Magdalene took four round turntables from the cupboards and placed them on the table, then four matching christening cakes on cardboard, which they had topped with their second best almond paste flavored with strawberry, and left to dry. Making cakes was at least a three-day process because of the need to cool and harden them in stages.
She was going over the order book when a knock came on the door. Captain Shield opened it and put his head in. She noticed, now that he’d taken his hat off, that his hair had grown a bit long and displayed a natural curl he probably hated but she found endearing.
“What are we doing today?”
“Christening cakes. I need eight of them for this afternoon.” She turned back to the cupboard and pulled out another four turntables, ignoring the fast rate of her heartbeats. He was a necessary second set of hands. But at the thought of his hands, she remembered how he had caressed her breast at the party. She grabbed the edge of the cupboard, and forced herself to think only of cake.
“You need cakes.”
“Yes, the ones I need are in that cupboard.” She pointed, and Judah found the correct cakes and brought them over. “We covered them in almond paste yesterday. Now it is time to frost. Then I’ll pipe the child’s name on each one and decorate with dried strawberries.”
“We do a brisk business in these?”
“Yes. Like wedding cakes, the christening line is very popular.” She pulled two frosting knives from the drawer. “Now, Captain, the trick to frosting with royal icing is all in how you hold the knife.”
“I shall watch you do one.”
“Very well.” She did well with the top and sides, but matching them with a clean edge was still a challenge. Her fingers were steady on the knife, though. She’d become used to being observed by a far more critical eye than Captain Shield’s.
“Admirable,” he declared, when she’d finished smoothing the first cake.
“Are you ready to give it a try?”
He took off his coat, exposing a burgundy waistcoat and snowy linen. Without comment, she handed him a large apron, but he didn’t only don it, he rolled up his sleeves, showing corded forearms dusted with dark hairs. She felt a little faint as she noted the thick, masculine wrists, how his shirt molded his arms, all the way up to muscular shoulders that seemed to dwarf the apron. The working men at Redcake’s were fit specimens, but Judah was a head taller than most of them, clean-shaven instead of mustached, with the thick muscles of a warrior. He didn’t smell of flour and butter, but sandalwood and lemon. She wondered that cakies didn’t swoon in the corridor when he walked by. Had the temperature raised ten degrees in the past few minutes?
“It is hot in here today, is it not?” she asked, fanning herself with an order sheet.
“A trifle warm,” he agreed, taking up a knife. “Now, as to angles?” He scooped up a glob of frosting and dropped it on top of the cake.
“That’s too much,” she said, scooping about half of it with her knife and placing it atop the third cake. “You don’t want to tear the cake. You did place it correctly, though.”
“Now we smooth out to the edge.”
He slapped the spatula down and pressed the frosting.
“Glide it,” she suggested. “Like you are ice skating.”
“I’ve never skated,” he said, amused.
She didn’t know what else to do. Her palms tingled. “With your permission?”
He nodded, and she placed her fingers over his, showing him the proper motion.
“Back and forth. See, gently push the frosting out to the edges.” She turned the stand with her free hand, trying to keep her eyes open, when she wanted to close them to focus entirely on his decadent scent, the heat of his hand under hers. But she couldn’t help noticing how burnished his skin was after years in the Indian sun, such a contrast to her pale color. The tendons and veins on the back of his browned hand showed in high relief as they moved the knife back and forth.
He was breathing a little harder now, as she was herself. “Let’s clean the knife,” she said. “A warm knife frosts better.”
He dipped it into the bowl of hot water she had set out.
“Now, let’s frost the sides.” She placed her hand back on his again after he put more frosting on the cake. Her legs felt wobbly and an alarming heat had spread down her chest from her breasts to her belly to the top of her thighs. She had never swooned in her life and wasn’t about to succumb now.
“Excellent. We need to smooth everything. The first step is to clean the knife again, and place it on the seam around the edges.”
“Now what?” His voice was terse, and his hip brushed hers.
She inhaled sharply. “Leave the knife where it is and turn the stand.”
He followed instructions.
“See? Now we have a clean edge.” She wiped the stand with her apron to remove a stray blob of frosting.
