A Taste for Scandal (2 page)

“Yes, actually. It is my own fault. I let slip at the breakfast table this morning that the Duke of Worthington’s young son, Lord Andrew, will be making an appearance tonight after all. The twins are absolutely ecstatic he will be in the house, despite the fact they will, of course, not be able to join us.”

Richard shook his head. Jocelyn and Carolyn were positively dying to make their debuts, but Father had held firm to his determination to make them wait another year, until they were eighteen. Truthfully, Richard was surprised the old man had held out; he tended to be a little too indulgent. “Gravell is a good enough chap, but why all the fuss?”

Mother gave him a look that clearly said he was being slow. “Because he is young, handsome, and one of the most eligible bachelors of the Season.” She shook her head. “You gentlemen will never quite know the effect you have on the young ladies of the
ton
,” she said with a sigh.

Richard grinned. Actually, he had a pretty good idea, which was why he had returned home so late in the first place. He straightened his features and asked, “So, what does Gravell’s attendance have to do with me?”

“Beatrice begged me to take her to Bond Street this morning to pick out a more
enticing
shade of green ribbon to complement her gown tonight.” Mother sighed and shook her head. “I cannot begin to imagine what she means, but I am entirely too busy coordinating the final details of the ball to even think about shopping today. It is why I am up so early this morning to begin with. Please say that you will take her.”

Bond Street before five in the evening? He’d rather be tarred and feathered. “Really, Mother, I hardly think a ribbon is going to make the difference between marriage and spinsterhood. I’m sure she has dozens of ribbons to choose from already.”

If his mother’s pursed lips were any indication, she was not pleased with his flippant response. “At least Beatrice is mindful of the purpose of the Season. Since you have no plans to escort your sister to Bond Street, that leaves us more time to discuss
your
prospects.” Folding her arms, she smiled and blinked expectantly. “So tell me, have any young ladies caught your eye this Season?”

Well, that was one way to fall into a trap. Richard cocked his head to the side and offered his signature charming smile. “Plenty of ladies have caught my eye. Why, only last night—”

“Richard! I don’t want to hear a word about where you slipped off to last night—or with whom, for that matter. Be serious for once.”

“If you wish for me to be serious, then perhaps we should postpone this conversation five or so years.” Someday the weight of the marquisate would land squarely on his shoulders. He would be responsible for the well-being of countless people, several estates, the management of wealth—not to mention the legacy passed down to future generations. When that day came, he would have all the seriousness he could handle. Just thinking about it made him itch to get out of the house and savor his freedom.

“Have no fear, Mother. I know my duty well. A decade from now, you shall have more grandchildren than you know what to do with.” Yes, he knew exactly what was expected of him. Truly, it was the only thing his family had
ever
expected of him. Find an elegant, well-groomed, fertile female with an impeccable bloodline and marry her. If it weren’t for the “marry her” part, one would think he was selecting a bloody horse for the family’s breeding stables. He doubted the process would be much different, though—rows of suitable candidates lined up, each lady biting at the bit to be the Countess of Raleigh and the future marchioness. When they looked at him, they wouldn’t see Richard; they would see wealth, titles, and his bloodline. Still, when the time was right, he planned to marry the best damn paragon of English womanhood the
ton
had ever produced. It was the one thing he had no doubt he could do exactly right.

But in the meantime, he had a hell of a lot of living to cram into his last remaining years of freedom.

Mother sighed, not looking the least bit surprised. “Richard, you may think you have all the time in the world to find a proper match and start a family, but I can assure you that is not the case. You were two and Evie just born by the time your father was your age. Five children, and only one son—I can speak with authority when I say producing an heir is not always as easy as it sounds.”

Not the sort of conversation one wished to have with one’s mother, especially before having a proper cup of coffee. He cleared his throat. “About those ribbons . . .”

“Indeed. Beatrice will be forever grateful were you to escort her. I’m sure it won’t take but a few hours.”

