One Taste of Scandal (7 page)

In the ingredients room she gathered everything she needed, pounds of raw stuff that was hard to manage. No one saw when she had to put her tray on the floor to lock the door, but she nearly lost everything when Tom barreled by, and whistled almost directly into her ear.

He righted her, laughing. “I do apologize, miss.”

“Cross,” she said.

“Here, I’ll carry that for you. You’re a bit delicate?”

She stiffened. “Not at all, just new.”

“You’ll be tough soon enough, or you won’t last,” Tom said. “They insist on hiring ladies here, but baking is heavy work and no mistake.”

“I was meant to do the decorating,” she ventured.

“Ah. Maybe when you’ve learned the basics.” He broke into a whistle.

“I expect so.” She sighed, pointing him to the table in front of their mixer. Benny had taken away the dirty beaters as promised, so she opened the cabinet and pulled out a couple of bowls, a knife and a spoon, as well as new beaters. The mixer was still set to “warm” and she wished she had another set of hands to set the lever and scrape down the bowl but she managed well enough.

When the butter and eggs looked well creamed, even she had to admit the machine did its job very quickly. She had brought double what she needed, afraid she’d make a mistake, so she found another bowl and made a second batch. Betsy would be pleased to have twice as much since they had so many orders coming. She set her bowl of chopped butter and sugar under the beaters and used her elbow to set the machine to “mix.”

This machine didn’t drum too loudly, unlike others she could hear farther down the cavernous room. In fact, she picked up the beat and began to hum an old Arthur Lloyd tune as her gaze wandered.

One of the bakers caught her eye. He waggled his ears at her. She turned away, horrified, and saw her batter needed scraping down. Feeling quite competent, she balanced the bowl against her chest and managed the entire process without having to turn the mixer off. She started her tune again, tapping her foot against the floor.

When the creaming was done, she worked her way through the first batter, then the second, her arms starting to ache. Benny waddled by, glancing at her curiously. He probably did not appreciate her not very musical humming. If only she could remember the actual words to the song, but they’d lost the sheet music when they moved three years ago. The piano had been sold soon after.

Unexpectedly, her tune went funny. She tried to pick up the rhythm again as she rebalanced and pulled the wooden spoon from her pocket. Her song no longer fit. When she put the spoon into the bowl, she noticed the beaters had slowed down. She smelled burning, then a loud popping noise sounded and the machine jerked.

She glanced from side to side, wondering if she should run away. No one was watching. She pulled the bowl away, sidling back to the table, then, gathering her bravado when nothing else happened, went back to it, put her hand to the lever and shoved it all the way to “off.” Sparks burst from between two panels.

She cried out and backed away as a lick of flame poked its way out of the top of the machine. The rude baker ran at her. She froze, terrified, but he went right past her and kicked open the back of the machine. The flame doused and smoke rose into the air. They both coughed.

“Good heavens, woman!” shouted a man in a checkered waistcoat, dashing down the room. “Who are you and what have you done?”

“I’m Miss Cross, new to the Fancy.”

“Who is your supervisor?” he roared.

“Miss Popham?” she ventured.

He pointed a finger. “Go. Now.”

She swallowed hard, doing her best to hold back tears, and grabbed her bowls, ignoring the trays and containers. At least she could rescue the cake batter. She crept away, sniffing, and expecting to be fired.

“We’ll have to call in Lewis Noble,” said the man who’d ordered her away. “Go tell Mr. Hales.”

“Yes, sir,” said the rude baker, rushing past her as she made her slow way down the hall with the heavy batter.

When she reached the Fancy, she had to set down the bowls to open the door. Betsy stared at her in the doorway.

“Your arms are shaking! Why do you have so much batter?”

“I thought I would help by doing double,” she said, holding back a fresh wave of tears with great difficulty. “But I broke the machine. I saw fire! Oh, they are so angry.”

Betsy’s eyes rounded. “You can’t overtax the mixers. They are fragile beasts. When we are working in volume we use multiple machines. But, fire?”

“I panicked when it started acting funny. So I turned the lever from ‘mix’ to ‘off.’ ”

“Not ‘warm’ first? You have to take it down by degrees.”

She sniffed again. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry. I suppose I’ll be sacked now.”

Betsy patted her on the shoulder. “You were just trying to help. But you’re like a baby. You don’t know anything about how to do things around here, so don’t assume.”

She wiped her eyes and nodded. From now on she would follow instructions. Betsy sighed and measured rum into the bowls. For the rest of the morning, she showed Magdalene how to sand trays and lay down paper, then put cake rings on the paper and ladle in the batter. She learned how to operate the gas oven.

