After that, Lizabet made no effort to hide her lovers from Bram or to justify her behavior. She left London shortly after their discussion for a holiday in the country. Lizabet, always dramatic, had claimed that Bram was nothing more than a rake who had tossed her aside once she became with child. A convenient tale which added to his mildly tattered reputation.
When the news reached him that Lizabet had died, her lover at her side, or at least one of them, Bram had felt nothing but immense relief that the marriage was over. He promised himself he would never, ever wed or go to such lengths for a woman again.
The memory of Lizabet no longer stung the way it once had, but the echo of their brief relationship had colored Bram’s existence for many years.
Bram’s gaze landed on the papers from his solicitor once more. His grip tightened on his brandy. And here he was, about to be foolish again.
A cold nose pressed into his hand followed by a small whimper.
“Ah, I wondered where you were, Bijou. You’re usually waiting up for me.” His hand fell to the dog’s head, sinking his fingers into the thick comfort of her fur. Bijou was of no discernable breed, just a large, black shaggy dog who preferred chicken over any other treat he gave her. She had been a puppy when he found her, ribs sticking out, limping along the side of the street as he left his club. Something in Bram’s heart had ached at the sight of the half-starved animal. He couldn’t leave her to die or be hit by a carriage.
Bijou put her paw on his thigh and rubbed the side of her head against his leg.
She was old now. Her muzzle nearly white. There were times Bram or one of the footmen had to carry her up and down the stairs because her back legs pained her. But Bram never minded. Bijou was the only female companionship he needed most nights. There had been no reason to welcome another woman into his life.
Until now.
“I’m sorry to say, Bijou, but another lady has enticed me with her charms.” He scratched the dog behind one ear. “I’m as surprised as you are, trust me. I thought I would soon forget her, but I haven’t. And now it appears I must take a wife because Stanwell is gone.” He paused. “Well, notonlybecause Stanwell has died, I must admit.”
Bijou cocked her head. She was a very good listener.
“I didn’t—” Bram paused and looked down into Bijou’s face. “Think I would want to marry again, and I’m not completely sure it’s wise.”
A bark came from Bijou.
“I know, but this young lady is different. I think you would like her. But I will have to be very patient with her. She is not fond of marriage either. I must convince her to want me. I’ve never had to do that with a woman before.”
Bijou barked again.
“I know. Very arrogant of me. But true. You were enticed into my carriage for a chicken leg. I think Miss Richardson will require much more than that. I’m starting with a custard recipe. But don’t be distressed. No one, not even Miss Richardson, can replace you in my heart, Bijou.”
He glanced once more at the packet sitting on his desk, mulling over the wisdom of actions, before turning back to Bijou. “I promise.”
6
Rosalind stepped into the foyer and handed her cloak to their butler, Jacobson, who stood patiently hovering nearby. She’d had a simply wonderful afternoon. Kneading dough always put her in a good frame of mind. Something about the stickiness between her fingers. The smell of spices and sugar lingering in the air. Oddly enough, cherries had been involved.
Which, of course, had made Rosalind think of Torrington.
Glancing down at the flowered muslin of her dress, she was relieved to find out there wasn’t so much as a crumb on her skirts to signal she’d spent the day pitting cherries and making pastry crust. Pennyfoil and she had made at least three dozen pies while discussing their plans.
When the first batch of pies had been placed in the oven, and Rosalind had a cup of tea at her elbow, she told Pennyfoil that she had located a copy ofCuisiner pour les Rois. But she’d hastily added, as Pennyfoil jumped up, spilling his own tea in excitement, the cookbook was not in her possession.
Pennyfoil had sat back down with a disappointed flop.
The owner of the cookbook was possessive, she’d explained. But she would be receiving a translated version of the custard recipe very soon. The remainder of the recipes would follow.
At least, Rosalind hoped they would.
The rest of the afternoon consisted of checking on the pies, icing teacakes, keeping herself hidden in the back of Pennyfoil’s shop, and assuring Pennyfoil that the Duke of Averell wasn’t going to burst through his doors and take him to task for dragging Rosalind into trade.
A decadent custard, Rosalind decided, would go a long way toward keeping Pennyfoil calm and launching their business partnership. Even if Pennyfoil was having second thoughts, he wasn’t about to walk away from the recipes inCuisiner pour les Rois.
Now all she needed was for Torrington to appear, as he’d promised, with the custard recipe.
Rosalind fretted over that. She’d sent him a note shortly after their discussion at Blythe’s— a night all the Barringtons wanted to forget. Theodosia had ruined herself, with, of all people, the Marquess of Haven—informing Torrington that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Lady Richardson paid calls and was absent the better part of the afternoon. He was free to stop by at any time. Thus far, he had not. She doubted his need to give her the custard recipe was as urgent as her desire to receive it. Perhaps she should pay a call on Torrington herself. Granted, she could hardly force him to allow her access to the cookbook but—
“Jacobson, have you ever heard of a collection of recipes containing a dessert which was Louis XIV’s favorite?Cuisiner pour les Rois.”
