Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) (15 page)

“She has a body made for sin,” Greggory said, attempting dry humor. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“That only matters if she allows the sinning.”

“I won’t tell tales on a girl I’m courting.” A waiter approached Greggory with a fresh napkin. He took it and spread it over his lap.

“If only our Italian blood allowed us to blush properly. I assume you’d be carrot red if you were a ginger. Well done, man.” Dudley clapped his hand on his brother’s arm.

Greggory shook his head as the waiter walked away. “She’s slippery, but I think she’ll come around.”

“Under your roof?” Dudley shook his head. “That’s half the job done. Time to call the banns, I’d say. Pater will be ecstatic. He wanted to paint her when he came up to London last time.”

“We aren’t ready for that yet. Had some troubles. Very different backgrounds. Because of the babies I don’t go to many dinners, but I’m not sure she’d really fit in.”

“You don’t think she has the manners?”

“Not really. I spoke to Alys. They used to be very close, and she said Betsy was a bit brash but had a good heart. She said her ambitions put her in the worst light, but her ambition has been fulfilled really. She’s much more used to dealing with our sort of client now. I think she’s polished up greatly over the past couple of years.”

Their first waiter returned to take their order. After they both requested the beef, Dudley continued, “Yet you are still concerned.”

“I’m not sure she understands the unspoken rules of society. Certain people are untouchable. What one needs to turn a blind eye to. It’s very important in a business like ours, where we cater to the wealthy. When I think about it, she manages the daily work of the business. I see to the customers, and I think the separation has happened for a reason.”

“You think she would fail you outside of the home,” Dudley said. “That’s a rather narrow-minded view. The girl is smart. She can learn.”

“She’s from a very different world. I think there is a reason she and Alys aren’t friends anymore.”

“Alys is a marchioness with young children. Her life has changed dramatically.”

“Yes, but Betsy’s hasn’t. Oh, she’s in management now, a rare position for a woman. She’s proven how intelligent and responsible she is, but she’s never been out in society. I live in Kensington. She doesn’t fit in.”

“Neither did Alys when she married Lord Hatbrook, but they’ve rubbed along well enough.”

“She was in society a little. Uncle Bartley had the money and her sisters had all the training.”

“She didn’t, and she married the best of the three,” Dudley said. “Listen, Greggory, if you love Betsy, don’t worry about the rest. Our family likes her, those who have met her. On the other hand, if you don’t think she’s up to snuff, then don’t torture the girl. Let her go before it’s too late.”

The words prompted a moment of reflection. “It’s already too late. She can’t continue to work with me if I end our courtship.”

“It sounds as if she is rather a tough person,” Dudley commented. “I do not know the entire story, but you did tell me about her mother.”

“That is not what made her tough. It is the lifetime of dealing with those consequences that matter. The blackmail and so forth.”

“I’d love to be caught up on all of that, but here is our third party.” Dudley stood and shook the hand of an ebony-haired gent in his early thirties. While the man had an open, honest face, he had the sharp dress of a salesman.

“Greggory, this is Harry Haldene. He used to work for our cousin, but before that he helped run an inn in Leeds.”

Greggory shook the man’s hand and gestured to the extra chair a waiter had just brought. “What is of interest about that inn?”

Haldene smiled. “Nothing in particular, Mr. Redcake, but your cousin always knew I had an interest in the hotel business. Your brother has a fascination as well, and we are looking for investors to take over an unfinished hotel and open it ourselves.”

“Why isn’t it finished?”

Haldene sat. “Investors ran out of money. Project stalled. We can get a real bargain, finish construction, bring in an experienced staff.”

“And running an inn in Leeds qualifies you for all this?”

“I know what needs to be done,” the man said with confidence. “And your cousin, Sir Gawain, is ready to throw in with us. He’s a regular Midas.”

“I know,” Greggory agreed. “My cousin has astounding gifts. Are you going to open a Redcake’s Tea Shop and Emporium in the hotel?”

Harry Haldene winked. “That’s where it gets interesting.”

“We’d like you to come to a charity ball that’s going on at the Hotel Victoria this Saturday. Have a feel for the type of hotel we’re envisioning,” Dudley said.

Greggory rubbed his chin. “I don’t attend balls.”

“You should invite Miss Popham,” Dudley said. “See how she behaves at such an occasion. It might tell you all you need to know.”