“A good first effort?”
“Oh yes,” she assured him. “Much better than my first.”
“I don’t imagine Betsy guided your knife.” His tiger gaze captured her gaze.
She licked her lips when words didn’t come. Her gaze drifted downward. Without his coat on she could see a decided bulge in his trousers. Being a Cross girl, she knew what that meant. She had excited him, or at least cake decorating had. His chest rose and fell with great emphasis, as if he was involved in some kind of athletic activity. She wondered if he imagined some kind of activity with her, something that involved his masculine parts and the hot, wet heat between her legs.
“I wish I had a husband,” she whispered.
“What?” he nearly shouted, so completely had she shocked him.
She put her hand to her temple, wishing she had not glanced at his trousers. “I do not know what I meant to say. Oh, it is hot in here.”
“Why, what . . .” He tried and failed to form a complete sentence.
“I love my position,” she said quickly. “Have I taught you well enough, Captain? I should finish and get these up to Mr. Popham.”
“Yes, quite,” he said, his tiger eyes glittering.
She noted his trousers fit more loosely now. What a ninny she was. She understood what she meant, that a husband could relieve the tight stress her body felt in his proximity, but she could have said nothing more designed to cool his ardor. Was that not for the best?
She was his employee, not a marriage prospect. If she made an overture she could lose her position. He held all the power, and from the quick way he was discarding his apron and tidying his clothing, covering all that masculine glory with his jacket, she knew he wasn’t intrigued, but horrified.
“I apologize for my outburst.”
“No, I understand. You would not have to do this labor in an overheated room if you had a husband to support you. I am sorry you continue to do uncongenial work. Betsy will be back on tomorrow and I will continue to emphasize that you are here to decorate, not do all the foundational tasks.”
She nodded, crushed by his speech. “I do not mean for you to think I dislike frosting. But I did have to make it myself. It wasn’t delivered as it should have been.”
“With Betsy gone there must have been some misunderstanding. I shall look into it.”
“No, not necessary. If it happens again, we shall speak to Mr. Melville.”
He nodded. “Then, good day to you, Miss Cross. Since you do not come in again until Monday, I shall see you at the Column that morning.”
“Thank you, sir.” She hadn’t even finished speaking her three words before he was out the door.
Leaning against the table, she pushed fringe out of her eyes and attempted to tuck it behind her ears. Her heart beat like a marching band and her stays felt much too tight. She must learn to control her tongue. And unfeminine lustful urges.
Over the next week, Nancy continued to sink, rarely waking from her stupor and refusing to take anything but a little beef tea or water. The weather change had not helped either, as a pleasant September became dreary, foggy, pestilent October.
On the first Monday in October, Magdalene dashed into Nancy’s room to kiss her good-bye before leaving for Trafalgar Square. The drizzle outside was persistent and she was only looking forward to the part of the walk where she was sheltered by Captain Shield’s umbrella and warmed by his large, furnacelike body next to hers.
Mrs. Gortimer glanced up with a sad smile. “Her breathing has changed. It won’t be long now.”
Candles were lit around the mean little room because so little light came in from the window. Nancy looked like a wax effigy. Her chest didn’t seem to rise under the quilt and Magdalene could hear rattling.
“I will fetch George.”
Hetty was walking up the hallway in her ponderous way, holding George’s tea tray. Magdalene snatched it.
“Run to Nelson’s Column and tell Captain Shield that I can’t come in today,” she ordered.
“Is it Mrs. Cross?”
“Yes.”
Hetty nodded and turned to descend the steps. Magdalene, now an expert with trays, balanced the tea with one hand and opened the door with the other. She set it down on the bedside table and pulled open the curtain.
George stirred under his blankets and mumbled something. She leaned over his ear.
“Wake up!”
She scarcely missed being hit in the face as he sat up, sputtering.
“Who?”
“It’s me, George.”
He blinked. “Maggie? What is it?” He scrubbed at his face.
She saw the moment he caught her expression. “Her suffering is almost over, dear.”
“Can you get me my clothes?”