At one, Betsy sent her home, saying the cakes needed to cool before she could learn to decorate them. “Since no one has come to sack you, be here at eight—the back entrance, mind.”

“I will not make the same mistake twice,” Magdalene promised. She took off her apron and tied it around her dress, too tired to even consider taking off the cakie uniform. She wouldn’t dare ask Betsy to help her change.

Slowly, she hobbled her way up the stairs to the employee door, hoping she wouldn’t see Captain Shield in her bedraggled state. Her wish was granted and she made her slow way home through a light September drizzle, feeling both exalted and shamed by her first day as a working woman.

 

Judah heard laughter as he entered Redcake’s basement late the next morning. Female laughter at that, not at all what he would expect in the male-dominated bakery. He had come to hand Lewis Noble his shillings, feeling honor-bound to provide immediate payment in the hopes of keeping relations cordial with the inventor. Apparently, making Noble happy wasn’t a matter of prompt payment though; a pretty girl would do just as well.

The back of one of the mixers hung open, but Noble’s wrench was slack in his hand as he chatted to a slim blonde in a cakie uniform.

“No, I haven’t seen the paper this morning, but I can’t believe His Royal Highness would do that,” she said.

“This country can do better than its degraded nobility,” Lewis said.

Odd talk for a flirtation. No wonder Alys had rejected him in favor of Hatbrook.

“There are many wonderful people with titles,” said the cakie. “Why, this bakery is owned by one of them.”

“My point exactly. Alys is only an aristocrat by marriage.”

“I have numerous title-holders in my family tree,” she said. “They aren’t all bad people by any means.”

“Miss Cross!” Judah interjected, startled as he realized who the blonde was. “Is this how you learn to decorate cakes?”

She turned in a flash, her cheeks reddening as she lost her flirtatious smile. And here he’d thought she found him of interest, but he and Lewis Noble were so different as to be separate species entirely.

“I broke the machine, Captain Shield. Betsy said I should learn from Mr. Noble what I did wrong.”

Judah frowned. “What were you doing with a mixer?”

“Making a cake.” She tucked her hands into her dress as if delighted to find pockets.

He supposed the kind of clothes she was used to wouldn’t have pockets. She had a style of her own, not fashionable precisely, almost American, even, in the calico prints he’d seen her wear. “Err, making a cake? I hired you for your artistic talents.”

“I believe Betsy thinks me hired as her assistant for all aspects of the Fancy.”

“How do you feel about that?”

She smiled wanly. “I set the mixer on fire yesterday.”

“Yet you are still employed. Betsy must see some promise in you.”

“It was a series of misfortunes. I was trying to impress her.”

“Perhaps you should keep your head down in the future and simply do your work.” His tone was severe.

She glanced at Lewis. The lady was intelligent. She knew he was displeased to catch her flirting. “I believe Mr. Noble has explained my error. Perhaps Betsy will have some new task for me.”

“I am certain that is so.” Judah put his hands behind his back and inclined his head in her direction.

Lewis reached out and took her right hand in his filthy mitts. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Cross.”

“Very pleased to meet you, sir.”

Judah suppressed a growl in the back of his throat as the chit simpered. He tossed shillings on the wooden table and stalked off. If Noble wanted to speak to him he could just come to the office.

He went down the hall and back up the steps. When he faced the steps up to the offices, he decided to go out to the loading dock instead to get some fresh air. He needed to decide if he was heading back to Heathfield to continue his search through his mother’s things. This position was engrossing him during every waking hour, but he had his very identity at stake. He had to know if he was a gentleman’s son or not.

When he reached the outdoors, he lost the sense of claws digging into his throat. Desperate for fresh air, he jumped off the loading dock and took a running step into the alley.

“Pardon me, guvnor!”

He felt a smaller body crash into his. Instinctively, he grabbed the windmilling arm and pulled the lad upright. His cap fell off and he recognized Eddy Jackson.

“Eddy! What are you doing skulking behind the bakeshop?”

The newsboy blinked. “Captain Shield?”

“Yes, I manage this establishment.”

“You work?”

“Yes, I do.”

Eddy tilted his head. “Toffs like you usually don’t.”

“I like to keep busy,” Judah said, stiffening.

“ ’spect you need the soft,” he suggested.

“I expect I do.”

He scratched his cheek. “I’m not skulking. It’s just that sometimes they put out old bread from the bakery and it’s fine stuff. Well, you knows that.”