“I was so happy to receive your note,” Prissy said that Friday night in front of Redcake’s. “What fun to have a walk with my sister.”

Betsy hooked her arm through her more fashionable sister’s, careful not to crush her sleeve, as they walked up Kensington High Street. “I love these long evenings when there is no reason to be inside until it is time to retire.”

She nodded to a customer she recognized, who was passing by, then looked up to admire the sky, still blue with just a dash of clouds here and there. The smell of horse so prevalent in the road was diminished at this time of day, and everyone out strolling seemed prosperous and pleased with themselves.

“I quite agree. No worries about your tormentors troubling us?” Prissy took a studied glance around them, as if looking for a certain pair of dangerous men.

“We haven’t seen Victor around here since Monday. Now, with Violet gone, he probably has no reason to bother us. And Simon Hellman has been out of sight for quite some time now.”

“I was sorry to hear about Violet, poor girl.” Prissy paused to look at a display of hats in a milliner’s shop.

Betsy admired a straw confection that would look lovely on her dark hair. “It seems a pity to go into service when she could have done very well at Redcake’s. It’s like choosing slavery when she could have been free.”

Prissy pointed to a cunning black bonnet with white ruffles. “We cannot all want to be a modern woman. That’s left for the more adventurous sort of girl.”

“I have never been conventional,” Betsy said. “I wonder how well I would do as a wife and mother.”

“It would be like submitting to your father, which you did until recently,” Prissy opined. “I like Ralph, you know, but he is dreadful with money. At least married women can keep their own earnings now.”

“One has to be very careful in one’s choice of husband,” Betsy agreed. “Do you know how to make flowers from fabric? I have a hat that needs some improving.”

“Of course. I can make flowers from all kinds of scraps. Show me the hat and I will make you some samples.”

“I’m not sure where it is. Probably in Mr. Redcake’s garden shed, but I will let you know.”

Prissy turned away from the shop window. “I cannot help but notice you are still under Mr. Redcake’s roof. What does that mean?”

Betsy squeezed her arm and they walked on. “Very little. Between the teashop and the babies, we have not been spending any time together. Which may be for the best, because we had a rather unpleasant conversation at the start of the week.”

“I find it hard to believe there could be any unpleasantness with such a kind man,” Prissy said.

“It was about me and my general coarseness,” Betsy said. “Or so I interpreted it. He didn’t like that I was, as he said, ‘passing along gossip’ about my betters.”

Prissy frowned. “What was the context?”

“Don’t be so sad, pretty bird,” said a young man in a cloth cap. He and his companion stopped in front of the sisters, grinning.

“We can cheer you up. Take a walk with us,” said the other.

Prissy raised her arm in a shooing gesture and pulled Betsy on.

“That is what I found so irritating,” Betsy said when they were out of earshot. “I thought of something that might be related to the murders. Some old jibber-jabber about Manfred Cross and his aristocratic friends.”

“Mr. Redcake did not agree?”

“He did not want to hear it. He’s concerned that our customers would be angry if we passed along gossip that might be about their kin.”

“Heavens. He might have a point, then. Your livelihood is more important than any gossip.” Prissy stopped at the window of a rival bakery, but Betsy didn’t see anything that excited her senses.

“But it wasn’t mere gossip,” Betsy tried to explain. “It might have been relevant to the murder. I could not make him understand that.”

“Maybe you should have spoken to the police instead. If you thought it was that important.”

Betsy watched a trio of children as they ran down the road, laughing and calling to one another. “It was pretty old gossip. Something that happened about six years ago. It may have been the only time I ever heard of Manfred Cross.”

“Six years is a long time.”

“You are right. Which means I was wrong.”

“On the other hand,” Prissy said, “you ought to be able to say anything to a husband without fear of censure really. So your problem does bear consideration.”

“I miss him,” Betsy said. “But he frustrates me. How can he spend the afternoon discussing new investments with his brother when the teashop is falling to bits? How much money does he have that he can risk losing Redcake’s and move on to some other enterprise? I have nothing but Redcake’s myself.”

“Goodness. How do you know he spent the afternoon doing that?”

“I stopped by his office just before I left, as I always do. Oscar, his secretary, told me he’d been out for luncheon and had not returned.”

“What bothers you so much about this?”

