Theodosia knew nothing about the creation of pastries and cakes. Her forte was paints. Brushes. Pastels. Pennyfoil called baking an alchemy of sorts. Knowing the exact measurement of each ingredient and how the slightest change could alter the entire taste and texture required great mastery.
“When he was a child, Pennyfoil was fortunate enough to sample some of those desserts. The chef always made extra for the staff.” Pennyfoil had told Rosalind he would stay awake nearly half the night during one of Ismere’s dinners, waiting patiently for his mother to bring him a small square of cake or a tart. The perfection of such pastries was what had compelled Pennyfoil to have his own bakery one day. “There is a custard which is so exquisite, so decadent, it is only made once a year.” Rosalind’s voice rose in her excitement, recalling Pennyfoil’s worshipful account of the custard. “Can you imagine?”
“No, I cannot.” Theodosia peered into the dim, enormous space of Thrumbadge’s. “What if Pennyfoil is wrong?”
“He isn’t.” Torrington knew about the cookbook, so Rosalind knew it existed. And Pennyfoil’s awe when Rosalind had claimed she might know where to findCuisiner pour les Roishad been real. “An invitation to Ismere’s dinner parties was highly sought after because of the desserts his chef produced. Pennyfoil told me a fight broke out once because one of Ismere’s neighbors appeared, though he hadn’t been invited. The dessert being served that night is said to have beenthetart.”
Theodosia stopped. “A tart?”
“Keep your voice down.” Rosalind glanced around them to make sure no one was listening.
“Really, Ros. I doubt anyone cares about a tart,” Theo whispered back.
“The tart was reputed to be the favorite of Louis XIV himself. The entire cookbook is filled with such exquisite desserts. A tart known to be the favorite of a king could turn a bakery into an establishment known all over London,” Rosalind said. “Perhaps even all ofEngland.”
“So, a tart is going to make you and Pennyfoil wealthy?” Theodosia snorted in disbelief. “A tart.”
“I’m sure of it. Don’t you see? I’ll have something unique, something that cannot be found anywhere else. And best of all, I won’t have to wed. No husband.”
“I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it?” Theodosia muttered under her breath.
“But first, I must find the cookbook.” She’d searched all over London since the Ralston ball and had nearly resigned herself to approaching Torrington to demand he tell her where she could get a copy ofCuisiner pour les Rois, when she’d accidentally overheard one of the clerks at Thrumbadge’s mention the bookseller had purchased the library of the Earl of Ismere. Rosalind was sure it was fate.
She and Theodosia strode about the cavernous space that was Thrumbadge’s, their heels clicking on the wooden floor. Patrons wandered about the shelves that stretched floor to ceiling and were filled with neat rows of books. “Poetry is to your left.” Rosalind pointed. “Try not to trip and knock over a bookcase while I consult with Mr. Manfred.”
Theodosia’s lips pursed at the admonishment before she peered in the direction indicated and floated away.
Rosalind marched smartly to the clerk manning the desk, instructing the maid and footman to stay put by the door.
Since Torrington’s mention of the cookbook, Rosalind had made a practice of digging through obscure crates of books at every bookseller in London in hopes of findingCuisiner pour les Rois. Today, she hoped her patience would prove fruitful. Excitement had her heart pounding. This could be it. Her success was at hand.
“Miss Richardson,” Mr. Manfred, the Thrumbadge’s clerk who had been assisting her, came forward. “I will assume your appearance today means you received my note that the contents from the Earl of Ismere’s library have arrived?”
“Indeed, Mr. Manfred. Thank you so much for alerting me. I’m hopeful I’ll be able to find what I’m looking for.”
“I opened the crates myself and pulled out everything that seemed to apply to cookery. There are dozens of such books. Many are in French,” he warned her. “I believe Ismere had a French chef.”
Rosalind bounced on her feet in anticipation, anxious to dig through the stack of books.Cuisiner pour les Roiswas waiting for her.
“Do you speak French, Miss Richardson?”
“Of course,” she lied. Pennyfoil knew a bit more. Rosalind knew enough. They would muddle through together.
“Good. I apologize that nothing has been cataloged yet. And should you not find what you are looking for, Thrumbadge’s is expecting a shipment from France within the month. Would you like me to send word when the crates arrive?”
“That would be wonderful, Mr. Manfred. Thank you.”
“This book must be important to you.” He gave her a curious look, leading her in the direction of a small room set apart from the main floor of Thrumbadge’s.
“Important? No. I merely have an interest in French cookery.” Rosalind was determined to remain vague aboutCuisiner pour les Roisand her purpose in wanting to find it. While she doubted Mr. Manfred would care about a collection of pastry recipes, he might well become more interested if he knew the book contained the recipe for a cherry tart so breathtaking, it became a favorite of Louis XIV’s.
One careless whisper and every pastry chef and baker in London would want the recipe.
The clerk nodded and waved her forward. “Well, here you are, Miss Richardson. Again, my apologies that things aren’t better organized.”
Rosalind held a gloved finger to her nose to keep from sneezing at the dust in the air. She could see bits of it floating through the sunlight streaming through the small window above her. “Not at all. Thank you, Mr. Manfred.”
Once the clerk left her to her task and returned to the counter, Rosalind ran her fingers down a stack of tomes atop the table. She picked one up and flipped it open. A guide on how to be a proper wife and the running of a household.
