Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) (17 page)

“Has the fog lifted now?”

“Sometimes entirely. When I’m exhausted or life is going badly, though, it is easier to return to that place, having spent so much time there.”

“Is that when I find you staring out the window in your office?”

“Or holding the babies. I feel such an inadequate parent at times.”

“You do more than any father I’ve ever heard of,” she said. “How is the new nursemaid, by the way? Mrs. Roach has been training someone?”

“It has been two days. I can’t understand her accent, but she seems kind. I’ve been hovering. Where have you been in the evenings?”

“I consulted with Prissy on the ball gown. We decided to dye the bodice to change the appearance and redrape the skirt somewhat. Otherwise I didn’t want to keep it.”

“Very smart. You’ll need a dress like that again. One never knows. We should have something new made for you as well.”

Was he offering to pay for a dress now? That made her a mistress, didn’t it? Or was it a courting gift? No, that couldn’t be right. She had no idea what rich men gave girls they were decently courting. “All in good time. I have spent too much time with Prissy as it is. I’ve neglected my father terribly.”

“I’ve thought that might be for the best, for both of you.”

“You aren’t wrong. He’s been with friends these past couple of nights. It is good for him.”

“Who are these friends?”

“Mostly Redcake’s people. Bakers, the man who replaced Simon Hellman.”

The carriage pulled up at the corner of Oxford and Regent Streets. Greggory helped Betsy down and they went through the elegant door. She glanced at the display window as they entered, and saw that the flagship store had strawberries, too. In the window were luscious cream-filled tarts topped with the ruby berries, fresh from the garden. More cut fruit decorated slices of iced cakes, and strawberry-flavored tea tins offered architectural detail at the rear of the display.

“Someone in our shop really needs to learn from whoever does the display here,” Betsy said.

“I know Lady Judah often does them. She has the artist’s eye.” Greggory brushed a trailing fern from his hat.

“That was one important way Lord Judah courted her,” Betsy recalled. “He respected her talent. I tried to teach her the entire business of the Fancy when he hired her, but he only wanted her to do the wedding cake decorations. I suppose I overstepped my bounds. I knew she was an earl’s niece, but she was the first person I trained.”

“He probably had an eye on her from the start. Lady Judah is a very beautiful woman.”

It was jealousy, but she didn’t like him noticing another woman, particularly one with such a different kind of appeal from hers. “Oh, I know.” All that blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty attracted the eye, just like with Violet.

“You sound sour,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Were you romantic rivals?”

“I might have fancied Lord Judah a bit; everyone did. He seemed determined to be a regular man of the people back then, didn’t use his title.” She shrugged. “So why not?”

“Blood will out.”

His tone was light, but she was nearly paralyzed as she attempted to understand his meaning. “Aristocrats, you mean?”

“Of course. It is hard to marry outside your social class. Lord Hatbrook did it, of course, but he’s never been a traditionalist.”

“Why are you trying?” she asked pertly.

Before he could answer, the doors to the back rooms opened and Irene, who had worked in the Fancy for years now, appeared.

“Is that a wedding ring?” Betsy asked.

Irene smiled. “Yes! A very short engagement.”

“To whom?”

“You won’t believe it, but I met Tom Mumford again. He used to bake here.”

“Of course. Always singing.” A very nice man, Tom Mumford, but loud.

“Yes! He’s a professional singer now, quite successful. Going to be touring the Continent, and I’m coming along!”

Betsy clapped her hands together. “How lovely. He’s so lucky to have you.”

“The Fancy’s loss is his gain. I’m sure you’re glad you don’t have to train my replacement.”

“I hope you’re going to.”

Irene nodded. “Oh, yes. I have two months before we leave.”

“I’m so very pleased for you both,” Betsy said. “Two of my favorite Redcake’s people, joined in matrimony.”

“I hope we shall hear the same for you soon. Your father has made certain predictions.”

Greggory held back a smile as Betsy blushed. “I’m much too busy with the Kensington shop to worry about that,” she demurred.

“Don’t wait too long. I’m just scraping into matrimony at age twenty-five. There’s such a thing as being too focused on one’s career.”

Betsy nodded. “You are correct; I know it. My half sister is twenty-five, and I’m sensing real desperation in her. She lost one fiancé and never troubled to find another.”

“The trouble is very important,” Irene pronounced. She had such a lovely, cultured voice that everything she said sounded eminently sensible. Betsy had tried hard to emulate her speech, but Irene could never quite be matched.