“I worry about money all the time. I can’t imagine investing. I just want a roof over my head, some kitchen things, and nice clothing. We do not think alike. I am not the type of female one finds in his world. I think about money all the time; pinching it, saving it. And he just knows how to spend, apparently.”

“He could be trying to distract himself with happier topics. People do, you know.”

“Have we been distracting each other during a distressing time?” Betsy wondered. “Was that all our little courtship was?”

“No, you are much too pretty,” Prissy said firmly. “Men would die to possess you. But be careful. Men do like mystery in their lovers. I am glad you’ve spent some time apart, but do tell him you’ve missed him. Tell him you were wrong to gossip and you’ve learned a valuable lesson. Then talk a little less and be a little more adoring for a while. Your relationship will be patched up and on the way to the altar in no time.”

G
reggory woke, overly warm and disoriented, in the night. He scrubbed his eyes as he tried to discern the hour and why he was awake. Were the little ones crying? He sat up and pulled on his robe, then padded through his open bedroom door, barefoot, to the staircase to listen. No, his children seemed to be blissfully asleep. One of them might have cried out in a dream. It happened sometimes, but he woke up just the same. Fathers never slept as soundly as bachelors.

Yawning, he seated himself on the first step for a moment; he knew if he went back to his bed he’d fall asleep instantly and entertained himself with the fantasy of Betsy creeping into his bed. Memories of their unhappy conversation Monday had haunted him all week, but he’d scarcely seen her even in a professional capacity, much less in private, since. Had she been avoiding him?

He heard some kind of tinkling sound toward the back of the house, so he stood and went into his dressing room. Was that what had woken him? An attempt to peer out the back window into the night-darkened garden didn’t offer him any clues. But then he thought he saw a light. Something metal glinting off the moon? No, more as if the panel of a lantern had been opened for a moment. His senses sharpened and he reached for a pair of shoes and slipped them on, the coldness of the leather against his bare feet waking him completely.

He heard the sound again. Definitely breaking glass. Someone was trying to rob him. It had never happened before. He swore and went to the chest against the wall and opened it, rustling around until he found his cricket bat. Back before his marriage, he had boxed for fun, but Letty had ended that when he received a black eye two weeks before their wedding. He hoped he still recalled the old moves, but he’d start with the bat and a lungful of air to shout into the night, arousing neighbors and hopefully a strolling constable.

He turned up the lights in his room. The light alone might scare off cowardly thieves. Then, clutching his bat, he walked down the steps to the ground floor, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark again before he moved into the kitchen.

The first thing he noticed was a breeze, probably coming through the open window. He saw a shape passing by him and swung his bat. It swished through the air, hitting nothing. Shouting, he ran forward, blindly swinging. He hit something, heard a grunt, then a scramble. Somewhere upstairs, he heard a window open.

A few feet away, a dark figure seemed to be in the sink.

“Get down,” Greggory ordered. “Who are you?”

Ignoring him, the figure jumped out of the window to the portico outside. Full of adrenaline, Greggory wanted to climb the sink himself, but he was larger and remembered the broken glass. He ran to the back door and pulled it open, then dashed into the night. In the garden, he saw moving shapes. His trees, waving in the wind. He couldn’t see well, but then he heard running feet.

Shouting again, he tore through the garden, only to see the same figure, dressed in a dark coat and trousers and a low-pulled cap, wriggle over the back fence and jump down into the mews. Greggory tore open the back gate and stared into the shadows. He knew the figure was running, fleet-footed, to the left. But he had a house wide-open now, and innocent babies to protect. He couldn’t leave his house, even to catch a thief.

When he locked the gate and went back into the house, he found the lights on and Betsy and Mrs. Roach standing in the center of the kitchen, both blinking hard.

“What happened?” the housekeeper gasped, looking at the missing window.

“Someone broke in,” Greggory said, setting his bat on the table. He closed the door and locked it. “Do we have any wood so I can board up the window?”

“Just paper, brown paper, but it isn’t raining. It will hold.”

“Won’t do us a lick of good if the thief comes back,” Greggory said.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” Mrs. Roach said. “You’ll feel better.”

Just what he needed. “There is glass all over the porch.”

“I’ll sweep it,” Betsy offered.

“No, it will keep until morning. You might cut yourself in the dark. What time is it?”

