“Where is Lady Fitzwalter?” her father asked.
“In London at her husband’s house. They move around quite a bit, with all their responsibilities.”
“I’m not going to leave you or my father,” Betsy said. “You can’t ask me to leave either of you.”
“Betsy . . .” her father said mildly.
“I don’t want to stay at a home owned by Ewan Hales’s wife, even if I do admire her very much,” Betsy said. “You know I’m tough, Greggory. Don’t ask this of me.”
“I want you to take Artie and Sia with you,” Greggory said. “It will have to be just you and the nursemaid. Believe me, you’ll be calling on all the toughness you possess to manage that. My cousin’s housekeeper retired and there are no senior staff there. You will have your hands full.”
“Even a better reason not to go, then,” Betsy said. “I’m not leaving London.”
“What about the children?” Ralph asked.
“There are two men here and none in the Bristol house. I think they are safer here. There’s been no evidence anyone means any harm to them,” Betsy said.
“If you won’t go, I’ll hire a watchman for the house here as well,” Greggory said. “But at any time, if you reconsider, I’d like you to stay in Bristol.”
“I agree to the watchman of course,” Betsy said.
“You will stay here today?”
“Of course not. You have to work on payroll. It is Friday morning. I need to be at Redcake’s.”
Betsy had won every argument Greggory made, had been at Redcake’s while the doors were replaced and Greggory went to the bank and hired former soldiers to watch the shop and the house. The atmosphere at Redcake’s had not been the same. Now, a day later, at nearly lunchtime, the tearoom was deserted but for two small parties, and no one waited in the lobby. When she went into the bakery, no customers stood at the pastry cases, for the first time she could remember.
Winnie Baxter, standing behind the counter, looked stricken. “It’s never been like this before.”
“The papers had news of the break-in this morning,” Betsy said. “Mr. Redcake showed me one article. One might think the front of the shop was caved in, from the sensational tone of the writing.”
“What is Mr. Redcake going to do?”
“Advertise,” Betsy said. “The advertisements start on Sunday. I hope we shall see a change next week.”
“It is only Friday. If it is deserted tomorrow afternoon, when our usual surge of customers comes in, I think we will be in serious trouble.”
“This is Redcake’s,” Betsy said stoutly. “We are not the average business.”
“We don’t have average prices either,” Winnie pointed out. “It takes money to prepare the best of everything. If our type of customer does not feel safe . . .”
Winnie continued in a similar vein, but Betsy had been struck by an idea. “I’ll check on you later,” she called as she rushed out of the deserted bakery and went upstairs.
She waited for Greggory in his office, poring over the newspapers.
“You look like a dog on the scent of something delicious,” Greggory said when he came in half an hour later. He set an envelope down next to her hand. “Your pay, madam.”
“A doorman,” she said, glancing up.
“A doorman?”
“Yes. I talked to Winnie earlier about our sort of customer needing to feel safe, and I thought, what if we had a burly man in uniform, a Redcake’s uniform, opening the door? It might make our customers feel secure when they pass by on the street, and they would turn in as usual.” She smiled at him, hoping for that wide, enthusiastic smile with which her best ideas were greeted.
Greggory nodded somberly. “It is an excellent notion, but it is more expenditure. Having met with my banker this morning, I don’t know if it is wise. Also, I’d have to consult with Lord Judah on a change like this. His shop doesn’t have a doorman.”
“We need to have someone tomorrow,” Betsy said. “For people who have half days and stop in on Saturday afternoons for a special treat.”
“Where is the uniform going to come from?”
“We’ll have to get something from a costume shop, white and gold to match our colors. You just hired new security, correct? Pick the largest and best-looking one and he can be our official doorman.”
Greggory took off his hat and tossed it on the bookshelf. “I don’t know. If the advertising doesn’t work, I’m going to have to close the shop entirely. Have you seen the bakery? Deserted.”
“I know. It is very disappointing. The newspapers were utterly unforgiving about our troubles.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to close down if the murder and robbery aren’t solved soon,” Greggory said. “I can’t drag my cousin’s shop down with me. I’ve spoken to Lord Judah, and business is down there as well.”
