A Taste for Scandal (7 page)

Emerson patted her shoulder with his bear paw hand. “Well, you’ve done your duty; now put the matter behind you. And I promise you, whatever words you failed to deliver were more than made up for with the biscuits. He’d have to be a dog-hearted barnacle not to taste your good intentions.”

The corners of Jane’s lips turned up in the closest thing to a smile she’d had all day. “A dog-hearted
barnacle
? Where on earth does one come up with such an insult?” What would the earl say if he knew he’d been compared to a bottom-feeding sea creature?

He winked, an answering smile lifting his lips as he tipped back in the chair, balancing on the back legs. “The navy’s good for more than just defending our shores.”

Weston snorted, looking up. “I’ll say. Emerson was just telling me about—”

“Hold your tongue, lad,” Emerson cut in, sitting forward so fast the two front legs of his chair slammed on the floor. “Talk between men is not to sully the innocent ears of ladies.”

Her brother’s neck immediately turned red, and he ducked his head. “Sorry.”

Goodness—whatever they had been discussing, Jane was glad she didn’t know. Emerson got to his feet and gave Weston a hardy slap on the back. “No harm done. These are the sort of things learned in the company of men. I’ll be on dry land for at least the next month or two—plenty o’ time to get you whipped into shape.”

Jane just shook her head at the promise. The last time she had seen him, he was barely more than a boy himself. He had changed so much since joining up four years ago—and not just physically. Yes, his short hair was now bleached almost blond, and his body now well padded with muscles, but it was more than that. It was the way he held himself, the easy confidence that seemed to straighten his spine and lift his chin. He seemed to have somehow found himself on his ship. Language and innocent-ear-sullying conversations aside, he was exactly what Weston needed. And more than anything, she was just happy to have twice the family with her than when she woke up.

Her brother pushed away from the table and stood. “Are you sure you can’t stay with us?”

“Thanks, but the boardinghouse suits me just fine. After such close quarters all these years, I’m looking forward to having my rooms to myself, and decent meals to boot.” Weston’s face fell, and Emerson hooked an arm around his neck and half hugged, half strangled him. “Enough of that. Between our lessons and my helping out with the errands, you’ll be sick of me by the time I leave.”

Jane started to rise, but he waved a hand at her. “No, don’t get up—I can see myself out. I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon to help out, and I’ll even bring dinner with me. Sleep well, my family. It’s good to see your pale, landlubber faces again.”

After waving good-bye, Jane turned back to the broken china scattered across the table. How many treats had been served on those plates and platter? She could scarcely picture her mother without her holding one, offering up some baked good or another. Gingerly, she picked up one of the larger pieces and turned it in her hand, letting the candlelight catch the tiny purple flowers. What could they do with it that would make Jane think of Mama every time she looked at it, and not Lord Raleigh and this dreadful day?

An idea came to her then, and she sat back and smiled.

“What’s that look for?” Weston asked as he joined her again at the table.

“I think I may have just figured out what to do with the mosaic.” And it couldn’t have been any further away from anything anyone would ever have associated with the earl.

Chapter Six

Dear God, he had died and gone to heaven.

Richard closed his eyes, chewing reverently so as not to miss a single moment of the blissful, surely sinful, pleasure of the rich chocolate flavor and the delicate, buttery, melt-in-the-mouth texture of the seemingly inauspicious biscuit of which he had just taken a bite.

It was like tasting chocolate-dipped angel wings. Was that blasphemy? He didn’t care. He opened his eyes and lifted the rest of the biscuit to his lips, gracelessly shoving it in his mouth. He shouldn’t take such a large bite, but he did still have—he did a quick count of the contents of the bundle—ten biscuits remaining.

Was that all?

Thank God he had set them aside before the ball. He might have eaten the entire batch if he had known how good they were, and that would have made dancing all night rather unpleasant indeed. No, it was much better to find them sitting on his bureau when he returned to his chamber some five minutes ago.

Richard swallowed and licked the crumbs from his fingers. So the woman could bake. He chose another biscuit from the bundle and took a bite. He shouldn’t have been surprised—she worked in a bakeshop, after all. He supposed it was simply hard to imagine something so perfect coming from someone so prickly.

