“Oh, I’m wrong?”
“Tom, I was penniless when Michael and I wed. My reputation was in tatters, the title was worthless. In fact, it cost Michael thousands of pounds to clear my father’s debts. Do you think Michael ever, for one second felt that way about me?”
“Of course not. You’re perfect for him.”
“Precisely. Rosehill has no need of money, or titles,” she said.
“But I don’tdoanything. I helped Hugh when funds were tight, but now…”
“Tom, you are the glue. You hold everything together. You always have. And this family will absolutely be worse for not having you near. But you have done your duty your entire life. If you need to find your own branch of the family to hold together, we can manage in the meantime. You have taught us well.”
“But…”
“Just promise you will come back. Do not fall so in love withScotlandthat you forget the rest of us.”
“Jules…”
“You are my favorite brother, you know. I always wanted one. I know I should not pick favorites, but… I cannot help myself.”
“Well, with such competition as Hugh…”
Her laugh was bright and free. “He improves upon closer acquaintance.”
“He improved after Kate yelled at him.”
“You had no need of improvement, and thus you are my favorite,” she insisted.
Thirteen
HUDSON’S BAKERY, LONDON - JUNE 17, 1816
XANDER
TellingMother of my plans had been… less than pleasant. And I was in need of the strongest drink money could buy. Unfortunately, it was but ten in the morning, so I was forced to settle for pastries.
I pressed open the familiar red door and settled at the table by the bay windows. Behind the counter, Mrs. Ainsley nodded in my direction and raised her index finger while assisting a maid intent on filling an entire basket to the brim with various delights.
Hudson’s Bakery, owned by the former Miss Hudson now Mrs. Ainsley, was beloved by all in the two years since it opened. The air inside swirled with scents of flour, butter, and spice, hints of cinnamon and berries lingered on my tongue.
Though the shop primarily catered to those wishing to take their pastries with them, Mrs. Ainsley had placed a few intimate tables scattered across the shop floor. The bakery had quickly become a popular location for the lords and ladies in the first blush of a courtship.
In an hour, perhaps two, I was certain it would have been all but impossible to find a table.
The maid swept toward the door, arms ladened with two baskets nearly overflowing. I rose and opened it for her, while she nodded a distracted thanks.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Ainsley called from behind the wooden counter. “Your usual?”
“Yes, please,” I replied and settled back at my table. I wouldn’t risk losing my favored spot.
She nodded and set about fetching tea from the back room.
Through the window, I could watch merchants going about their day. None of them cared a lick for my title. Oh, they would address me with deference, but behind these panes, I was nothing of interest. And that was refreshing.
A soft brush of skirts at my side drew my attention to Mrs. Ainsley’s presence. She placed the perfect cup of tea on the table along with a plate with an almond tart and slice of Shrewsbury cake. “Thank you. It looks delicious as always.”
“You’re welcome. Do let me know if I can get you anything else.” She slipped back behind the counter.
I nodded and sank my teeth into the tart. The fruit flavors were the most popular; it could be difficult to find the raspberry or lemon tarts because they sold at first light. Once when Mrs. Ainsley had been out of the lemon, I tried an almond as a last resort. And it was now a first resort—heaven on a plate.