Great, just what he needed. Bond Street was a hornet’s nest of eligible debutantes and their marriage-minded mothers—even more so than a ballroom, where they tended to be on their best behavior. If a gentleman wasn’t careful, he could easily be trapped. He loved women and their company, but his tastes ran toward the more sophisticated, unruinable variety. “I’ll make you a compromise. I will purchase every green ribbon on the whole street if I may go alone. Clearly I am not to get any sleep this morning, so I would rather go before the fashionable hour, if you don’t mind.”

The triumphant grin that lit his mother’s face told him everything he needed to know. She was the only woman in the world who could mold him like putty in her dainty hands.

“Deal.”

The morning had somehow gone from average to abysmal in the space of a single sentence. Pausing midstir, Jane Bunting looked up at her brother in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?” Surely she had not heard him correctly.

Instead of answering, Weston merely looked toward the back wall of the kitchen where the bulk dry goods were normally stored. She followed his gaze, landing on the empty spot on the worn brick floor. Nothing remained but the powdered outline of where the flour should be.

This was
not
good. Not good at all.

Closing her eyes, she set down her copper mixing bowl and drew a slow, calming breath, taking comfort in the scent of cinnamon and sugar wafting from the oven. She loved her brother, but he was quite possibly the worst assistant in the whole of London. Unfortunately, he was also the only assistant who would work for free—not counting the rooms they shared above the shop and the food he devoured like a starving bear ever since he turned sixteen last month.

“Um, I’m sorry?” Weston said, not quite seeming to know what to do with his lanky limbs as he leaned awkwardly against her worktable.

A dull throbbing started in the back of her head. She simply did not have time for this right now. She was a baker. She had a business to run. She had a special order to fulfill for Mr. Farnsworth’s celebratory luncheon, which was set to begin at eleven o’clock—barely more than two hours from now.

And thanks to her brother, she was down one vital ingredient.

Doing her best to keep an even, understanding tone, she said, “Yesterday, when I sent you to Lancaster’s for extra flour so that we would be able to fulfill Mr. Farnsworth’s order in addition to our normal offerings, what exactly happened?”

Weston’s newly prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as twin red splotches stained his cheeks. “Well, I did go out for the flour, but, um, Miss Lancaster asked me to help move the new sacks of dried beans since her brother had set off for Brighton without doing it, and I guess I . . . forgot.”

Ah, Miss Lancaster. It wasn’t as though Jane didn’t know her brother harbored a
tendre
for the shopkeeper’s daughter. Usually, she even thought it very sweet. She simply hadn’t realized it had blossomed to the point of crowding everything else out of her brother’s brain.

Jane rubbed a hand over the back of her neck to alleviate the building tension. What she would give for her parents to be here to help guide him—or even Emerson, for that matter. Her cousin was only two-and-twenty; surely he remembered what it was like to be a sixteen-year-old boy. The fact that Emerson was currently in the middle of some ocean or another did make it a bit difficult to ask him for his advice, however.

No use wishing for the impossible. What was done was done—or rather, what was
not
done was not done—and the sooner her brother could return with her flour the better. “I’m sure Miss Lancaster was grateful for your help. Unfortunately, I can’t finish the last batch of Mr. Farnsworth’s scones without the flour. Can you please run and get it now? And by run, I do mean run. I’ll watch the shop until you get back.”

Her last words fell on deaf ears as Weston bolted for the back door without another word, slamming it soundly in his wake. Honestly, what had happened to her sweet little brother? Perhaps sixteen was the magic age when sweet-tempered boys turned into ill-mannered men. She grinned at the thought. That explained a lot, actually.

She paused to pull the latest batch from the oven, laying the pan on the counter to cool before heading to the shop upstairs. Her spirits rose as she emerged from the corridor into the gaily decorated front room that served as their shop. The pretty yellow and white curtains framing the storefront windows matched the ones downstairs, but with the morning sunshine pouring through the small space, they somehow seemed that much more cheery.

The door pushed open and Mrs. Dobbins tottered in, her belly leading the way. “Miss Bunting,” she exclaimed, her face lighting with her sweet smile. “How lovely to see you, my dear. Where’s your brother this morning?”

