Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) (3 page)

“She was. Do you think Sia looks like her?”

“She has a face like a pudding. She’s a baby, Greggory.”

Greggory wiped at Artie’s nose with his handkerchief. “The shape of her eyes? The height of her forehead? You can’t deny she has the same hair.”

“I’m sure she’ll be beautiful, even if she takes after you,” Dudley said. “Not much to hope for with Artie, though.”

“He’s beautiful, too, in a baby way.”

Mrs. Roach came into the room. “That good for nothing is out of our lives. Her nerves, indeed.”

“I can feel your outrage from over here,” Dudley said. “Did the girl drink?”

“I wonder,” Mrs. Roach replied. “I did think the sherry decanter in the parlor was down an inch or two on occasion.”

“Did you try it? Is it watered?” Greggory asked, having learned this trick during youthful exploits of his own.

“Oh, I couldn’t sample it,” she said, horrified.

“You might as well. It’s a ladies’ drink,” Dudley said. “Go ahead. A tot might do wonders for your nerves.”

Mrs. Roach stared at him, aghast.

“Ignore my brother, please,” Greggory said. “But we’ll need the nursemaid’s room refreshed. Dudley is going to stay there tonight.”

“I can stay in the nursery, sir,” Mrs. Roach said.

“Let my brother do it. He can use a dose of fatherhood. Thinking about finding a wife, you see.”

Mrs. Roach nodded thoughtfully. “One night up here will make him extend his bachelorhood at least another year.”

Greggory’s jaw dropped as she strode, businesslike, out of the room. Had his esteemed housekeeper just made a joke?

 

Betsy picked up the bundle containing her ruined dress at lunchtime on Wednesday. She’d eaten a hearty bowl of Redcake’s potato bacon soup at her desk outside of the accounting room so she had time to take it to her seamstress to have it repaired. She was afraid she would have to spend the money on material for an entirely new dress panel and flounce, but it couldn’t be helped. Her wardrobe needed to be tightly managed due to the expense of clothing, but she still needed the dress. At first, when she’d started at the Kensington Redcake’s, she’d worn her old cakie uniforms, but Mr. Redcake said it diminished her authority as assistant manager and asked her to wear street clothing instead.

She wished she could afford to dress like Lady Fitzwalter did, back when she was plain Matilda Redcake and managed the Redcake’s factories in Bristol. Matilda had looked stunning in her severe clothing, so ladylike yet professional. No wonder she’d attracted Lord Fitzwalter, when he was merely Ewan Hales. Betsy did her best to emulate Matilda’s fashion sense, but at a seven-shilling-per-gown cost. If only she’d learned to sew, but one learned that from a mother, and she hadn’t had one.

She walked a few blocks north toward Paddington to a modest residential street where the dressmaker she used lived and worked. Mrs. Fair, whose husband sold carriage parts and daughter worked as a Redcake’s cakie, shared two rooms with her family. The front room was devoted to her trade. Her daughter had told Betsy that she’d hired an assistant recently, which pleased Betsy because she thought Mrs. Fair was a cut above the average little dressmaker. She charged a little above the average, too.

Mrs. Fair greeted her pleasantly at the door. The assistant was bent over the manual Singer sewing machine in front of the single window.

Unlike in the Bethnal Green dressmaker rooms, Mrs. Fair had a pair of cheval mirrors in one corner and was happy to make a client a cup of tea. Family possessions were neatly put away in a highboy dresser.

Mrs. Fair took her bundle and opened it on a scrubbed wooden table that held central place in the room. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she saw the damage. “And this was a new un. Just a couple of months old, right?”

“Yes, my new spring dress.”

“Lovely to have a position where you’re encouraged to look smart, I allus say,” Mrs. Fair confided. “Well, dearie, you’re going to need new fabric. For a bit extra, I can send my assistant to the market to match it for you.”

“That would be helpful,” Betsy said. “I don’t want my father alone too much right now. We’ve some trouble with an unstable, err, family friend.”

“Well, now, Ralph Popham is never getting old,” Mrs. Fair said. “Not even fifty yet. He can manage.”

Betsy smiled. “Cares, Mrs. Fair. It’s the cares that age a man.”

