“Robin Hood,” she greeted loudly over the noise. The dark-haired viscount had looked very fine at the ball in a tunic and long hose. Although her heart was engaged elsewhere, she had appreciated his shapely legs and arms. It hadn’t been their first enjoyable encounter, either, as she’d once dined as his companion at the ducal residence on St. James’s Place before the Duke of Pelham had married her sister.
While a tad solemn for her taste, Lord Jeffcoat’s conversational skills had kept her amused all evening.
While Lord Waverly, who no one ever accused of being somber, winked outrageously at her, Lord Jeffcoat tipped his hat in greeting.
“Regards of the day, Turkish Princess.”
She smiled at the memory of her colorful, silky costume that night. She’d been an exotic princess. Presently, feeling a little warm, with wisps of hair sticking to her temples, Charlotte didn’t feel like a princess, Turkish or otherwise.
“I said I want a pound of toffee,” an annoyed voice brought her attention back to her duty. “And I’m waiting.”
With aplomb, as she’d asked a hundred times, she offered, “Plain or with nuts, madam?”
The woman’s face puckered. “Of course, plain! Anything else is unnatural.”
Charlotte couldn’t help grinning. This remark tickled her, and as she packaged up a pound of Beatrice’s buttery treacle toffee, she hoped she would remember to tell her.How funny!
“Are you laughing at me?” asked the woman with a face that would turn honey mead into vinegar.
“Merely thinking joyful thoughts,” Charlotte answered swiftly. “Easy to do as we approach Easter. Would you care for a sample?” She nearly added, “Perhaps some of the unnatural toffee?” but kept that to herself.
“Only to have you charge me extra, no doubt,” said the woman. She was obviously a brand-new customer and a sour one at that.
“Entirely free of charge, I assure you. Please, choose something.”And hurry, Charlotte thought. The mob behind was growing increasingly impatient.
Looking suspicious nonetheless, the woman pointed to one of Charlotte’s marzipan flowers dusted with cocoa powder. Using tongs to snag it, she set it quickly on a paper square. They eschewed their usual dainty china plates for samples that week, as the risk of them being broken was too great, not to mention constantly needing to wash them.
Snatching the treat as if the offer might be rescinded, the woman crammed it into her mouth in one bite. And then, as Charlotte knew it would, a miracle happened. The crabby customer chewed, and when the delicate sweetness burst upon her tongue, her eyes glazed over with a faraway look of happiness. And then, she smiled.
The rest of the transaction, exchanging the tin of toffee for coins, happened smoothly.
“Thank you, miss,” the woman said, appearing entirely soothed. “I’ll return soon.” She moved away from the counter and seemed to float from the store.
Charlotte adored when that happened. Loud laughter caught her attention. Glancing up, she saw the viscounts in conversation with Lord Waverly gesticulating, doing most of the talking, and all of the laughing. Lord Jeffcoat, however, was clearly looking in her direction. When he caught her glance, he nodded. Not sure what to make of that, she nodded in return.
“Miss, please, miss,” came a younger voice, and Charlotte had to lean farther over the counter to see a child, perhaps eight, with sandy-colored hair, shabbily dressed in a patched coat but clean-looking nonetheless.
“May I have a marzipan pig?” he asked.
“Why, yes, of course.” It was her family’s policy to accommodate the youngest citizens, even those who wanted only samples. Her parents had never forgotten that sweets were enjoyed most of all by children, and made sure their daughters didn’t let London’s youngsters go without.
Turning aside to the glass display case, she used the tongs to pluck one of the last of her swine creations with its cherry-juice blush skin. Not the usual Easter fare, but their sweet round bodies and carefully crafted swirl of a marzipan tail had made them popular. Placing this in a bleached-white paper bag with “Rare Confectionery” stamped upon it in sapphire-blue ink, she turned back to find her young customer had disappeared.
Her gaze first flew to the duke’s friends, as standing in the customers’ midst, they were the most obtrusive people in the shop.
Lord Jeffcoat raised a dark eyebrow as well as a hand before pointing toward the opposite wall. To her alarm, the lad was being lambasted by a woman dressed to the nines and to whom Charlotte had recently sold a pound of chocolates.
“You do not belong here,” the woman raised her voice with derision, an elegantly gloved finger practically touching the boy’s nose. “For all I know, you have fleas.”
The boy took a step back, eyes wide, looking not angry as Charlotte would expect, but ashamed.
“You!” Charlotte called out from her post behind the counter, hoping to put a stop to such mean-spiritedness. The well-dressed lady ignored her.
“You, there,” Charlotte tried again, but still, the woman had more to say to the boy.
“Imagine the likes of you being in this nice establishment. Do you know what that means,establishment? It means a place where street urchins do not belong.”
Without thinking, Charlotte whistled, a skill her father taught her, which unnerved some folks for its shrill loudness but usually succeeded in getting someone’s attention.
