His driver came around the vehicle, took one look at Bram, and flung open the door.
“My lord—”
“Not one bloody word, Carson. Don’t even grunt in my direction. I had a wonderful mother. I don’t need another.”
“Yes, my lord.” Carson tried to take his arm to assist him.
He jerked away, feeling old for the first time. “And I don’t need to be lifted into the carriage as if I’m an invalid.” Bram took his seat, gritting his teeth at the pain streaking across his side. Every turn and lurch of the carriage had him groaning.
I may have overdone things.
When Bram finally arrived home, he tripped out of the carriage, not even chastising Carson when the man caught him.
Watkins, eyebrows raised in disapproval, hurried down the steps. He took one look at Bram and yelled for a footman to fetch Dr. Graw. The butler helped Bram inside, half-carrying him as they started up the stairs, sending for Bram’s valet and a hot bath.
“I’ll have a scotch brought to you, my lord,” Watkins said as they reached the landing.
Bram patted his butler on the shoulder. “Bring the whole damned bottle, Watkins. I don’t even need a glass.”
12
“Everything, Miss Richardson, is settled with Ledbean.”
Pennyfoil barely looked up at her as he relayed the news, intent on the plate of scones he arranged for an elderly gentleman and his wife seated at one of the small tables near the counter. He stepped away to place a pot of tea on the tray.
“How is that possible?” She stood and rearranged the scones while his back was turned. Presentation wasn’t exactly Pennyfoil’s forte. The work area, where Rosalind stood, preparing her pastries and the like, was well hidden from the front room where the patrons enjoyed their tea. None of the customers seated at the tables or those placing their orders with Olive, the shopgirl Pennyfoil had hired to manage the counter, could see her. Nor would they. Rosalind would leave by the same method she’d entered Pennyfoil’s, through a storeroom and out a back door leading to an alley behind the building.
Pennyfoil placed napkins and silverware on the tray, along with a small pot of honey. “I’ve received a small inheritance,” he said avoiding Rosalind’s eyes. “My uncle.”
“Your uncle?”
“Actually,” Pennyfoil’s voice wavered slightly. “My great-uncle. He was a baker as well. In Surrey. Once his shop was sold, my father thought I should have the proceeds for my own venture.” He picked up the tray. “I used the sum to secure the property with Mr. Ledbean. We can start moving in next month.”
Before Rosalind could ask him anything else, Pennyfoil rushed out to the front with the tray, a smile on his face as he faced the busy shop filled with customers.
She frowned at the batter in the bowl before her. Pennyfoil had never mentioned a great-uncle who was a baker, but then, they didn’t share everything with each other. Or very much at all, beyond their mutual adoration of pastry and the establishment they hoped to create. Certainly nothing of a personal nature. Rosalind sensed Pennyfoil didn’t want to know too much about her on the off chance the Duke of Averell came waltzing in.
Wiping her hands on a towel, Rosalind picked up the small piece of paper beside the bowl. The recipe for the lemon torte, written out for her in Torrington’s elegant scrawl. He really did have lovely penmanship.
Rosalind pressed a hand to her midsection, at the hollowness that lingered there because she missed Torrington. A great deal. An unexpected, most unwelcome complication.
Torrington had made several notes in the margin for Rosalind, just as he had for the orange sponge cake. Charming little notations which brought him to mind no matter how Rosalind tried to push him away.
Roll the lemons across a table to bring out their juice.
Be careful not to use too much milk.
In the corner of the recipe, Torrington had drawn a small lemon with a smiling face.
A few days ago, Rosalind had sent a note to his home, informing Torrington she’d successfully managed the torte and to thank him for sending her a box of lemons. Apparently, in addition to an orangery, Torrington also had access to lemons. Rosalind had asked if she could call and bring a sample of the lemon torte. It seemed the polite thing to do.
When Torrington had finally replied, he’d claimed to be indisposed and unable to receive callers.
Undeterred and against her better judgement, Rosalind had arrived at Torrington’s doorstep, basket in hand, lemon torte tucked neatly inside. She’d considered not wearing a corset or underthings, but given the way they’d parted previously, Rosalind wasn’t certain such boldness would be appreciated.
Watkins, Torrington’s butler, had denied her entrance. Lord Torrington was not receiving callers at present. Not even Miss Richardson. His lordship was under the weather. Watkins had taken the basket from her hands and shut the door.
Rosalind’s gaze fell on the worktable as a flurry of panic struck her. She’d sent Torrington another note, wishing him a speedy recovery, but there had been no reply. Could he be so ill he was incapable of holding a pen? What if Torrington were in danger of—
