The knot which liked to twist about in her stomach whenever she examined her feelings for Torrington moved to take up space in her chest until Rosalind could barely breathe. She pummeled the lemons she’d been rolling across the wooden surface before her, bruising the fruit.
“How can I be expected to survive without him? I won’t. I can’t.”
Rosalind heard her mother’s wail of anguish so clearly, she might have been standing right beside her. Her fingers lost their grip on the spoon, spilling the batter all over the table. Two lemons rolled to the floor.
Pennyfoil, red-faced and smiling, burst back into the kitchen. “The samples of the lemon torte were gobbled up in moments. I’ve ten orders for the torte.” The smile on his lips faded abruptly as he took in Rosalind and bent to pick up one of the escaping lemons.
“Miss Richardson, you’re quite pale.” Lemon in hand, he led her to the stool and gently urged her to sit. “Are you unwell?”
“Just a bit warm,” she lied. The opposite was true. Rosalind was chilled to the bone. “I think I’ve lost another lemon.” She peered beneath the table and, spying the other yellow fruit, bent to retrieve the lemon, returning it to the worktable. “I think a cup of tea will set me to rights. Not to worry. What were you saying about the torte?”
“Ten orders, Miss Richardson. What a stroke of brilliance to offer a sample of each one of our signature recipes.”
She nodded as he bustled over to the stove to fix her a cup of tea. Pennyfoil rambled on as he worked, telling Rosalind how they would likely need to hire more help for the back room once they moved into their new building. Did she have any idea of the renovations she wished to make? The color scheme and the like?
Rosalind barely listened. She was thinking of spice cake. In particular, the first cake she’d ever made. The recipe was one she knew by heart. Mrs. Norris, her mother’s cook when Rosalind was a child, had taught her how to make the cake. The day had been perfectly ordinary. Rosalind had been playing with her dolls after a visit to the park when Lord Richardson had just fallen to his knees, collapsing onto the floor while sharing a brandy with Mother. The screams filling the drawing room had driven Rosalind to the kitchen, where it was warm and safe and she didn’t have to see her father’s twitching body.
Pennyfoil lightly touched her hand. “Are you sure you’re well, Miss Richardson? I can finish this batch.” He nodded at the bowl.
“No. You’ve the custard orders to get ready. Whenever Rothwell hosts a dinner party, we end up with dozens of new customers. We can’t afford to disappoint them. I never imagined we would come so far so quickly.”
“It’s the recipes fromCuisiner pour les Rois,Miss Richardson. I told you they were unique. Exquisite. Like nothing else in London. Rothwell claims he’s never in his life tasted a custard quite like ours. I suppose it doesn’t hurt to mention the recipes were once only served to kings and the nobility. Now all we need is the tartand our fortunes will be made.”
Pennyfoil had been gently nudging her for the recipe forbaiser du cielthe entire week, and Rosalind didn’t have the heart to tell him that there was a real possibility the recipe might never be in her possession. “I’ll have the tart recipe soon, Pennyfoil. I promise.”
“Wonderful, Miss Richardson. But I must ask why we are limiting ourselves. Wouldn’t it be better—”
“No, not at all.” Rosalind had neglected to inform her partner that she didn’t have complete access toCuisiner pour les Rois.He assumed she could consult the cookbook whenever she wished. “I think only presenting one new pastry or dessert at a time creates excitement. You told me that Lord Manville’s cook comes by every morning hoping for something new. We must keep London guessing, Mr. Pennyfoil.”
“True, true.” Pennyfoil ran a hand through his thick ginger hair. “And it is wise to limit our quantities thereby driving demand for specific desserts.”
“Exactly. We have the custard, the sponge cake, and now the torte.”
“Rothwell adores the sponge cake. I’ve sent word to him that we now have a lemon torte and he’d best order his before they’re all gone.”
“Very wise, Mr. Pennyfoil.” Rosalind’s hand snaked out, grabbing Torrington’s recipe for the torte and putting it in her pocket. She’d recopied the recipes for Pennyfoil. It didn’t feel right to allow her partner to have the ones Torrington had done specifically for Rosalind with his special notes and drawings.
Another pang of longing for Torrington stung Rosalind, sharper than the first.
Her fingers brushed over the paper, thinking of how beautiful Torrington had been with flour on his cheek, stirring chocolate sauce. She should be grateful he’d had the sense to stop before completely taking her virtue. Becoming lovers would not have been a wise decision, Rosalind could see that now. She could well have found herself married to Torrington, or worse, her emotions might have led her to do something far more stupid.
Like fall in love with him.
13
“Lady Richardson is in the drawing room, miss. She is taking tea with Lady Hertfort.”
Rosalind’s fingers stilled on the banister. She’d snuck into the house about an hour ago, exhausted and covered with flour and bits of icing after her afternoon at Pennyfoil’s, quietly avoiding Jacobson and the other servants who might wonder at her appearance. The day had stretched far longer than she’d expected, and she’d rushed to make it home for tea. An order for Lady Derby had been placed which had required a great deal of time to fulfill. Lady Derby wanted not only the orange sponge cake, but the lemon torte and an assortment of smaller biscuits and other pastries.
The order was the largest yet for Pennyfoil’s. The price Rosalind had named for Lady Derby had been far higher than the sum they needed because she’d expected to negotiate. But Lady Derby’s butler hadn’t blinked at the price.
Pennyfoil had squealed with delight.
She’d hated to leave Pennyfoil today, but he’d waved her away. He knew Rosalind couldn’t be caught icing cakes with him until the wee hours of the morning. Mother had expected her home for tea. Hopefully, Lady Hertfort’s presence today would be brief. Rosalind wanted to avoid anything that reminded her of Torrington, and that included his sister.
He’d never acknowledged the lemon torte she’d left for him. Not until yesterday when a note had arrived. Well, not exactly a note. Only a recipe. And not one fromCuisiner pour les Rois.
Pain au chocolat.