A baker never reveals her secret ingredients.
The sound of her silky smooth voice was as clear as if she stood beside him. Richard snorted. He would have never guessed the woman had a sense of humor underneath that disagreeable facade. He popped the rest of the biscuit in his mouth and lay back against the cool leather of his chair. It certainly did make him wonder.

And not for the first time. He had danced with some of the most beautiful and seductive women in England tonight, and yet his thoughts kept straying to the straight-backed Miss Jane. Hell, if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the woman, he wouldn’t be sitting in his room alone. No, he would be off enjoying the pleasurable diversions the sophisticated ladies of the
ton
offered.

As a matter of fact, Theresa had been quite put out when he had not taken her up on her offer. Normally, he enjoyed Theresa’s company, but when he danced with her tonight, she just didn’t seem to tempt him. Perhaps he just had too much on his mind.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. No, that wasn’t it. The problem was, the fiery little baker had piqued his interest. If nothing else, she was certainly intriguing. She had spunk, and Lord knew the sparks flew like flint on steel when they were around each other. She was so completely different from any other woman of his acquaintance.

And she could bake like an angel.

He looked longingly toward the napkin holding the remaining nine biscuits, too far for him to reach without getting up. He really had acted the cad to the woman. Yes, she provoked him, but he was raised on manners and the art of social niceties the way others were raised on milk and bread. He could go to the shop and properly thank her for the biscuits. Show her that he really was a proper gentleman, and, being the bigger person, give her the opportunity to redeem herself as well.

If he could procure another batch in the process, more the better.

At the breakfast table the next morning, the whole room was abuzz with feminine chatter as his mother and sisters rehashed the events of the previous evening. With the marquis already gone to parliament, there was no getting around the topics at hand, so Richard merely smiled and nodded, letting his sisters have their fun.

“The first waltz, Mama. The
first
!” Beatrice sat back dreamily, holding a muffin to her chest. “Lord Andrew could not have looked more dashing, and he smelled exactly as I hoped he would.”

“Let me guess—sugarplums and blacking?” Richard asked innocently, reaching for his second scone.

Carolyn giggled as Jocelyn sent him a withering look. “Don’t be silly. I bet he smelled of leather, sunshine, and confidence.”

Beatrice set her muffin down and grinned. “He isn’t a racehorse, Jocelyn. Nor does he smell of sweets or boot polish, for goodness’ sake. He smelled like . . . perfection.”

All three girls sighed, and Richard rolled his eyes. And to think, Beatrice was normally the most reasonable of his unmarried sisters. Debuting this Season seemed to be addling her normally sensible brain. And good Lord, he hoped females didn’t say such things about him over the breakfast table. Well, not unless they were suitably eligible and planning on seducing him in the near future. In that case, allowances could be made.

As lovely as it was to be part of the gossip and dreamy sighs, he had a certain bakery to get to. Wolfing down the rest of his scone—which was somehow less delicious than he remembered—he grabbed a handful of dried fruit and rose with every intention of escape.

“I have it on the best authority that you had a visitor last evening. Pray, tell us more.” Mother eyed him with interest.

Bloody hell. He should have known she would find out. He finished chewing slowly as he thought of what to tell her. “Just the shopgirl who caused a bit of a pother yesterday, come round to apologize. She wasn’t here more than a minute or two.”

“Oh?” The Eyebrow lifted. Damn—she knew more than she was saying.

“She also dropped off a basket of baked goods.”

“Were said baked goods laced with arsenic?”

He was going to kill Evie, the meddling little wench. As the girls regarded him with rapt interest, he sent his mother a completely unrepentant smile. He decided to answer in kind. “I’m still alive, so I am assuming not. Unless arsenic is slower acting than I realized, in which case perhaps we should give it more time.”

Mother shook her head. “Richard, you are completely incorrigible. How is it that the most charming man I know managed to be so insulting—and to a female, no less? I’m really quite disappointed. I thought I raised you better than that.”

He sighed. This was why he couldn’t wait to have his own rooms back. “Nothing wounds me more than the thought of your censure, Mother. I’ll have you know I was just on my way to make amends.” And procure some more biscuits. His mouth watered at the very thought.

“Oh, good, would you escort me to Bond Street?” Beatrice looked to him with pleading eyes. “Lord Andrew asked if he could call on me today, and I would very much like to have the green ribbon that I didn’t have yesterday. I think in the daylight, it will really bring out the green in my eyes.”