“Let me shake your hand and give you my congratulations as well,” Greggory said. “I never met this Mumford fellow, but I know my brother Dudley has seen him perform. He said your husband made the ladies cry with his sentimental ballads.”

“He does a very good job with them,” Irene said earnestly. “Which I find amusing because he always sang the funny songs when he baked.”

Betsy smiled as Greggory gave Irene a kiss on the cheek and a gold guinea for luck. They left the blushing bride and went up the stairs to Lord Judah’s office.

“Why would you have a gold guinea? They haven’t been made since well before Queen Victoria’s day.”

“A good-luck piece. Now doubled, because I gave it to a bride.”

“Does she get the luck or do you?”

Greggory chuckled. “Hopefully, both of us. We can all use the luck. And speaking of luck, it would be lucky for me if you would stop being so certain we are from different social classes.”

“We are,” Betsy said.

“Your mother was a property owner. Your father has a good position, as do you.”

“Greggory, you own Redcake’s, and a fine house.”

“Both wedding gifts,” he said. “I have no pretentions to fashionable society, I just have more elevated relatives than you. I consider us quite equal enough.”

Betsy rolled her eyes as they stepped into the anteroom in front of Lord Judah’s office. This space once had held Ewan Hales’s desk. She couldn’t help but remember those days, when she had little cynicism and a great deal of hope for the future. Her dreams weren’t of Kensington Church Walk or being a Mrs. Redcake back then, but of a little rental house, being Mrs. Hales, a secretary and a cake decorator united in matrimony.

They passed through the room and Greggory knocked on Lord Judah’s open door. When they heard his voice allowing entry, Greggory pushed it open and gestured her in.

Lord Judah wasn’t alone. His wife sat in one of the three armchairs in front of the fireplace, sipping tea.

“It has been a long time, Lady Judah,” Betsy said.

The beautiful blonde nodded. Childbirth had not altered her figure one bit. “Betsy. And how are you, Mr. Redcake?”

“Very well,” he said. “I hope to find you the same.”

She nodded and he shook hands with Lord Judah. Betsy barely smiled a greeting at the man, not wanting to appear flirtatious to his wife or Greggory.

“What brings you two to this part of town?” Lord Judah asked.

“I met with Lady Mews yesterday,” Greggory said. “Not of much use, but she indicated we had a criminal element at Redcake’s. I wanted to pass that thought by you.”

“In our employees?” Lord Judah’s striated eyes gazed at Betsy. “We know about Hellman of course.”

“I assumed she meant customers.” Greggory frowned. “Do you think she meant Hellman? What could she know?”

“My sister has told me that it was an open secret that Manfred procured for Lady Mews. There might be a criminal gang involved.”

“That all happened when Freddie lived in Edinburgh,” Lady Judah objected. “Besides, if Lady Mews was constantly acquiring jewelry, we would see it at parties, and I’ve seen nothing new around that woman’s neck for two years. I’ve watched her, believe me. Freddie went to Newgate for a time because of her.”

“Her husband also procured his release,” Lord Judah said.

“It was years ago,” Lady Judah insisted. “It can’t explain why Freddie was killed now. Don’t the police have any leads?”

“They can’t even manage to find Simon Hellman,” Betsy said, wincing as a pain swept over her stomach in a wave before diminishing.

Lady Judah watched her curiously. Betsy attempted to school her features into a more impassive line, but she did not feel terribly well.

“I have the impression you think we’re going to have to solve the murder ourselves,” Lord Judah said.

“We’ll have to bring in Dougal Alexander,” Lady Judah said. “Lady Elizabeth’s husband. He helped rescue Lady Fitzwalter’s son when he was kidnapped two years ago, even though he didn’t know Bristol. At least he knows London somewhat.”

“Well worth the money,” Lord Judah said. “I shall cable him. Excellent idea, darling.”

Lady Judah smiled at her husband, showing a warmth completely lacking in her conversation with Betsy herself. At least Greggory didn’t consider himself on par with this couple. She knew she couldn’t manage herself socially in Lady Judah’s company. She would never fit in. Despite any assistance her old friend Lady Hatbrook might offer, Lady Judah would reverse the stream of goodwill.

Could she marry a man whose extended family reached so high socially? A wife needed to elevate her husband, not bring him down.

 

Betsy spent the evening in her room with nothing more than a tray of toast. She still felt queasy the next morning and found it hard to concentrate on work. Breaks had been easy to take since the murder because the customers were still staying away, so between luncheon and tea, she walked to the Fair flat and stopped in to see Prissy.

