Chapter One
London, 1878
The bell attached tothe door of Rare Confectionery rang its pleasant tinkling sound, alerting Beatrice Rare-Foure to a customer’s untimely entrance. Setting down her cup of tea with an indecorous clunk, she rose from the gaily painted, blue stool in the back room of her family’s shop. It wasn’t the first time she’d wished she could get away with turning the “open” sign over to declare they were “closed.”
Glancing down at herself, she hesitated. A few treacle stains from her earlier toffee-making endeavors graced the front of her cream-colored day dress.
“Hm,” she murmured. She’d neglected to put on an apron before starting her work hours earlier. Her mother, Felicity, would say that was her first mistake. As Beatrice was the only one of her family working at that moment, she ought to have been in the front of the shop after setting the last tray of treacle toffee to harden in the cold box. Her mother would point out that was her second mistake.
Moreover, Beatrice should not have been relaxing in the back, sipping tea while reading an article about the Egyptian obelisk, Cleopatra’s Needle, which had recently arrived on British soil. By year’s end, the sixty-nine-foot monolith of red granite would be raised to stand on the Victoria Embankment. Many thought its placement to be in defiance of good taste, and Beatrice was eagerly reading how the feud over the location raged on. If her mother knew she’d been reading instead of minding the shop, Felicity would be raging, too.
The middle Rare-Foure sister was perfectly aware how unwelcoming it was when a customer entered a place of business and found it deserted. And Beatrice agreed in principle, but she had never quite mustered the dedication to such a belief to care one way or the other, or to alter her practices when alone.
Besides, she would rather face her mother’s fury than stand behind the marble counter of the confectionery all day, waiting on tenterhooks for the next sweet-seeking clodhopper. Although everyone agreed she had a talent, if one could call it that, for making delectable toffee, not a soul considered her affable when dealing with the public.
Her younger sister, Charlotte, was the best with customers but was out with a bad case of the sniffles. No one wanted a shopgirl with a runny nose serving them their confections.
“Hello!” she heard a man’s voice call from the front. “Salutations and all that. Is there anyone here?”
Snatching up an apron, Beatrice quickly pinned it in place over her stained dress and tied it around her waist. Then she pushed through the thick, blue curtain to the front of the shop and saw two large hands, not gloved, plastered against the front of one of their display cases. The hands belonged to a sandy-haired man, bowed down to look at the sweets.
What kind of oaf leaned against glass?She would definitely have to clean it again.
“May I help you?” she asked, not particularly caring if she sounded friendly despite Charlotte having told her how a smile and a little chatting often made the customers keep adding to their confectionery order.
The head raised, the whole body straightened, and a tall man with blue-gray eyes looked at her over the top of the case.
“I didn’t see you there a moment ago,” he said, scrutinizing her like another one of the sweet treats.
“I wasn’t here a moment ago,” Beatrice snappily told him. “I am now. May I help you?”
Not taking offense at her answer, he smiled. “I hope you may indeed, ma’am. I would like some boiled sweets, I believe they’re called. Those hard, flavored candies everyone is sucking on these days. But I don’t see any at all.”
Perfect!She would be rid of him in an instant and back with her tea and her Egyptian obelisk article.
“You don’t see any because we don’t carry them. Good day to you.”
His face registered surprise. “Isn’t this a candy shop?” He glanced around as if to make sure he wasn’t suddenly at the barber’s or a cobbler’s. “I see those little boiled balls everywhere. Why don’tyousell them?”
Beatrice sighed with an exaggerated puff of air, hoping it aptly displayed her exasperation.Questioning what they sold — how rude!Even his use of the termcandy shopirritated her. There was more than one reason she was usually relegated to the back room, but her ire at foolish people asking silly questions was the main one.
“First of all, this isn’t a candy shop. It is a confectionery. And we don’t sell them because those cheap sweets are, as you say,everywhere, and therefore, we do not need to have themhere. Do we?”
He paused. “That seems short-sighted of you, from a business view, I mean.”
“We’ll be sure to take your well-informed, thoughtful comment under consideration,” she said, still hoping to drive him away quickly. Her tea would be growing cold. “Meanwhile, if you turn around and take a few steps forward, you will find the door. On the other side of it, either to the left or to the right, somewhere in London, you will find yourlittle boiled balls.”
He started to chuckle, then he bent over and laughed so hard she feared he would do himself an injury. However, he didn’t leave, her tartness having the opposite effect and giving him great amusement. When he got ahold of himself, he looked at her with a broad smile as if she were his long-lost friend.
What an annoying man!And he had a strange accent, to boot. Beatrice wanted to wipe the smile off his equally annoying face. She realized it was actually a handsome face, a little craggy, just as his hair was somewhat wild, but he was in possession of an attractively strong chin, nice eyes, and, quite clearly, a ready sense of humor.
The bell tinkled again, and two women came in. She hoped the sandy-haired man would take the opportunity to vacate the premises since she didn’t have what he wanted. But he regarded her a moment longer, then looked back at the confectionery in the display case.
Shrugging, Beatrice moved along to where the customers browsed in front of the other display case, as the shop counter and cases were set up in an L-shape. The women were eyeing Charlotte’s marzipan sculptures on the top shelf.
“May I help you?” she asked them.
One looked up, her smile dying when she saw Beatrice. “Where is Miss Rare-Foure?”
