, ‘I am going to show the world what a charlatan you are. And when I’m done, no one will ever buy a novel bearing the name Rosamund York again.’”
“How did Ms. York respond?” Betty asked breathlessly.
“She laughed. Quite derisively, I might add. It made Georgia Dupree furious,” Mrs. Pratt said. “At that moment, we reached Ms. York’s floor. The doors opened. And before Ms. Dupree disembarked, she got very close to Ms. York and, in a voice that sounded like an angry hiss, said, ‘So help me, I will take my rightful place at the top—even if I have to kill you to do it.’ And then, she got out and the doors closed.”
Mrs. Pratt blinked, as though coming out of a daze.
Anna whistled softly. “Both of those writers are coming to Storyton for Romancing the Reader. They’ll be under one roof for an entire week.”
“It sounds like things could turn ugly. I hope you placed those two on separate floors,” Phoebe said as Eloise gave Jane’s arm a comforting squeeze.
“I gave Rosamund York the best room in the resort.” Jane groaned unhappily. She put her face in her hands and mumbled, “The last thing I need is to stumble upon the dead body of a bestselling author in the Romance and Roses Suite.”
Mrs. Pratt rubbed her hands together in undisguised glee. “This promises to be an exciting seven days. Oh, whoever thinks life in Storyton is uneventful has never attended one of your theme weeks, Jane!”