“A boy like you is earning his own way.” Judah frowned. “Why do you need charity bread? Not developing bad habits, I hope?”

The boy shrugged. “Just a way to save the chink. I spends a lot on my clothes, you know. Got to look presentable in my line.”

Judah smiled. “Indeed you do.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder and led him toward the stairs.

“Why are you bringin’ me in ’ere? It’s too fancy for me.”

“You’re with me, Eddy. It will be all right.”

With slow steps, acting as if he was on his way to his execution, Eddy followed him into the back of Redcake’s. Judah led him into the corridor behind the bakery, where racks of fresh goods were kept ready to be placed on the counters.

“You there, Irene.”

The salesgirl glanced over, her hands full of a tray of petits fours. “Yes, sir?”

“Can you put this loaf on my account, please? And this bit of shortbread?”

“Yes, sir.”

Judah handed Eddy a large loaf of white bread and a round shortbread biscuit. “For you, lad. Enjoy.”

Eddy blinked. “Are you sure, sir?”

“My pleasure.” Judah leaned to Eddy’s ear. “I get a discount.”

Eddy grinned. “Thank you.”

“I’ll show you out.”

As they walked toward the loading dock, Judah noticed a sensation of renewal. A conversation with Eddy was as good as a walk through one of the Indian markets that had refreshed him over his years of army service.

The door to the basement steps flew open and a girl dashed out, her apron covering her mouth. Magdalene, again? What was wrong now?

“M
iss Cross? That you?” Eddy inquired.

The girl put down her apron and sniffed. Judah didn’t recognize the cakie after all. Though slim and blond, her features were much more delicate than Magdalene’s. Eddy shrugged and looked at him.

“The loading dock is that way, Eddy. Enjoy your treat.”

The boy nodded and touched a finger to his cap. “See you in the Square.”

Judah turned to the girl. “Now, what’s this all about?”

The girl took one look at him and promptly burst into tears again. Ralph Popham dashed down the corridor leading toward the tearoom and took the girl in hand.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s only that Effie heard bad tidings from her family yesterday.”

“My mum died!” the girl shrieked.

“She shouldn’t be at work,” Judah said, taken aback. “My condolences.”

“I can’t afford the fare. I’ve only been here two months.” This set off a fresh round of tears.

Judah turned to Popham. “Give her train fare to wherever her mother lived, and her job back when she returns.”

“Sir?” Popham said.

“Quickly, now,” Judah said. “This is a place of business. The customers might be able to hear the commotion.”

Popham nodded, then touched his head to make sure the flap of hair covering his bald pate remained in place. “Excellent, sir. Come to my closet, Effie, we’ll take care of this.”

He led off the girl, sobbing more quietly now. Judah stomped to his office, wondering if the marchioness would have done the same. He’d have to write her a note and ask. A solution like this would not have worked in the army.

 

Thoughts of the army kept Judah tossing that night. When he left Redcake’s the next evening he found himself walking a circuitous route, not quite ready to return home.

As he walked down a street with establishments not as fine as Redcake’s, he saw a man with a ragged soldier’s coat holding a gentleman’s horse. When he passed by, the gentleman stepped out of a tailor’s shop, threw the old soldier a coin, and mounted his horse. The soldier climbed the curb, balancing uneasily on what was evidently a false leg, and went back to his position in front of the tailor’s shop.

“This a good spot for you, Private?” Judah asked, following him to the shop.

“Good enough,” said the man. He had a long scar running down his cheek, pulling up his upper lip at one corner.

Judah was reminded of Sergeant Redcake’s wounds. This man had similar injuries but of a more severe nature, and presumably this man did not have a wealthy family to aid him. Still, his uniform was clean, what was left of it, and his boots were polished. He had his pride, even if he did have spirits on his breath. “Where did you take those wounds?”

“Afghanistan.”

“I just returned from India last month. Royal Sussex, Second Battalion.”

“I was with the East Lancashire Regiment.”

“What brought you down here?”

“Eh. Didn’t want to go back to fishing.”

“It is not for everyone,” Judah agreed.

“You done all right for yourself,” the soldier observed.

“Family found me work.”

“Me wife’s brother is the owner of this ’ere shop,” the soldier said, jerking his chin at the tailor’s sign. Then, seeing a barouche roll up, he stepped into the street to help the inhabitants down.

Judah returned to his walk, happy to hear he wasn’t the only former soldier finding employment through family. Humble or grand, someone had to know where the work was and match men to it.