She winced. “Can you give interviews to the newspapers and say that it is business as usual and perfectly safe?”
“No one wants to print such a dull article. Do you know, one enterprising reporter made up a ‘Redcake’s curse.’ ”
“What?”
“He brought up the kidnapping two years ago of Lady Fitzwalter’s son. Thank heavens he doesn’t know about the flour adulteration that was happening at the same time.”
“The business seemed much simpler when I ran the Fancy.” Betsy sighed.
“Are you certain you won’t go to Bristol? As you can see, there is not much need for you to stay here.”
“Business will return after the advertisements run on Sunday,” Betsy said stoutly.
Greggory didn’t look convinced. “Either way, I’m going to sleep here tonight. Make sure a guard walks you home when you leave.”
“Not in broad daylight. That will send the wrong message to the other employees.”
“They don’t have a wicked sister,” Greggory said.
She winced at his words. “I was a fool.”
“No,” he said. “She is your sister. You had to give her a chance. Her paternal grandparents raised her, so there was no reason to think she would follow your mother’s ways. I’d have thought they’d raise her to a horror of bad deeds, as your father did you.”
“A taint in the blood,” Betsy said sourly, “and Prissy has it. Aren’t you worried about me?”
Greggory leaned over the desk to cup her cheek. “No. I’ve known you too long to worry. Why don’t you find yourself some luncheon? I need to sort out the rest of the money.”
“Do you want me to help?”
“No, I need to stay busy.”
“But you didn’t have much opportunity to sleep,” she protested.
“I’ll have someone from accounting check my numbers,” he promised.
She nodded and left the room, feeling cut out of her position yet again. Would she ever feel like an important part of his life? She had fought for everything, every promotion, every purchase, her entire life. Now what? She couldn’t sit back and let Greggory attempt to solve every problem she faced forever. But she had a feeling that was how he expected the course of their lives to run.
Odd that he had once seemed so progressive, hiring a female assistant manager. She supposed old ways asserted themselves in his home life, especially because she carried his child.
The banns would be called for the first time in two days. Soon, she would be a Redcake herself. Why didn’t the thought make her happy? No woman could ask for more.
Greggory walked into the dining room early Saturday morning looking bleary-eyed after a night spent at Redcake’s.
“Why are you dressed for work?” he asked. “You are not to work on Saturdays anymore so you can rest.”
Betsy looked at the black stubble on his face and the static-filled hair, the faint circles of exhaustion under his eyes. “Unlike you, I experienced a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed.”
“I slept.”
“Not well. We don’t need you becoming ill. Take a nap, Greggory; it’s early enough yet. If Redcake’s is still doing such poor business, it will not be a trying day for me.”
“I have to protect you,” he said, coming to sit next to her with a cup of coffee and a piece of toast.
“You need to eat more than that.”
He yawned. “Too tired. Coffee first.”
She pulled the cup away before he could drink it. “Go up to bed. Listen to your fiancée.”
“You should listen to me.”
“Not when you were up all night. I take it no one broke in?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?” She picked up a bite of egg and fed it to him from her fork.
“Someone came onto the loading dock. One of the guards chased him off but never got a good look at him.”
“Any ideas?”
“It could have been Victor, from the description. I’m going to stay at the shop again tonight.”
“Then you must sleep now. Otherwise you will be too dull for quick thinking.”
He yawned again. “I wonder if I will ever sleep again.”
“I wonder that, too. Mrs. Roach has yet to find a nanny.”
“Give her time,” Greggory said, allowing her to feed him more eggs. “I will concede to you for a few hours. But when I return to Redcake’s, you need to come home and rest.”
“I am fine,” she protested.
“Do not try my patience or I will stagger back to the shop myself. I only meant to return home to shave and get a clean shirt, but then the light hit my eyes and it did the opposite of waking me up.”
She pushed her chair back, more excited about her day than she had been when she woke. “Do you need an escort upstairs?”
A devilish glint came into his eyes, belying his claim that he was mostly asleep. Before she could protest, he pulled her into his lap and buried his face against her freshly pinned hair.