Jane grinned at the doctor’s wife, happy to see her. “He’s off to pick up some supplies. Just look at you—I can’t believe how much you’ve changed since last we met. Does Dr. Dobbins not fret with you out and about so close to the happy day?”

“He’s worse than an old woman,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He’d have wrapped me in blankets and shut me away months ago if I’d have let him. And here I thought he was the levelheaded scientific sort.” She made her way to the periwinkle-painted counter, settling onto the stool with a sigh of relief.

Jane could hardly blame the man—the woman looked as though she might have the baby any day. Soft memories slipped through her mind of the anxious looks Papa was forever giving Mama in the months before Weston was born. “Be they scientists or bakers, they are still just concerned husbands when their wives are expecting. I think it’s sweet that he’s wanting to coddle you.”

“That’s because you’re not the one being coddled. At this point, I’ve just been waiting until he leaves to sneak out and do my errands. Much easier that way.”

No, coddling was something that Jane probably would never see again. Still, she could understand how such a thing might drive one mad. Slipping behind the counter, she gestured to the various displays of sweet breads and pastries covering much of the counter. “What can I get for you this lovely morning?”

“Hmm. Perhaps the lemon currant scone. Oh, and is that cinnamon?” She pointed to a plate of dark-flecked pastries coated in a thick layer of finely powdered sugar, and Jane nodded. “Oh, good. I’ll take one of those as well. And do you have any mince pies?”

Mince pies at a quarter to nine in the morning? Jane diplomatically refrained from wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Not just yet, I’m afraid. I usually don’t start those until around midafternoon. Will a ginger biscuit do instead?”

Mrs. Dobbins’s apple cheeks pinked as she nodded. “Better make it two.”

Chuckling, Jane wrapped up the order, sliding in an extra biscuit for a surprise. Mrs. Dobbins was practically their best customer, but more than that, she had been so kind when Mama was sick, bringing by the occasional meal and staying for tea to keep Mama company as Jane worked long days in the bakery.

As Jane handed over the package, Mrs. Dobbins smiled and squeezed her hand. “I’m glad to see you again, Miss Bunting. I think about you from time to time, and it does me good to see you looking so well.”

Looking so well? As tired as Jane felt, that was hard to imagine. Still, she thanked her for the compliment and waved a cheery good-bye as Mrs. Dobbins took her leave. With a sigh, Jane turned her attention to the displays, carefully rearranging the treats she had baked when the sun was still somewhere far beyond the crowded rooftops and cobblestone streets of east London. That early in the morning, the city was still mostly quiet and even the self-indulgent fops of the
haut ton
had found their way to bed.

She shook her head just thinking about the occasional gleaming black carriage that rumbled past her window in the predawn hush when she awoke. The liveried tigers and smartly painted coats of arms left no doubt as to the occupants’ wealth, while the ungodly hour spoke volumes about the complete lack of purpose in their lives. If she were of the inclination, she could open the shop earlier and cater to the rich and their late-night cavorting.

But she was most certainly
not
of the inclination. After the way her father died, she would as soon starve as pander to the spoiled, unprincipled, overly privileged sons of the aristocracy.

Jane took a deep breath. Heavens, where had
that
come from? Shaking off the maudlin turn of thought, she popped a strawberry tart in her mouth—nothing improved one’s mood quite like sweets, after all—before replacing the sparkling crystal domes over the platters and turning to tidy the cabinet running the length of the back wall. She went to work, carefully cleaning the glass doors that protected her most cherished possessions: her mother’s china.

Behind her, the door swung open, causing the little bell above the frame to tinkle merrily in welcome. Pasting a smile on her tired lips, she turned to greet her customer.

And screamed in shock.

Chapter Two

“Buy an apple, guv? Best in London, they is.”

Richard paused as a plump, middle-aged woman wearing a kerchief over her dark hair stepped in his way. Offering his most charming smile, he said, “The best in London, you say? Well, I have no doubt they are, madam. However, I am quite set for apples. If only you had said scones. I do so adore a great scone.” He winked at her, and was pleased to see a blush rise up her tanned cheeks. “I will, however, buy one for your next customer.”