“Your eyes are
blue,
Beatrice,” Carolyn pointed out, giving her a look that clearly said Beatrice was daft.

“Of course they are, but they have some green flecks, too. Mr. Hamilton said as much while we were dancing last week.”

“Mr. Hamilton needs his eyes examined,” Jocelyn muttered.

“I’m sure that is not true, Jocelyn,” Mother said, ever the peacekeeper. “Beatrice, I’m certain Richard would be delighted to accompany you. Isn’t that so, Richard?” His mother looked to him with steel in her eyes.

So this was to be his penance. He could ignore them all and be on his way, but he was rather fond of the lot of them. Especially when Beatrice leveled those big, beseeching eyes on him.

He sighed. Perhaps it was best to have a mitigating presence with him anyway, in case things didn’t go as well as he anticipated. At least Beatrice was the most reserved of his sisters. Dipping his head, he said, “With pleasure, my dear.”

“Mrs. Brown is here. She wants to talk to you.”

Jane looked up from the egg whites she was whisking and frowned at her brother. “Mrs. Brown?”

Weston nodded, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “And she doesn’t look happy.”

Well, that wasn’t saying much. Their across-the-street neighbor
never
looked happy. How the kindly old tea shop owner across the way had come to marry such an odious woman, Jane couldn’t imagine. “What does she want?”

Weston clomped down the steps in his oversized boots, recently raided from the chest of their father’s old belongings. Screwing up his face in a fair representation of Mrs. Brown, he said in a high-pitched wobble, “My business is of no concern to you, young man. Now go fetch your sister posthaste—I haven’t got all day.”

Jane’s heart sank. She sounded even more in a state than usual. Why, oh why did the woman have to take such a dislike to her? Jane sighed hugely—she
really
was not in the mood for this—and wiped her hands on a rag. “Can you wash up and take over for me? It has a good ten minutes to go, so just keep going until I come back.”

Weston saluted her and Jane headed up the steps and down the short corridor to face Mrs. Brown. Her brother had cleaned the shop from floor to ceiling yesterday after the series of calamities they had endured, but many of the battle wounds were still evident. With half her good platters reduced to rubble, they had supplemented the remaining pieces with the plain stoneware from their personal plates. An unsightly crack now bisected the glass door of the display cabinet behind the counter, and one of the shelves had been broken clear in half. The dull ache deep in her heart sharpened at the sight. It pained her to know that she couldn’t afford the repairs any time soon—she took pride in the tidy little shop. Still, the early sun slanted in through the front windows, making the two intact glass-topped display dishes she had left sparkle merrily. And most important, the sweet scent of baked goods would always welcome her customers.

Standing rigidly in the center of the room, Mrs. Brown could not have been in greater contrast to the cheery shop. Arms crossed before her enormous, brown bombazine-encased bosom, she looked like nothing so much as a disapproving school marm.

Doing her best to appear serene and pleasant, Jane slid behind the counter and smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Brown. How are you this fine day?”

“This is not a social visit, Miss Bunting.”

Of course it wasn’t; it was
never
a social visit with her. “Oh? Can I interest you in our selection of scones, then?” Jane knew she wasn’t here on business, either, but it was worth a try.

Her neighbor scowled, the skin of her forehead creasing like a crumpled piece of paper. “Don’t get fresh with me, young lady. I have it on the best authority that there were
goings on
here yesterday. What have you to say for yourself?”

Why the woman fancied herself the moral authority of the street was beyond Jane. She wanted to snap that it was none of Mrs. Brown’s business what went on in the shop, but it would only make matters worse. As much as Jane couldn’t stand the woman, Mrs. Brown could conceivably cause a lot of trouble, particularly since her sister’s husband, Mr. Byrd, owned the building and leased the property to Jane. He had readily extended the lease agreement with Jane’s mother after Papa had died—she was the respectable widow of a successful baker, after all—but had balked at the prospect of doing business with Jane. It was thanks only to the existing two years on the lease—not to mention the three months’ rent she put down as security—that he allowed the contract to stand. Still, Jane knew it wouldn’t take much for him to sever the agreement—and Mrs. Brown knew it.