“You’ll get egg fumes in my hair,” she protested, laughing.
“Delicious,” he murmured, kissing a trail down her temple to her cheek to the corner of her mouth.
She’d never felt his bristled skin against her before. The prickly sensation made her shudder. Her breasts peaked and she turned toward him for a kiss that quickly became carnal.
“Why is it that we never seem to spend any time together?” he asked.
“We have more drama in our lives than a stage production of
Romeo and Juliet
,” she said.
“Oh, this has to end better than that.”
Chapter Nineteen
B
etsy saw a familiar figure entering Greggory’s office that afternoon while she was placing reports on his desk. “Lady Hatbrook?” She dropped the files on his desk, allowing them to scatter in her excitement, and moved toward her friend. “What brings you here?”
Lady Hatbrook, born Alys Redcake, a statuesque redhead dressed in a beautifully embroidered gray jacket and skirt, smiled in recognition. “Betsy! How nice to see you. I was looking for my cousin.”
Betsy felt dismissed despite the pleasant words. “He came home in the early morning to change clothing and looked so exhausted that I insisted he take to his bed.”
“That man needs a wife,” Lady Hatbrook said, taking one of the armchairs. “Matilda always said he was a lover, not a fighter.”
“She would know since he was her secretary once upon a time.” Especially because Betsy thought of Matilda, Lady Fitzwalter, as quite the opposite. “Mr. Redcake has proposed to me.”
Lady Hatbrook blinked in surprise. “Truly? Are you marrying Greggory?”
“If we can find the time, this month. The banns are to be called tomorrow.”
Lady Hatbrook’s smile widened warmly. “Such big news. What are your plans?”
Betsy deflated. “I don’t have any.”
“Your wedding dress?”
“My seamstress stole the money Greggory gave her and ran away.” She pushed her bangs aside. She needed to find time to trim them. “It’s a long story. My engagement ring was stolen, too.”
“Goodness,” Lady Hatbrook said.
Betsy sat in the other armchair. “He doesn’t want me at Redcake’s. He wants me managing his home and having more children, while he runs the shop and talks to his brother about investing in hotels,” Betsy complained. “I don’t understand it. The shop is falling apart. He needs me.”
“He wants you in the most intimate part of his life.”
“I ought to be able to help him in all areas. I don’t understand this upper-class way of thinking. I’m used to helping my father in everything. I don’t mind hard work.”
“You and Greggory have proven yourselves to be a good team in the shop. You will sort out this new life you are making,” Lady Hatbrook said.
“It’s different at home, though. As a woman, I have no power. And my father mismanaged our finances so terribly that we ended up homeless. How can I trust another man? I need to work, to have my own money.” Betsy put her hand to her mouth. Had she even realized this about herself?
Lady Hatbrook nodded. “I understand your impulse. I’d suggest you get a clear agreement from him about the housekeeping money and insist he give it to you weekly. That way you’ll feel some control, and you’ll know quickly if there is a problem because the money doesn’t turn up.”
Betsy nodded. “I like that suggestion, but I’d rather continue to work. His last idea was that I surrender my assistant manager position and manage the bakery until we have a baby, but now that business has fallen off, too.”
“I need to talk to Greggory and Judah about how to fix this mess,” Lady Hatbrook mused.
“Will they allow you to be involved?”
“They have no choice. I own my shop, even if Judah operates it. You have more power than you think, Betsy.” She smiled. “Besides, Greggory can be under no illusion that you don’t have a brain.”
“I’m afraid he’ll forget as soon as there is a ring on my finger,” Betsy grumbled.
“Don’t let him, but you’ll have to prove yourself with a smoothly running home. If he comes home to chaos and servant problems, you won’t have the opportunity to pursue other interests.”
Betsy sniffed. “If there are no chaos or servant problems, I’ll have proven I can manage better than him.”
“Women always have to work harder than men,” Lady Hatbrook said. “Until they are the ones having the babies it will ever be so.”
Betsy restrained herself from touching her still-flat abdomen. She didn’t want Greggory’s family to know what she suspected. She wanted them to think she was a lady. It would not help her case when they found out about Prissy either.