The assistant had turned away from her machine as Mrs. Fair spoke. Betsy glanced at her, ready to give the new girl a nod, but her head froze before she could complete the gesture. Was she looking at the assistant, or had she accidentally turned toward a mirror? The seamstress all but shared Betsy’s face. She stepped forward instinctively. Her thighs hit the table. Squeaking with shock, she caught Mrs. Fair’s look of alarm.

The assistant stood. Dressed in a smart green dress nicer than anything Betsy had ever owned, she looked a picture. Glossy brown hair, big eyes, and an hourglass form more blessed by nature than designed by stays. Betsy knew she was a handsome girl, but this young lady dressed herself as if she had framed a painting, right down to the delicate, old-fashioned pearl ring on her right hand.

“This is Prissy,” Mrs. Fair said, frowning as she looked from one to the other.

“Pleased to meet you,” Prissy said.

Betsy inclined her head. “The same, Prissy.” She cleared her throat, unsure of how to deal with a doppelganger.

“Back to Redcake’s? My daughter does so enjoy working with you, Miss Popham.”

“She’s a treat, your daughter Grace. Such a lovely way about her.”

Mrs. Fair beamed. “Thank you. I’m so glad to hear she’s a credit to her father and me.”

Betsy nodded, realizing she’d taken Grace on with no experience other than some short-term nursemaiding. Had she been too harsh with Violet? Maybe her feelings about Victor had colored her attitude toward his sister. “I had better return before my lunch hour is over.” She forced a smile for Prissy, though the young woman unnerved her, and left.

 

Greggory leaned into the doorway between the kitchen and the tearoom just before the teatime rush, watching Betsy as she bustled around, exhorting the cakies to smarten up their assigned tables. She refreshed the small flower vases on the tables, straightened place settings, made sure the hot water was ready. He nodded to her as she swept by him on her way to the kitchen to check the prepared standard tea plates with an assortment of finger sandwiches, tiny scones, and petit fours.

“Up to standard?” he asked as she passed by again.

“Always,” Betsy said. “Our Mr. Soeur demands nothing less.”

“If only our bakery ran as smoothly as the kitchen,” Greggory replied. “We need your father.”

Betsy shook her head. “He won’t leave his position for our little outpost.”

“We’re not that much smaller than the original Redcake’s,” he protested.

“Not true. We don’t have a Fancy or a full bakery, just the kitchen. Our retail and restaurant operations are similar, I admit.”

“Very well. Tell me, are we short a cakie? It seems like the girls have too many tables.” Betsy looked run off her feet, too, and was wearing a dress he remembered from the previous autumn.

Betsy bit her lip and surveyed the room. “We have the profit margin to take on another cakie for the rest of the year. We’re out of our quiet season now.”

“I’ll take a look at the books. We have to balance profit across all departments.” He wondered if he could remind her to dress more smartly, or if that would be too personal? It had never concerned him before.

She nodded. “I’ll spend some time in the bakery and see what is going wrong.”

“I understand a tray of decorated lemon cakes was overturned in the back hall this morning. Both a mess and a waste of money.”

“Accidents happen, but they’ve been all too frequent of late.” She screwed up one cheek adorably. “We can only bring on another cakie if the bakery stops being accident-prone. Understood.”

He smiled at her. “No one ever needs to tell you something twice, Miss Popham. You’ve a sharp mind behind the pretty exterior.”

“Mr. Redcake!” Betsy whispered.

Did I just tell my assistant manager she was pretty?
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I mean, not about you being pretty. You know, you are in good looks today.”

She looked from him to the dining room and back again, clearly flustered. “Fresh air.”

“Fresh air?”

“I took a walk during my lunch hour,” she explained. “Fresh air.”

No wonder she looked tired. Unnecessary exercise. “Color in your cheeks,” he clarified. “Yes, jolly good. Should make a habit of it, if you are so inclined.” Acutely uncomfortable now, he shifted from side to side.

One of the cakies leaned toward another and whispered. They both giggled, and the bolder of the two glanced directly at Miss Popham.

Greggory took her arm and pulled her out of the doorway, back into the bakery. “I would never want to make you an object for discussion.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I apologize. I think a cakie overheard me complimenting you.” He took a deep breath. “But a pretty girl is an asset to any business, my uncle always says, so what of it?”