“I have your gown completed,” her sister said, opening a box on a shelf and pulling aside the tissue paper.

Betsy marveled at the new bodice. “I never would have thought it the same dress. You do lovely work.”

“I chose the gold because when you explained what happened to me, I realized what a popular color it had been recently. No one will think this dress is three years out of date anymore.”

“I believe you.” Betsy sighed. “But I don’t know if I will fit into it.”

As Prissy lifted her eyebrows, Mrs. Fair came in with a pot of tea and three teacups. Betsy had to push her concerns aside while the three discussed the trousseau needs of a second wife. Mrs. Fair seemed to be convinced that wedding bells were in order for Greggory and her. Prissy’s face, throughout the conversation, held a bemused expression.

A knock came at the door. “That will be my next appointment,” Mrs. Fair said.

“I’ll walk you back to Redcake’s,” Prissy said, jumping up from her stool and taking her hat from its peg by the door. “Do you want me to take the dress to Mrs. Roach?”

Betsy found her hat, too, and followed her out. “No, I don’t think I will need it tonight.”

When the door was shut behind them, Prissy leaned into her ear. “What do you mean you won’t fit into it? I don’t think you meant to say Mrs. Roach was feeding you too well.”

“No,” Betsy said, misery welling inside her. “I’m afraid I’m in a delicate condition!”

“W
hat are the signs?” Prissy asked. “Have you been in this way before?”

“No,” Betsy said, wiping her eyes as they went down the stairs. “But I’m completely regular.”

“How late are you?”

“Just a day.”

Prissy rubbed her reddened eyes when they reached the street and the full sunshine hit her face. “That hurts after being bent over a machine all morning.” She blinked rapidly and tilted her hat. “Truly, you have never been so much as one day late?”

Betsy shook her head. “I feel queasy.”

“Of course you do, with nerves, if for no other reason. Are you going to tell Mr. Redcake?”

Betsy put her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

“You have to. He’s responsible, or at least I assume so. No better way to bring a man to the altar. I’m proud of you.” Prissy grinned at her.

“That was not my intention,” Betsy said. “I swear it. It’s this living in the same house that is the problem.”

“Of course it is,” Prissy soothed, tucking Betsy’s hand into the crook of her elbow. “But no man is going to believe you are having his child if you are only one day late. You’ll have to give it a bit longer, but not too much longer or there will be talk when the baby is born early.”

“How long?” Betsy asked.

“Your Mr. Redcake is a good man. Two weeks should be sufficient. If you are two weeks late, I think he will marry you.” Prissy stopped on the street. They were jostled by two ladies hurrying in the opposite direction toward the train station.

“What?” Betsy asked, righting her skirt.

“Do not be stupid,” Prissy warned. “For the next two weeks, be the ideal woman. You will start married life best if he’s happy about this and not feeling trapped. Thank heavens you are formally courting.”

“He’ll marry me,” Betsy said. “But I’m not certain it is best for either of us. Not to mention the questionable joy of adding another child to his nursery.”

“None of that talk,” Prissy said, waving her finger. “You need enthusiasm. Think about how you manage the workers at the tea shop. You must employ equally careful behavior right now. You will lose everything if you do not walk this tightrope delicately. A baby can win you everything or put you out on the streets. I’ve seen it happen.”

Betsy’s lower belly clenched. She knew her sister was right. The Redcake’s clientele would not accept a pregnant woman waiting on them. She’d lose her position, whether she won her man or not. “This is too much,” she whispered.

“It is an age-old problem, but you are a smart girl. Be clever and all will be well, without a long engagement.” Prissy patted her arm and pulled her on. “You and I both need to return to our posts, without a hint of anything being wrong, mind.”

 

Greggory yawned at midmorning on Monday, rubbed at his eyes, leaned back in his chair. Time for a strong cup of tea if he was going to be able to complete his third quarter financial projections, which would tell him how many employees he could keep on. Employees dictated almost his every waking thought at the moment, both at work and at home. Really, the addition of one nursery maid to the house was not enough. When both children had colds, as they had the day before, he still needed to be in the nursery during the night. At least the new girl seemed solid. Mrs. Roach had hired well.

He yawned again and opened his door to call to Oscar for tea. The anteroom was empty. He walked down the hall and found Betsy at her desk, pouring over sums as well. Mr. Soeur’s kitchen expenses, he saw. “Have you seen Oscar?”