She handed him what was draped over the back of the chair, then went back to Nancy’s room to pray for her suffering to end. When George arrived, Mrs. Gortimer went to fetch the children. Even Manfred came in. The entire family was together when Nancy stopped breathing, just when the rain finally stopped and weak rays of light entered the room, making candles unnecessary.
Chapter Eight
J
udah’s first impulse had been to go to the Cross home when Hetty met him at Nelson’s Column that morning with the sad news, but instead he thanked her and, when he arrived at work, sent around a note telling Magdalene that her position would be waiting when she was able to return. In return, he’d received a note thanking him and the information that funeral services would be on Friday.
He worked late the first half of the week, strangely disquieted by the lonely walks to work in the morning. Missing Magdalene’s smiles and friendly chatter had been unexpected. She had become his favorite companion and without her he felt set adrift in this large city.
Hatbrook had offered to arrange a membership for Judah at his club, but he couldn’t afford the fees quite yet, thanks to his investment in new winter clothing and bed linens, which he had not needed in India. This left him only at home and at Redcake’s. The day before the funeral, he took a half day and went to the Bethnal Green Museum, where the National Portrait Gallery was temporarily installed.
The brick building was not convenient to Londoners, nor were the exhibits at all interesting, other than the portraits. He did wonder how they would survive a building with an iron and glass roof. Would they not fade, and what would happen if the glass broke? He found many portraits of royals and examined them all closely for a match to his face, but no image of the Prince of Wales was evident.
When he spotted a guard, he inquired.
“No one is included in the collection until ten years after their death, except the Queen,” the man said.
“How disappointing. I particularly wanted to see the royal family.”
“Did you know the Prince and Princess of Wales opened the museum back in eighteen-seventy-two? I believe we have a commemorative photograph of the event downstairs.”
How fortuitous
. “You don’t say. Thank you.” He went to the first level and hunted until he found a framed image of the prince and princess surrounded by other people. When he examined it, he discovered a man with wavy brown hair and a full beard, a somewhat portly fellow. Because of the beard, it was difficult to ascertain the shape of his face.
Frustrated, he went back and stared at the portrait of the late prince consort, but with so many images of him scattered about, proof of the Queen’s unending devotion, he scarcely needed to do that. As the sky above the glass roof began to darken, he left the building and took a cab back to his home, stewing in irritation the entire way.
The next day was Nancy Cross’s funeral. The ladies of the family did not attend the church service as was often the case, but afterward a crowd gathered at the home of Earl Gerrick, who was Magdalene’s uncle. Judah knew his brother would not approve of him going to the childhood home of the infamous Lady Bricker, but this was a funeral, after all.
He was pleased to see a portion of Society had turned out to say good-bye to Mrs. Cross, though she had not been much a part of it in recent years, once George’s parents had died, leaving large debts.
“Lord Judah, is it?” A gruff man in a black suit walked up to him, a glass of port in his hand.
“Captain Shield.” Judah nodded at him.
“I’m Gerrick, know your brother. A very direct fellow.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I am sorry for your family’s loss. I am friendly with Mrs. Cross’s immediate family.”
“I heard you served with Mark. I am glad to see you have not let your brother’s prejudice against us color your feelings.”
“My association predates any action of your daughter, my lord,” Judah said.
The earl chuckled. “What a merry mess that has been. She has been writing me weekly, begging to be allowed back to London for the Season. I cannot see any harm in it, with Matilda Redcake down in Sussex, though I’m surprised Hatbrook allows his wife’s relatives on his property.”
“I only have the vaguest notion of the circumstances as I was in India or traveling until late summer.”
“Well, it’s a bloody disaster,” the earl said frankly. “I don’t envy Hatbrook or his wife, for that matter. And I am sorry for what small part my daughter played. I believe she has learned her lesson.”
Judah suspected his brother would not trust that to be true. “My brother has been up to Town for a visit, and my sister is coming soon to be presented, but I do not know the rest of the family’s plans. I do not think they will want to see your daughter.”