“Indeed, sir,” Betsy murmured, looking down at where his hand still held her arm.

He pulled it away. “Dear me, I am making a cock of myself, I mean, a cake of myself.”

She blinked. He consoled himself with the thought that she’d be much too innocent to know what a
cock
might refer to. Or would she? She was no gently bred girl but a working-class employee. Still, her father was a good sort.

He put his hand to his forehead. “Very warm in the kitchen.”

Her cheeks had gone bright red and he expected his had done the same. Bless her, she knew what
that
word meant. What an ass he had made of himself. Now he definitely couldn’t mention her old dress.

“Please, accept my apologies again,” he babbled. “Not enough shut-eye. And see to the bakery. No more wasted cakes, that’s the ticket.” He dashed toward the back of the kitchen and the attached storeroom that would take him to the staircase leading up to his office, desperately hoping that Miss Popham wouldn’t follow him upstairs to give her resignation.

What a blithering idiot he’d turned into since his wife’s death.

B
etsy spent the next morning inventorying the kitchen supplies, avoiding her desk and Mr. Redcake. She’d had the distinct impression she’d made him nervous the previous day and resolved to let him simmer down. Remembering those early days in the Fancy with Alys, when she drove the young bakers in the next room wild with lust, she realized just how long it had been since she’d felt like a carefree young girl. Just twenty-two and she had become matronly without benefit of a husband. The worst of it was, she hadn’t made love in a solid four years. No woman wanted to be a matron without husband or children, not unless they’d achieved the position of housekeeper at a great house, headmistress of an important school, or similar. Would any of those men she drove wild have married her, though, Sarah Weaver’s daughter? As her mother’s daughter, she couldn’t ask a constable for help when Victor stole from them. Once she had explained how she knew Victor, surely the police would refuse to help, considering it just deserts. Almost no one at Redcake’s knew her family history.

She put her hand to her forehead. It came away sticky with flour and something that felt suspiciously like honey. Growling, she searched for the culprit. No rats or mice would find treats on her watch. Thoughts of her unmarried state were forgotten.

The source of the flour was easy to find. A bag inappropriately stored on an upper shelf had a small tear. The honey, however, took her an hour to locate. She stared at the small unlabeled jar with extreme disapproval.

“Someone’s private supply? In the main storeroom?” She shook her fist at it. How would she find the culprit?

“Private supply? Intriguing,” said a voice behind her.

Her eyebrows clenched and she felt the instant beginning of a headache. Oh, she knew that voice. Hated that voice. She wiped her hands on her apron and stood, still holding the honey jar.

“Mr. Hellman,” she said in her frostiest voice. While she would never hint at her hatred of him in public, she couldn’t quite control her emotions in the rare moments she found herself alone with her tormentor. Unfortunately, he continued to seek her out. Even from the grave, her mother continued to ruin her existence.

Simon Hellman, the delivery manager at Redcake’s flagship shop, pushed his back against the storeroom door until it clicked audibly. Betsy’s fingers clamped down on the jar. A line of sweet amber slithered down the side of the glass, coating her fingers.

“Always a pleasure to see you, even when you aren’t looking quite your best, my dear,” Hellman said.

He oozed even more than the honey. She’d like to clamp the sticky lid over his self-satisfied head until he burned up all the oxygen in his lungs. Her fingers trembled, the jar staying in her hand only because of the stickiness that glued it to her flesh. But she couldn’t react, couldn’t scream. No one at work must know her secrets. She’d never even told Ewan, so this man had ruined the only loving relationship she’d ever had outside of her family.

No, she’d let Hellman take her away from Ewan then, and she’d let him do what he wanted now. Or almost anything, at least. He’d never forced her to become his lover, stopping short of the deed. She’d wondered if he could perform. Had rage at impotence turned Simon Hellman into a despicable blackmailer?

“Spent any time in Bristol lately?” he asked. “I hear it’s been lovely there.”

She tugged at the honey jar until it came away from her palm and dropped it into her apron pocket. “I work all the time.”

“Good for me,” he said, with a down-to-business nod. “I find myself a few bob short this month. Care to help me out with all your vast earnings?”