“About four
A.M.
,” she said. “I heard noise out the window.”

“Where is your father?”

“Dead asleep. He wouldn’t have heard anything in the sitting room. I tiptoed right past him.”

She sat down across from him while Mrs. Roach busied herself with the tea things. When she presented the steaming teapot and cups, Greggory waved her off to get the paper with his thanks.

“You should go back to your bed, too,” he said to Betsy.

“No,” she said, taking his hand.

“Why are you shaking?” he asked.

“I was frightened. Oh, Greggory, I’ve brought danger to your home, and it has children in it.”

Greggory scrubbed at his eyes with his free hand. “Why do you say that?”

“Victor, obviously, and Simon.”

“Has there been some new kind of threat?”

“No.” She frowned.

Mrs. Roach returned with a roll of paper.

“Then don’t assume you have anything to do with it. Thieves are always around, and I have good locks on the doors. An unskilled thief could break a window most easily.” Greggory took the paper and held it against the windows so Mrs. Roach could cut off the right-sized piece.

“Thieves don’t usually work alone, do they? This seems more like Victor.”

“Or Violet,” Greggory reflected. “The figure was rather slight, though dressed in men’s clothes. Still, I can’t be sure.”

Betsy poured the tea while he tacked the paper over the window. “She’s been in here, knows what you have in the house. We never should have let her in last Sunday.”

Mrs. Roach took a cup of tea and hovered in the doorway.

“Off to bed? Thank you,” Greggory said to the housekeeper.

“Good night, sir, Miss Popham.” Mrs. Roach smiled tiredly and left the room.

Greggory returned his attention to Betsy. “Do you know where she’s living now? I assume she’s left the Baxters’.”

Betsy told him about Violet’s claim of a new job, then made a face.

“What?”

“Am I gossiping?” she asked.

“No, of course not. I’m sorry, Betsy. I know you were trying to help the investigation. I overreacted. At the time, I was more focused on us than the murder, and I should have realized. You’ve never made a wrong move with our customers in two years. Of course you aren’t a busybody.”

“Thank you,” Betsy said.

He smiled at her; then, giving in to the impulse to touch her, he stroked his hand down her braid, then pulled her toward him. Her already heavy-lidded eyes fluttered closed as her lips parted, ready for his kiss.

Their lips met. He tasted the tea, the night, and her fear. His cock hardened and he tunneled his hands into her hair, scratching her scalp in his eagerness to be as close to her as possible. She wrapped her hands around his forearms and pressed her soft, unbound breasts against him.

“I’ve missed you,” he said against her mouth.

“Take me upstairs,” she ordered, then licked into his mouth.

He stood, pulling her against him. Their mouths met in a hot, openmouthed, devouring kiss. They tugged at each other’s nightclothes, tripping over his shoes as he toed them off. Forgetting the lights and the broken window in their desperate efforts to be close to each other, they made their way into his bedroom.

Her nightgown, worn without even a robe, was off in an instant. His robe followed. Buttons clinked to the ground as she tore his nightshirt open to midchest, then pulled it over his head. Her fingers roved down his belly and cupped him intimately, her mouth following as she knelt in front of him.

He stroked his hands down her hair, loving the way she teased him with her tongue. It smelled like a summer night; sweat and flowers and clean sheets, but also of their arousal. Arching his back so he could move his hips, he sank even deeper into her warm, moist mouth. He felt her swallow him down and he was lost to his orgasm, pumping into her. A minute later, she flopped down on the bed next to him. They were both breathing hard, but he could smell her, damp flesh beckoning to him. He pulled her around so that her thighs opened around his head and he bent to her, licking into her cleft, squeezing her buttocks and lifting her against his mouth.

She moaned and wriggled against him, at least as hot as he had been. It only took a couple of minutes for her to strain and rub and stretch her way to completion, and by then he was hard again and thrusting inside her before she had said a word.

Fast and fierce, he pulsed, rocking his hips as she clutched him against herself, lifting her legs and locking her ankles high against his back. He crushed his mouth to hers and they grappled together, wild things, no tenderness, only passion and fear and the night’s intensity. When her body undulated around him, he lost himself again, a slave to her passionate completion. He had no idea what he said, what he even felt, and he fell asleep without doing more than rolling to his side, pulling her with him so that he didn’t lose that most intimate contact.