“No. We’ll just have to make sure they do not attend the same parties.” The earl clapped Judah’s shoulder. “But you, Captain Shield, are always welcome. As is your family too, of course. We shall not make the feud go both directions, eh?”
“Thank you.”
“Do you know my second son, the Honorable Geoffrey Cander? Just a bit younger than you. Did you go to school together?”
“No, I was educated at home. I never came to London.”
“No? Let me introduce you. A young man needs his friends and Geoffrey can be a good friend to you.”
Judah doubted that, if Lady Bricker was any representation of friendship, but he allowed himself to be introduced to the young man, who seemed a lively sort. He was able to say a few words to George Cross, the widower, and caught Miss Cross’s eye once, though she was surrounded at all times by female relatives.
Eventually, he felt he had done his duty by the Crosses. He went home and he wrote a long letter to Mark Cross, detailing the occasion and health of his relatives. When he sat back from his desk, though, he realized he had nowhere to direct it.
He set the letter aside, but on Tuesday, when he walked into his office, shivering from the first snow of the season, he found Gawain Redcake waiting for him. Judah knew he might find his answer.
“You must be a very early riser, Sergeant,” he said, hiding his own yawn behind his glove. Without Miss Cross to meet him, he only had Eddy Jackson’s jokes to wake him up in the morning, but the newsboy had seemed withdrawn. Increasing numbers of transients in Trafalgar Square were changing the mood of the place, making it uneasy. “The tearoom becomes quite busy in foul weather. Come for a cuppa?”
“As I import my own special blend of tea mixed with eye-strengthening herbs, that would hardly make sense.”
Judah glanced at the small table to the side of the armchair where he sat. “Yet I see a plate with crumbs.”
“I may have filched an almond pastry,” the sergeant said. “I apologize for borrowing your office, but I was waiting to see you.”
“Sadly, I do not think you are here to offer your professional services.”
“Why, having trouble?”
Judah went to his desk. “Only the shocking ramp-up that I’m told we must have for the Season. All these additional staff and ingredients are a huge expense.”
“A lot of people come to Town along with the politicians. Redcake’s is in fashion, so yes, I expect it’s all needed. Have you compared the estimates to last year?” He limped to the ledgers on the corner of the desk and perused one.
Judah poked through a stack of papers. “They are about ten percent above last year, but I am assured that the Jubilee functions account for it.”
He nodded. “You can count on Mr. Hales if you have questions. He has an interest in the daughter of the financial manager here, so always seems to have the relevant information at his fingertips.”
Judah found another sheet. “Overall business has been up seven percent this year, not ten.”
“Even during the spring Season?”
“Yes.”
Sergeant Redcake steepled his fingers. “I can see your concern, then, Captain Shield. I would hold everyone to seven percent until they can prove differently.”
Judah nodded. “A man after my own thoughts. I will see what profit the rest of the year brings.”
Ewan Hales entered, carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, and an assortment of small cakes. “I thought you might like this, sir, given the beastly fog, and these cakes are going to be introduced next week if you approve them.”
Sergeant Redcake raised an eyebrow. “How did I manage to be so fortunate as to stop by today?”
Judah laughed and produced a knife from the desk. He cut each cake into three parts. “So tell me, Hales, how did you manage to find a lady friend among the accountants? I should have thought the cakies were pretty enough for any man.”
Hales patted his stomach. “I’d rather have money than pastry. It’s not as if food is hard to come by here.”
“Well said,” Judah agreed. “I take your point.” He separated the pieces onto three plates and handed them out, then sat back.
The telephone rang shrilly in the outer office. The marchioness had it installed when Hatbrook put them in at Hatbrook House and Farm, but Judah still didn’t like the sound. Hales excused himself, taking his plate, while Sergeant Redcake took a slip of paper and pencil and started making notes.
“Not to your liking?” Judah inquired as he poured himself a steaming cup of the brew, leaving it dark so as not to adulterate his tasting session.
“I do not like blue-dyed food, unless it is blueberry flavored or some such. Dyes are often toxic.”
“What is the flavor?” Judah eyed the cake and took a small bite. “Just vanilla? No, maybe a bit of cardamom.”