“It’s only May fifth,” she countered. “How can you be short already?”

“Had to buy a gift,” he said, wandering carelessly past her to an enormous, expensive tub of currants. “Not every girl is as easy to please as you.”

“That’s too bad, Mr. Hellman, but I’m short myself.”

“Betsy, love, you know never to be short for me.”

“Victor Carter got there before you did,” she said. “Took everything we had. Even the rent.”

He lifted the cover off the currants and scooped out a bright handful. “You’re smarter than that.”

“You’d think,” she said. “But not when someone is playing at burning down my house.”

Hellman didn’t react, just chewed thoughtfully. “His mother needs to deal with him. He’s turning into a wild animal, like his father.”

Betsy held herself tightly, even as the urge to flinch struck her. Hellman always brought up her mother’s crimes somehow, as if she needed the reminder. “He belongs in a lunatic asylum,” she agreed.

“You receive your paycheck tomorrow,” Hellman said, pausing before he continued with a thought that seemed unconnected. “I’ll borrow what I need off you then.”

“I could buy a house with what you’ve borrowed over the years,” she said, holding her spine so rigidly that the back of her head ached from the compression of it on her neck.

“You never know, I might marry you yet,” he said, inhaling another half handful of currants.

“Not on your life.”

He chuckled. “Ah, but life means so little to you and your bloodline. Play your cards right, you pretty little whore. I might grace you with my name yet.” He doffed his hat in a parody of politeness and opened the door.

“I’ll see you at the back door tomorrow eve,” he said, smiling genially at a baker who walked by, glancing at him curiously. He strode off, whistling.

The baker poked his head in. “Courting at work, Miss Popham? I’d not have thought you the sort.”

Betsy crossed her hands over her striped blouse. “Mr. Hellman was teasing. We’re old friends from the days when he worked with my father at the Bristol factory.”

The baker nodded. “I think he has his eye on you, miss. You ought to have a word with your father if you aren’t interested. He’ll set that bloke straight.”

She forced a half smile. “You are quite right. Now tell me, who in your department is sneaking his lunch in the storeroom?”

Half an hour later, she had the honey culprit identified and had turned the matter over to Mr. Soeur. She couldn’t consider it a firing offense, given that the man was a bit slow and never would have realized his honey habit might bring unwanted vermin into the storeroom. Still, the situation reminded her that she had an unresolved issue in the shop, so she went into the rear hall.

Her foot squelched on the tiled floor. Squelched? She looked down to find her shoe had landed in a dribble of cream. Crouching down to examine the mess, she found drips of chocolate on the wall as well. Her eyes narrowed. They had excellent night janitorial staff. When her finger touched the chocolate, it still felt soft.

She leaned against the wall and pulled off her shoe, then wiped it clean with her apron. Then she put her shoe back on, removed her apron, and tucked it into a bin, before silently entering the shop.

Half a dozen customers perused the glass cases holding an array of spring treats. Fresh rhubarb crumble in individual ramekins was selling briskly, as were flat trifles dusted with coconut and savory pies with a creamed asparagus filling. Betsy wandered behind the staff, looking for telltale evidence of éclair eating. At the far end of the counter, where the glass cases ended against the wall, she found the newest hire, a faint streak of chocolate marring her otherwise spotless apron. Her white cap had canted slightly toward her right ear. Was that gin on her breath? No wonder she was so clumsy.

“I’d like a word,” Betsy said.

The girl blinked in a slow, bovine manner, then started to move to the opposite side of the bakery, ignoring a fashionably dressed customer who’d just come up to them, a hopeful gleam in her eye. Betsy wished the girl to perdition as she helped the customer buy a guinea’s worth of teatime treats. After she’d sent the customer on her way, she found the girl leaning on the wall by a cart. Even worse than her slouched posture, she was munching on a preserved pear tart. Where was she hiding all the food? The girl was slender as a reed, and just as unsteady.

“Miss Brown,” Betsy said. “Did you eat an éclair back here this morning?”

“I had my elevenses,” the girl said defensively.

“I wasn’t aware elevenses was a Redcake’s tradition,” Betsy said. She wiped her forehead. “I could use a wee nip.”