The next morning he felt jaunty in a new yellow waistcoat paid for with his Redcake’s earnings. The sun still shone in a summer kind of way, though he had his umbrella since the wind was up and some grayish clouds skulked in the distance. He set out to the Square for his paper and chat with Eddy earlier than usual.

As he crossed to Nelson’s Column, he saw Magdalene Cross talking with Eddy. She wore a gray wool shawl over her cakie uniform. He hesitated, not knowing if she’d want to speak to him after his reprimand two days earlier. But then she turned and he could see her lovely blue eyes, catching bright sun as they met his. She didn’t smile, but didn’t recoil either.

“On your way in, Miss Cross?” he said, giving Eddy a nod and tossing him a penny.

“Yes. Betsy has me at work from eight to one.” She touched her flat straw hat as a gust of wind rushed through the Square.

“The hours are congenial for you?”

“Very much so. I appreciate being out at an unfashionable hour.”

“Concerned that you might be seen?” He nodded to Eddy. She smiled and they walked off together in the direction of Regent Street.

“It is always on my mind. I have not quite given up my place in Society.”

“Fashionable people keep late hours.”

“That will be a concern for us both, but the Season hasn’t started yet.”

“I do not plan to socialize.”

She smiled knowingly. “You may feel differently when the weather changes, Captain Shield. It is pleasant to visit luxurious houses and be amused when it is no longer so nice outside.”

“I take your point.” They stepped into a busy intersection full of carts and carriages.

“I must say I appreciate the shorter skirt of my uniform,” she said as they dashed across. “The hem doesn’t get so dirty.”

He glanced down, hoping for a flash of her leg, but only saw her shoes. “My brother told me his wife hated to leave off her uniform for fashionable attire.”

“I can already understand that.” They brushed past a wagon before reaching the curb. “I was a convert on my second day.”

“And here you are on your fourth, a veteran already.”

She laughed. “I never thought I would enjoy it so. I expected to like the decorating but we have not even done that yet.”

A policeman pushed by, holding the arm of a thin, greasy man with a vacant grin. He jostled Magdalene, dropping a rasher of bacon in the process. Judah took her elbow and towed her out of the way. Setting them into a doorway, he asked, “Are you well?”

She brushed at her shawl and frowned when she saw lard shining along her arm. “It will take some scrubbing, that’s all.” A ragged boy pushed underneath Miss Cross’s arm. In a flash, he’d used a knife to cut her reticule strings and dashed off across the street, threading through the traffic.

“Blast it!” Judah yelled.

He glanced at Magdalene quickly, but didn’t see any harm to her, so he sped after the boy. After narrowly missing a donkey cart, he stared down the street, sure the boy wouldn’t head into the fashionable area. He was right. A pair of skinny legs headed south, back toward Trafalgar Square. Taking off at a run, Judah knocked off a woman’s top hat and nearly somersaulted as he dived for it before it hit the ground. He threw it back to her, then kept going.

A network of small streets off Haymarket might have ruined the chase but the pounding of the small feet told him where to go. He followed the sounds to the end of a silent residential lane. Did he have the lad cornered in a dead end? The boy’s eyes were wide as he glanced around the closed doors of tenements lining the mews.

“Just give me the reticule,” Judah called. “You saw that policeman, same as I did. I won’t take you to him if I get the lady’s possessions.”

“I’m armed,” threatened the boy. His hand fisted in his pocket.

Judah smiled grimly and opened his topcoat. The handle of his Enfield revolver showed at the top of a specially made pocket. Having left the military so recently, he was not yet ready to go about unarmed.

The boy’s eyes widened. “Cor, I don’t want no trouble!” He pulled the crocheted bag out from his shirt and tossed it at Judah. It landed on his foot. Then, the little thief ran into a doorway and disappeared. A door slammed shut.

This had been his escape route all along. Judah decided it was best to go before the lad’s friends arrived. He picked up the gray woolen reticule and straightened his clothing, then retraced his steps to Miss Cross.

She had followed him and he found her a couple of blocks away, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, peering around passersby in search of him as she took slow steps forward.

“Miss Cross!” He held up his hand, showing her the reticule, and was gratified by the look of pleasure in her eyes.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” She rushed toward him and put her hands on his upper arms.

“I’m fine. You look as if you’re about to shake me.”

A bit wild-eyed, she did just that, then attempted to pull him forward. When she couldn’t move his hard bulk, she pressed herself to him and gave him a hug.

“On a public street, Miss Cross? Someone might see you.” He couldn’t suppress a grin at this warrior’s welcome.