“Exactly. Just because it might taste a bit exotic is no reason to poison people. Put a bit of fruit or nut on it. Makes it look more expensive that way anyhow.”
Judah reached for a slip of paper and made his own note to inquire into the dye. “I met a dye man recently. Courtnay, from Liverpool.”
“He’s in clothing dye, not food. Redcake’s has always prided itself on clean food, suitable for fine ladies and children. Something to keep in mind.”
“Sound advice,” he agreed. “Now, what do you think of this pink number?”
“Fruit dye,” Redcake said. “So that’s all right. But say, I was here to tell you more about Mark Cross.”
Judah licked cream off his lips. “This cake is very good. Flavored with coffee.”
“I shall try it next.”
“So, Lieutenant Cross?”
“Yes. My man Khan ran across some more news in India.”
“I am happy to pass along anything you hear. The family would no doubt be pleased to receive you, except they suffered a death last week.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I wrote Mark Cross a letter of condolence but then wasn’t sure where to send it.”
Redcake limped back to the armchair by the fire. “I’ll put it in my next packet for Khan, if you like. I’m sure he can get it to Jaipur.”
“Thank you. So Cross is still with that trader?” Judah took the other armchair, still holding his teacup, and stretched his damp shoes to the fire.
“Apparently. Though it might be getting a bit sticky.”
“Why do you say that?”
Redcake stroked his chin. “First, Khan said he’d heard that Lieutenant Cross was trading in moonstones.”
“For the trader?”
“That was the thing—no. I thought the family had no money.”
“Maybe he had army pay. He couldn’t have spent it all on clothing and he didn’t gamble or have more than the obvious vice.”
“Anything is possible. At any rate, he made a deal to sell them to a friend of Khan’s who is a jewel trader. Then, when he came back to the shop, he had two black eyes and an arm in a sling.”
“What happened?”
Redcake shrugged. “I have no idea. The trader beat him because he stole the stones? Some rough trade? A fight?”
“Your friend didn’t inquire?”
“Nothing else about it was in the letter.”
Judah swallowed the rest of the coffee cream cake. “Not sure if this is anything I should be reporting to his family.”
“I see your point. But if he sent some other word to them, this might put things in context.”
“Pooling information.”
“Exactly. That’s what we’re doing about Theodore Bliven, between myself and your brother.”
Judah bit the insides of his cheeks, not quite sure what to say about the sergeant’s sister’s wayward lover. “I understand the lady is having a difficult time of it.”
“My sister Matilda is enjoying the worst of luck,” Redcake agreed. “My sister Rose, well, she fell out with your brother from the start. She’s at the manor for now, keeping house for Father while Mother helps Matilda in Heathfield.”
“Our families are quite mixed in with each other. But come, it is a bad time of year to be melancholy, what with the weather.”
Redcake narrowed his eyes. “Accusing me of moodiness, Captain?” His slitted eyes pulled his brows close over his prominent nose, giving the man a look of sheer villainy.
Judah held up his hands, laughing. “Never.”
One side of Gawain’s mouth tilted up. “I did always think you were a good one, despite being a toff.”
“Now our roles have reversed somewhat.”
“I may have more money than you, but we’re both businessmen and that gives us a great deal in common. I’ll stand for you at my club, if you’d like. The word in Society is that you haven’t claimed a place anywhere.”
“I’ve thought about the Travellers Club. I know the waiting list is long, so by the time they contact me my ship should be in.”
“Ship?”
“I invested in gems. I don’t intend to be without funds forever.”
“Funny that our lieutenant had a similar thought. But then you were friends.”
“Lots of good stones in India. But no one beat me over mine. Let us hope they arrive and then I can speak to you about your club.”
“It’s nothing fancy. We have rooms for now, rather than an entire house to ourselves. No accommodations.” Redcake shifted in his chair. “You can afford it on your salary here.”
Judah scratched at his cheek. “Then it might be just the thing. A club for men of business mentality?”
“Importers, local tradesmen. You know, Courtnay is a member, though I think he has one or two other memberships. Why don’t you come for dinner some night this week? I am here until Friday.”