Greggory pulled the sheet from Oscar’s typewriter and stared at it. He had updated his official list of employees, which had been out of date by three months, in preparation for beginning a staff reduction. If he even bothered to do so, instead of simply closing up shop.
As he stared at the list of names—all good people who did good work—he resisted the urge to crumple it in his fist and fling it across the room. Childishly, he wanted today to be happy, uncomplicated, a celebration, because the banns had been called for his marriage to Betsy. Their wedding was set for less than three weeks from now, on the Tuesday morning after the banns were called for the third and final time.
Bright electric light had made him think it was still early, but when he went into his office and glanced out the window, he saw it was twilight. He’d passed the entire afternoon in the bakery, talking to the sparse inflow of customers. Then he’d gone upstairs with a plate of strawberries and scones and read the papers, checking his advertisements. Business had to improve tomorrow.
He remembered the first calling of the banns for his marriage to Letty. What a day of hope and celebration that had been. In fact, it had been the first day he saw the house on Kensington Church Walk. He and Letty had walked through the rooms, planning improvements, naming their children, talking about the future. Now he was marrying a woman who wasn’t even sure she wanted to be married to him.
Worst of all, he wasn’t entirely certain what he desired either. Oh, yes, he wanted to marry her to give his name to her child, and he couldn’t stop his craving for her, but the rest? How could he have become involved with someone out of his shop? Someone whose father had been employed in his own family’s Bristol cake factory?
He supposed it wouldn’t be too different from his brief first marriage. They had stayed home, too, for the most part, because Letty had been expecting within a few months of their marriage. They’d had a wedding trip to the Lake District, then had settled into London, busy with renovations and the tea shop. He could live quietly, still. It was just that he’d thought his life would change, become brighter somehow.
“I need a new project,” he said aloud. He’d kept fears of impending fatherhood at bay when Letty was expecting by working hard on Redcake’s. Now, he could move forward with Dudley’s hotel idea. “Why not?”
He pulled a telegram form from his desk drawer and wrote Dudley a short note, suggesting they meet soon to finalize plans. Then he placed it on Oscar’s desk for sending in the morning. He yawned as he walked back into his office. Difficult to sleep well on a sofa in one’s outer office. The temperature never quite right, the wrong blankets. He yawned again as he took up his habitual post by the window, wondering what he would do with the space if he shut down the tearoom. Turn it into a baking area perhaps, and promote products to restaurants and other shops. But he couldn’t convert cakies to bakers, so his employee mix would have to change.
He rubbed his forehead. Maybe he should try to sleep now. Mr. Soeur and his team would wake him up in the wee hours anyway. He went back into the anteroom and turned off the lights, then did the same in his office. When he went to the window to shut the curtain, he heard footsteps on the cobbles below and glanced down, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He saw one of the watchmen with his lantern, walking toward the loading dock.
Then he heard another noise, farther down the alley. He craned his head in that direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape come from the side of the platform. His attention focused on it. Another man? The watchman started to turn.
As Greggory pushed up his window, he heard the sound of a blow. He watched the lantern fall to the cobbles. The light was extinguished as the man crumpled over it. Had the man been killed?
For a moment, he stood still, stunned. Redcake’s was being attacked yet again. Why? The attacker disappeared, probably moving toward the door by the loading dock as before. How many of them were there? Was there a battering ram again?
Greggory dashed through his office, the anteroom, down the stairs. He hadn’t planned for this. Why not? He had no weapon, though the security guards had truncheons. There were three of them now, all circling the street around the building. One of them would find the hurt man soon.
He reached the bottom of the steps and ran for the kitchen. Knives. Knives were weapons, better than his fists, which hadn’t boxed in two years. He’d let himself grow soft, a family man now, not a young buck.
In the kitchen, he found the knife drawer by touch and pulled it open, took out a long, serrated knife used for cutting through trays of rolls. But that was stupid; what would he use it for, a sword? He dropped it and found something shorter, sharper, by touch.
Then he heard the tinkle of breaking glass. The tearoom again. How many people were attacking? Surely the noise would attract passersby. He tightened his grip around the second knife and went through the kitchen. Trays clattered against his hip as he passed by a rack of them. He grabbed a tray to keep it from crashing to the floor and pushed through the door.