“He’s probably teasing the bakery girls in the back hall,” she said, glancing up. “You aren’t keeping him busy enough.”

“I don’t seem to spend enough time teasing girls,” Greggory said, sitting down on the edge of the desk at a right angle from her. “Where were you yesterday?”

“I stayed in my room sewing,” she said, setting down her pencil.

“Catching up on wardrobe repairs?”

“I did need to do that,” she agreed.

He thought her smile seemed forced, her speech colorless. “I know I am exhausted since I had about three hours of sleep last night, but you look pale to me. Am I imagining it?”

“I have a great deal on my mind.”

“Me too. Pouring over sums is an ideal way to create a mental crisis.”

She nodded. “Not my favorite part of the job, but many hands make light work. Mr. Soeur is a star. Never asks for more than he needs, never makes an error in calculations.”

“Then he will keep his position,” Greggory said firmly. “Whatever the cost.”

Betsy stood abruptly. “Whatever do you mean? Are people going to lose their jobs?”

She went white, her eyes vague. Greggory jumped up from the desk, his feet leaving the carpet for a moment, and grabbed her around the waist as she slumped. Her head dropped against his shoulder.

The door to the accounting room was closed. Oscar had vanished. If he called for help, no one would come. All he could do was pick her up and take her to the small sofa in the anteroom.

Eau de cologne, he thought stupidly. He should put some on a handkerchief and wave it in front of her nose. Or a vinaigrette. Or smelling salts. He had none of these. Massaging her arms had no effect. He tried snapping his fingers in front of her face. Nothing.

His armpits prickled with heat as his fear increased. He knelt in front of her and prayed, feeling for the pulse in her neck. She still breathed. He knew he was overreacting and he knew why, all too clearly.

Betsy tossed her head, as if the pins holding up her luxurious mane of hair were digging into her scalp. Greggory blinked back hot tears and shook one of her upper arms gently.

“Betsy? Betsy, darling. Wake up.”

She blinked a little. Her sinful mouth pursed, then relaxed again. Her head rolled on the cushion. He kept rubbing her arm, trying not to give into the urge to rip his tie off his neck. It felt hard to breathe.

“What?” Her word came out as little more than a whisper.

“Darling,” he said tenderly, instantly feeling better. But he still wanted to scratch. Sweat salt caked his skin.

She blinked again, then her eyes opened, those beautiful chocolate pools with deepest night ringing them. “Greggory?”

“You fainted. The babies must have kept you up. All that sneezing and coughing. Not so adorable at three
A.M.
.”

Her cheeks were still colorless. Her hands moved restlessly; then, as he watched, they moved into a protective position around her belly. He felt the color drain from his own face. That womanly gesture. He knew it well.

“Is there a baby?” he whispered.

“I’m late.” The merest whisper of sound, but it was all he needed.

Colors swirled in his vision. He put his head down, focused on her slim arm, covered by a ludicrous amount of striped lemon and cream fabric. Arms should not look like bells, he thought incongruously.

“We’ll be married as soon as possible,” he said. “Of course. It’s the best thing really. We know we’re meant to be together.”

“We do?” The thread of sound.

“Yes. You should rest. At home.”

“If I am, well, it’s only a few days. I should be fine. Just need some fresh air.”

“You are already fainting.”

“It’s very stuffy upstairs in the summer. And I didn’t eat breakfast.”

“Queasy?”

“Yes. I shall soldier on of course. It’s something that takes a bit of getting used to.”

“Toast or a cracker before you even raise your head off the pillow,” said Greggory. He’d been witness to a difficult pregnancy before. Maybe he only made complicated babies; hard on both the woman who bore them and the inhabitants of their households later. Could he stand to do this again? He scolded himself. He must.

“Good advice. I shall need it, as I don’t have any experience with this.” She hesitated. “Not that I am precisely certain. No need to panic yet.”

“How far along do you think you are?”

“Less than a month, obviously. It’s just that . . .” Color came back to her cheeks as she blushed. “I cannot believe I have to say this to a man.”

“I’ve been a husband,” he reminded her gently.

“Yes. Well, my body is more regular than . . . well, Lady Hunt’s weekly order of a dozen chocolate éclairs.”

“Gluttony is good for our business,” Greggory said. “Do you think you can sit up now?”

“Of course,” she said, a hint of her usual firmness in her voice. “I am so sorry to terrify you.”

“
Terrify
is a good word. I need you, Betsy, so very much.”

He already had his arm around her to help her sit up. It was nothing to gather her against his chest, to lay his cheek against her hair. Of course that meant the perfect moment for Oscar to appear had arrived.