Miss Brown reached into her skirt and pulled out a flask. As her gaze met Betsy’s, her eyes widened. “Oh, dear.”

“Oh, dear, indeed. You know spirits are forbidden in our workplace. As is stealing food. You can keep your uniform, Miss Brown, but I’ll have your badge now, please.”

The girl unclipped it. She started to hand it over, then snarled and tossed it at Betsy’s feet. “You can have the bloody thing. My brother will take care of me, and you, too, for not having the decency to give me a second chance. He’s a prizefighter. I wouldn’t be walking alone after dark after I tell him about you, Miss Perfect.”

The girl spun on her heels, almost falling, then dashed toward the loading dock.

Betsy followed her. “Miss Brown. Eugenia. Let me give you your pay. We need to finish our business.”

The girl ignored her, speeding up. She pulled up the door, showing surprising strength, and moved onto the loading dock. Betsy ran after her, hoping she wouldn’t break an ankle leaping off the dock. But Miss Brown ran down the steps. On the ground, she turned back toward Redcake’s and made a rude gesture, then strode off down the street.

Betsy sighed. She’d need to write a report and check the girl’s shelf for a coat. Who would she send to the girl’s home with her pay and things? It didn’t sound like she’d better go, but she didn’t want to bring the matter to Mr. Redcake’s attention. Somehow, she didn’t feel the story would put her in a good light.

She passed by Grace in the hallway.

“Are you well, Miss Popham?” the cakie asked.

“Well enough. Could you find someone to wipe up the corridor behind the bakery trays? We’ve chocolate on the wall and cream on the floor.”

“Yes, miss,” Grace said. “I’ve a minute. I’ll do it myself.”

“Thank you. I wish we could find a couple more like you. Do you have any friends who need work?”

Grace shook her head. “I had three girlfriends I grew up with. I’d trust any of them with my life, but they’ve all married.”

“Why didn’t you?” Betsy asked. “You must have had followers.”

Grace clasped her hands together in front of her apron. “I loved a boy, too, but he had scarlet fever when he was twelve and was never well after that. He died in his sleep about two years ago.”

“I’m so sorry.” Betsy touched her shoulder in sympathy.

Grace sighed. “One of my friends married his twin brother. At least they weren’t identical twins. That would be too much to bear.”

“How old are you?” Betsy asked.

“Eighteen.”

“That’s right.” A year younger than Violet Carter, but she seemed older. “At least there is plenty of time to find someone else.”

“I wanted him,” Grace said softly. “He wrote the most beautiful poetry and he had a lovely singing voice. I could have listened to him for days. You should have heard the weeping when he died. I wasn’t the only girl who loved him. At least as a friend,” she amended. “He was a popular boy.”

“I hope you were able to keep his poetry.”

“I memorized my favorite parts,” Grace said. “But he’d made me a little book of his poems for my birthday, just a couple of months before he died. That’s why I know I was special to him.”

Betsy nodded. “What’s your favorite line?”

Grace’s gaze seemed to leave the corridor where they stood. “I think it is this one. ‘My heart sees, my eyes remember, those slender youthful dreams, your sun-kissed cheek, my sturdy legs, our hearts wee and tender.’ ”

“That’s very sweet,” Betsy said sincerely.

“He wrote it about all of us, the children on the street. But he was the first boy I ever held hands with, the first who kissed me. You never forget that.”

Betsy shook her head. “No.” In truth, for herself, she scarcely remembered her first kiss. Some stripling from the factory had stolen a kiss from her one day when she’d brought her father his lunch. But the first kiss from someone she loved, that she remembered achingly well.
Ewan
. His warm lips and cool hands. That hair that fell into curls any girl would be proud of. He had asked her to take a walk with him on a Sunday. She’d slipped out of the house without telling her father where she was going, or with whom, and they’d walked the footpath on the Serpentine’s bank. What a perfect day that had been.

“I can see you’re remembering someone special, too,” Grace said.

Betsy forced a smile. “Our lost loves. Thank you for cleaning up the mess. I’ll be sending a memorandum around, but please be aware that Miss Eugenia Brown is no longer employed here.”

“I’ll tell the other girls.” Grace nodded, then strode away.