 

Betsy woke, gasping for air. Her chest felt crushed. She tried to sit up and found herself trapped under Greggory’s body. He slept on his stomach, his shoulder covering her torso. She slithered out from beneath him, pressing down the feather mattress to buy herself a little space. Her skin stuck to his, as if it couldn’t bear to be separated.

Greggory murmured and turned his head away from her. She froze, but he didn’t move again.

What day was it? What time was it? Sleep still muddled her thoughts. Daylight showed itself in a nimbus around the pulled curtains. She remembered the broken window, the craziness of the night. How foolish they had been to go to bed together instead of guarding the house. When she climbed from the high bed she could still smell his scent on her skin. She needed a bath, remembered it was Saturday.

Glancing back at the bed, she saw him still sleeping, his face as wiped clean of life experience as a child’s, if not for the heavy beard. Unable to help herself, she opened the curtains and went back to the bed, kissing his chin to see what the bristles felt like under her lips.

She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach his face. When she pulled back, his eyes opened, dark and unfocused.

He frowned. “Betsy?”

“We fell asleep. It’s morning.”

His eyes fluttered shut, then opened again. “The kitchen?”

“We fell asleep,” she repeated. “I don’t know. I just woke.”

“Go upstairs and check on the babies,” he said, sitting up. “I’ll go down. I can’t believe we fell asleep.”

“At least it doesn’t appear to be raining. Assuming no one else tried to come in, everything should be fine.”

“Except we might have an infestation of bees, bugs, even birds,” he said.

“We’ll manage.”

He nodded absently. “Have you seen my robe? Wait, is it Saturday?”

“Yes.” She tried not to smile as his large naked body circled around the bed like a puppy trying to find a comfortable sleeping place.

“Tomorrow night at the Hotel Victoria. Will you attend a charity ball with me? I have the tickets. I don’t know what the charity is, but Dudley wanted me to go.”

Now she frowned. “I don’t have a ball gown. I couldn’t possibly.”

“Letty’s clothing went to her sister,” Greggory said.

“I wouldn’t wear your dead wife’s clothing in any event,” Betsy said.

“How about my cousin? Would she have anything at Hatbrook House you could borrow?”

“Lady Hatbrook is a tall redhead. Her sister Rose is the only Redcake who is about my size.”

“Rose lives up north. But she might have clothes, older things, at her parents’ London house.”

“I’d be better off going to Prissy for emergency help, but I can’t do it, Greggory. I need to work today, and I haven’t the money for a ball gown.”

“It doesn’t need to be anything grand, just serviceable. This isn’t a society event. Please, I’d like to go with you. Consider the day off and a dress a gift.”

“Prissy can’t make a ball gown in a day.”

“No, but she’ll be able to alter an existing one, and she’ll know where to buy one secondhand.”

“I cannot believe you are suggesting I buy a secondhand dress.”

“It’s the only practical solution unless you want to rummage through Uncle Bartley’s house.”

“I would never do that,” she said, outraged.

He smiled. “Then get dressed and go find Prissy.”

“After I check the babies.” She sighed. “Why do you want me to go with you?”

“Because I want to hold you in my arms and sway to music. Waltz a little. Introduce you to Dudley.”

“Is this courting again?”

“I think the real courting was what we did here in the wee hours,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Not really. “Did it help you to know me any better?” she asked.

“I’ll ask you the same question.”

“I know how you wake now,” she mused. “Adorably.” She couldn’t help smiling at him. Concerned as she was by her wanton behavior, she couldn’t blame him for being attractive.

“I know I want you just as much now as I did before we became intimate,” he said huskily. “That hasn’t changed, and I don’t think it will.”

She blushed. “I’m going upstairs.”

 

“This gown might be the tiniest bit out of date,” Prissy admitted as she tied scarves around Betsy’s waist on Sunday night. “But the satin is good quality and looks lovely with your hair.”

“How out of date?”

“Three years,” Prissy said with confidence. “Not so very old. Anyone might wear a three-year-old dress, especially to a charity ball.”

Betsy couldn’t help admiring herself in the long mirror in Greggory’s dressing room. He had turned the room over to the sisters because Prissy had worked up to the last moment, widening the bodice and shortening the skirt of the dress she had found at a secondhand shop in the Petticoat Lane Market. “You did a really nice job.”