A dark shape climbed through the broken tearoom window. Was it the same individual he’d seen attack the watchman? With the streetlight shining in, Greggory could see the interloper was a man.
And that man was Victor. The youth glanced up, as if an animal sense told him Greggory was in the room. Victor let out a cry and rushed at him. “Where is she? Where is Violet?”
“I have no idea.” Greggory ran, too, weaving around the tables, waving the tray. Light flashed off the silver from the streetlight. Victor glanced to the left, disoriented by the lights, and Greggory hit him in the head with the tray.
The motion shot pain through his wrist. The force of the blow made him drop the tray. Victor leaned forward and head-butted him in the belly. The momentum slammed him into a table. It caught him in the back. His hands snapped forward as he tried to keep his balance. The knife caught Victor at the shoulder, slicing cleanly through layers of cloth, skin.
“You’ll pay for stealing her away,” Victor howled and kicked out.
“I didn’t.” Greggory danced to the side, remembering his boxer training now. He jabbed with his free hand. Victor didn’t even try to block as Greggory’s fist came at his jaw. The youth bent backward, then fell to the ground, bleeding and unconscious.
“Smart girl, that Violet, getting away from you,” Greggory said, looking down.
A clatter came at the open window. He heard pounding on the door.
“Night watchman,” he heard at the window.
“Police!” he heard at the door at the same time. Still feeling enervated from the fight, he jumped over Victor and went to turn on the lights.
At three
A.M
. Greggory finally went home. The police had left with Victor and the window had been boarded up. The injured man was under a doctor’s care at home. No hope the tearoom could open later that morning. His face had started to hurt and he didn’t know how he could get to sleep after the night he’d had.
At least his house seemed silent and at ease. He’d insisted a constable walk over earlier to make sure no one was assaulting his house as well. No one had been. He’d been wondering where Violet and Prissy were tonight, but as best as anyone could tell, Victor had attacked the watchman in the back and run around the building while Greggory was going downstairs, broken the window, and come in.
He’d wanted to be caught, it seemed.
When Greggory opened his bedroom door, he saw a light was on in his dressing room. He found Betsy asleep in a chair next to an oil lamp. What was she doing there? He went forward to pick her up and carry her to bed, but his footsteps woke her and she opened her eyes sleepily.
She saw him, then blinked again, before opening her eyes for a second time, though she still didn’t really seem to register his presence. Then she leaped to her feet and put her hand to his cheek. “You’ve been cut! There’s blood on your face.”
He put his hand over hers. “I didn’t realize. Must have been cut by broken glass. It was everywhere.”
She stroked his cheek gently. “What happened?”
“Victor happened. But the police have him now.”
Her skin felt sleep warm and silky against his face. “Redcake’s?”
“Another broken window. Won’t be opening the tearoom today.”
Her fingers stilled on his cheek. “All that advertising for nothing.”
He shrugged. “Can’t do anything until the window is repaired.”
He watched her force a brave smile. “We will have it done as soon as the glaziers are open for business. The newspapers will report our problems are solved and the customers will return.”
He squeezed her hand. “You are so sure Victor is the murderer?”
“He has an unholy attraction to the tearoom,” she said, pulling away. “I’m going to find a basin of water and clean the blood from your face.”
“You should be resting.”
“So should you,” she said over her shoulder, walking away.
Greggory slumped into the chair she had vacated and pulled off his shoes. His hand and shoulder ached and the rest of him felt stiff from a missed night’s sleep. He let his head drop to the back of the chair.
By the time Betsy returned, she saw Greggory was down to shirt and trousers, his discarded clothing tossed on the floor next to him. But he appeared to be asleep. The floorboard creaked as she moved toward him and his eyes opened. Only half-asleep then.
“Any other injuries?” she asked, dabbing his cheek with a damp towel.
“No. I had a knife. I sliced his arm, then knocked him out with one blow. He had no idea how to fight.”
Her fiancé knew how to fight, however. Pride surged through her. “Just break windows.”