“You could have died!” She stamped her foot. “Oh, I could slap you. You know how poor I am. My reticule isn’t worth anything.”

He pulled her against a chandler’s window and handed the small item to her. “It looks handmade. It matches your shawl.”

She took it with a sigh. “Yes, yes, but it holds no sentimental value. I made them both.”

The value might not be monetary, but the reward here was he could tell she’d worried about him. “It was just a boy.”

“I know, but these cutpurses are often in gangs. It isn’t worth the trouble.”

She still clung to him and he took the hero’s liberty of placing his hands at her back. “I thought it was.”

She shook her head, giving him a rueful half smile. “I suppose I should expect such gallantry from a military man.”

“That is not to say I wouldn’t like a reward,” he countered.

“Oh?” Proving she was in on the game, her eyelids fluttered flirtatiously.

He put a gloved finger to her cheek. “Fear and worry has put such a pretty flush into your skin.”

Her skin burned hotter under his touch. Her voice was breathy when she responded, “What reward? I only have a few pennies. Why, I even forgot to buy a newspaper.”

He patted his pocket, then realized he’d dropped his when he ran after the thief. “I’ve lost mine.”

“You must be very sad about that,” she whispered, pressing closer.

He imagined he could feel her breasts, round and heavy, under her clothing. “I need comforting as well as rewarding.”

She bit her lower lip between her teeth.

He felt his body’s response. She maddened him. “And now you have a wound on your mouth. We are a sorry pair.”

“We should call a doctor,” she agreed, touching her lip.

“I have a better idea.” He leaned forward, pressing her lightly against the window behind them, forgetting the passersby, the carts and the carriages, the shouts and the smells of bread and horse and coal.

That lovely mouth opened in a round little moue as his intention became known. Her hands gripped his arms more tightly as he placed his palms on either side of her head and bent forward, pressing his lips into hers. She yielded to him with a gasp of surprise, her soft warmth tasting of fresh apples and cream. The tip of his tongue brushed against her lip, an instinct to smooth the small hurt there.

“Captain Shield,” she gasped, finding his chest with her small hands. Her reticule bounced against his arm, though she didn’t put any force behind her movement.

He tilted his head and deepened the kiss, closing his eyes to get the full sensation. An English girl in September, with blond hair, blue eyes, and full, pouting lips. He had spent many a day in India dreaming of such a thing.

But this was a girl who pulled his umbrella from his hand and rapped him smartly on the arm. “Sir!”

He drew back, and blinked at her.

“Don’t you give me that heavy-lidded look, sir.” She spoke with a schoolmistress-like authority.

Was she not affected? “You can’t tell me you’ve ever been kissed like that in your life.”

She colored. “I—I, well, not by a shop at Piccadilly Circus, no.”

He glanced around. “So that’s where we are.”

“I have to go to work. The manager is a stickler for correct behavior.”

He chuckled. “This has nothing to do with work.”

“I know that. But I do not know you very well, and I feel my high spirits have led me astray yet again.”

His interest perked again. “You let men kiss you?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “You do not know my family’s reputation, having been away so long, but I’ve always tried very hard not to emulate my relatives in the, er, kissing realm.”

He smiled. “But it is clear you share their hot blood.”

“You are not a gentleman to mention it.” She gave him his umbrella.

“Very well.” He stepped back and straightened his coat, glad it fell to midthigh and covered his erection. “We shall forget this ever happened.”

“I appreciate that.”

He nodded, feeling surly. A kiss like that ought to lead to the lady’s boudoir, not to a day at the emporium, but it couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t used to London life yet. Perhaps, these days, ladies tongue-kissed gentlemen at Piccadilly Circus every day, before heading to the shops. At least, a member of the well-known Scandalous Cross family.

How was it that he had found himself attracted to the Scandalous Cross who claimed to be different? Still, with her background, she had to know she ran the risk of being taken as a mistress rather than a wife.

He stared across the busy street, so different from the street life in the small villages in India. “After a battle there is often a heightened sense of excitement. We shall chalk it up to that, shall we?”

“Yes.” She coughed slightly. “I do not mean to interrupt your reflections, Captain, but I must be on my way or Betsy will scold me.”

“Of course, of course.” He held out his arm to indicate she could begin walking and followed behind her. The cakie uniform was relatively shapeless, but the way she’d wrapped her shawl caused her skirt to bellow out over what seemed like a most shapely bottom, particularly the way she used it. How had he never noticed her long, pavement-eating glide of leg, or the way her hips rotated so smoothly under the skirt?