The younger man cleared his throat. He had a tea tray in his hands: a steaming pot and a plate of rock cakes.

“Perfect timing,” Greggory said. “Set that down here, would you? And in future, please tell me if you are going downstairs for such a long period of time.”

“Of course, Mr. Redcake,” Oscar said. “I do apologize.”

Butter wouldn’t melt in the man’s mouth. Greggory wondered if he was courting or if his intentions were of baser cloth. Either way, Oscar had better shape up or his position would be on the chopping block in July. Greggory could get his own tea.

He realized if Betsy was having his baby, he would lose her from Redcake’s, too, and probably before July if pregnancy took her this hard. He did the math in his head. A winter baby. No chance of her being at Redcake’s during the holidays. Normally, June was even busier, given the wedding season, but most of their business had fallen off.

“Shall I pour?” Betsy asked.

“Of course not. Oscar can do it.”

Oscar’s face remained expressionless as he poured the tea and handed around the cakes. Then he muttered something about accounting and wandered off.

“I wonder if I need a secretary.”

Betsy considered. “He’s fine if he’s kept busy, but the money might be better spent on a bakery manager. The business hasn’t fallen off too much there.”

Greggory nodded. “Something to take into consideration.”

“I can act as your secretary.”

“Your skills can be put to much better use.” His words came out more sharply than he intended, victim to his realization that becoming involved with Betsy in his private life would cost him Miss Popham in his business. Back when he used to daydream about her, this concern had never come into it, yet it was his reality now.

 

In the middle of the afternoon, Greggory told Oscar he was going out for an hour or so. He stopped by the accounting office, not fully staffed now because someone had left to care for a family farm and he hadn’t replaced the position. Greggory himself opened the file cabinet and looked up Grace Fair’s address and wrote it down.

He had no problem finding the Fair family’s rooms some half hour later. A middle-aged woman opened the door and looked inquiringly at him.

“Mrs. Fair, the dressmaker?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I am Greggory Redcake, ma’am.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Mrs. Fair’s round, homely face broke into a smile. “What an honor, sir. Grace is at work?”

“Yes, yes,” he reassured her before she lost her smile. “Miss Fair is perfectly well. I wondered if I might speak to Miss Weaver?”

“Yes, of course, sir. I was just going out for some chops.”

“Miss Weaver is related to my assistant manager,” Greggory felt he should say. He didn’t want a cakie’s mother to think he was visiting for immoral purposes.

“Yes, of course, I know. Miss Popham is a regular visitor,” Mrs. Fair said. “Stay as long as you like. Prissy can make you a cup of tea.”

“Thank you.” Greggory watched as Mrs. Fair took her shawl and hat, then vacated the room. He ventured in and shut the door. Prissy stood by her sewing table in front of the window.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Redcake?” she asked, the picture of feminine grace, a more stylized version of her half-sister.

“I wonder if you’ve spoken to Betsy recently?”

“On Friday, yes.”

“I see.” He sat down on a stool at the large table in the middle of the room. Fabric was neatly laid out in the middle, with paper patterns pinned to it and only half cut out. A mourning gown, probably an emergency, and he’d sent poor Mrs. Fair out of her own home. “I’ll be brief. Did she ask you to make up some new dresses for her?”

“Not since I did over the ball gown. We were planning items for her trousseau.”

He was gratified to know Betsy had been thinking about marriage. “I wonder if I might pay you—or more properly, Mrs. Fair—to make two or three new dresses for Betsy.”

“Something a Mrs. Redcake might wear?”

“Yes, but . . .” He hesitated. “Betsy fainted at work today, and she confided certain fears to me.”

“Ah.” Prissy smiled, a very self-satisfied expression. “So you know what she suspects.”

“Yes, and I am terrified for her.”

“Why?”

“My late wife had a most troubled pregnancy,” he said. “After the third month she was largely confined to bed.”

“Do twins run in your family?” Prissy asked, sitting down next to him.

“No, in hers.”

“Then Betsy should have an easier time. As I recall, twins are harder on the body and tend to be born early.”

“Do you have experience in this area?”

“My grandmother was a midwife,” Prissy said. “I don’t like that Betsy fainted, but it can probably be corrected with precautions. She might not feel like eating or drinking, but she must be made to.”

“I agree.”

“You need to marry her as soon as possible.”

“I know that. too.”

Prissy’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed further. “It is yours. She has no eye for anyone else.”