“There was a story about Rare Confectionery in it yesterday. It will be out again today in theTimes, too, which owns theMail.” He squared his shoulders. “To put it bluntly, it isn’t favorable.”
Charlotte was surprised into silence. The shop had never had a bad word written about it that she was aware. “Did you bring it, Your Grace?”
“Yes.” He drew a piece of newsprint out of his pocket. It had been read and rolled as her father liked to say. “Amity insisted I bring it directly.”
She took it but didn’t look at it. “Tell me more about my sister.”
Henry relaxed. “Larger, but good. She enjoys the time with that Percy boy when he comes over. It distracts her from her discomfort and boredom.”
Charlotte nodded. “Edward has learned a lot from her.” Unexpectedly, she realized she wished to speak to her brother-in-law about the viscount. After all, when would she ever have a chance to speak with Henry alone again?
“You probably know that your friend Lord Jeffcoat has been escorting me around town,” she began.
The duke blushed slightly as if they were discussing something personal.
“I was aware, yes.” Then he grimaced. “Not that Jeffcoat is gabbing like an old woman with a pot of gossip-water, you understand.”
“No, I didn’t think that. Anyway, I enjoy his company. I merely thought I would tell you that.” She hesitated. This was a little awkward. “I wanted to make sure I had your blessing, I suppose. In any case, if you didn’t want us to keep company, you would have said something to him, but you can also talk to me.”
The duke’s cheeks grew ruddier. “I think he is a fine man. What’s more, I know you to be a wonderful young woman. I see no impediment to your keeping company.”
She nodded. “Thank you. I had wondered if he suffered from some great love lost. There is something about him, a little cautious and sometimes sad.”
Henry was silent a moment. “Jeffcoat did suffer severe heartbreak when he was younger. It affected him greatly, although he won’t admit it. I hope he tells you about it as it is not for me to do. Do you understand?”
Nodding, at least she’d had her concerns confirmed, even if all the duke had done was pique her curiosity further. Then she rattled the paper in her hand. “Why is Amity so concerned about an article in the paper? Even a bad one can hardly be that bad.”
His face froze.
“Can it?” she asked, fear clutching at her stomach.
“You had best read it. Amity thinks you may have to start some new advertisements to counteract the effects. Anyway, do not worry. The article is rather bleak and could hurt sales in the foreseeable future, but you have a tidy, economical business here, and even a short downturn in profits won’t hurt too much.” He tipped his hat, nodded, and turned to the door. “We’ll see you tonight for dinner. Come at seven o’clock so you can visit with your sister beforehand. Maybe I’ll have a surprise for you.”
Scarcely listening when the bell signaled his departure, she noticed the paper was folded to reveal the offending story, written by a Miss J. Whittaker. She had never heard of her.
“While the shopgirl tried to help, she clearly hadn’t a clue what was in the confectionery being sold.... There was a great variation in quality between one sweet and another, particularly the chocolates, which were a mystery of good and not-so-good.... The treacle toffee, heralded by many as superb, may have, indeed, been so in the past, but this writer found it to be sadly below anyone’s notion of what is tasty. Its flavor could best be described as distinctlyunpleasant. In a word, it wasinedible....”
When she finished disparaging the sweets, the writer went on to malign the shop: “It was not as clean as one would wish. Granted, the day was a rainy one, but then with our London weather nearly always containing a few raindrops, that cannot be used as an excuse for a grimy, slippery floor.... Understaffing was the reason given for the shop’s appearance.... The shopgirl, while attentive at first, seemed to lack focus, unable to keep track of which customer she was helping.”
That last sentence stung as much as any of them, and they all, in fact, hurt Charlotte’s pride. And the reporter’s conclusion, stated in the paper for all to read, was plainly the reason for the sudden lack of customers: “While Rare Confectionery has been relied upon in the past for quality treats, it has clearly fallen into disorder and ignominy. For the same cost of their sweets, or even cheaper, delicious Cadbury’s and Fry’s confections can be found conveniently in many a shop in the form of fancy boxes and bars, without having to take a special trip to New Bond Street to be sold overpriced, inferior confectionery.”
For goodness sake!Even Charlotte wanted to rush out and get a Cadbury bar to take the nasty taste of the article out of her mouth.
Overpriced, inferior confectionery!
The duke had said they had an economical business and thought they would weather this little downturn easily. But Charlotte had just doubled the size of their space — and their monthly rent. And the shop’s bell hadn’t tinkled all morning. Tonight, she would finally tell him and Amity what she’d done.
Sending Edward out on the deliveries, she had time on her hands to get ahead by making fresh marzipan and starting to create the pigs people enjoyed with cherry juice blush to their skin.
By noon, they’d had a few customers, people who hadn’t read the paper and a couple regular patrons, but it hadn’t been their usual flow. Edward had been busy making toffee, which Charlotte tasted at every stage. It was satisfactory. She wasn’t even certain she could tell the difference if pushed between his and Beatrice’s. He was following her sister’s recipe to the letter. If that awful woman returned — and naturally, Charlotte now knew precisely who had written the article — the reporter would find it not merely edible but delicious.
She shook her head at the realization that one scathing review in a popular paper could do so much damage. Then she had a thought. Certainly that meant a good review could restore their reputation. The best thing would be to entice Miss Whittaker to return, stuff her smug cake-hole with delicious sweets, and make her recant.
However, that seemed unlikely. Not to mention dangerous. If something went wrong — and Charlotte had learned literally anything could go wrong at any moment — that might mean disaster. And it would be writ in theEvening Mailfor all to see.
Perhaps she could entice another reporter into the shop. She supposed if she went to place an advertisement, she could ask to speak with the paper’s editor and determine if he would send out someone to review the shop. On the other hand, she was about to cut a hole in the ceiling and would have to close for a few days. She had to hold off until that was finished before she invited anyone in.
Perhaps a simple written rebuttal was in order. Wandering back around the other side of the counter, she looked through the paper again. As expected, there were letters from the public printed for everyone to read. Most were grievances and criticisms — about the water pressure in the East End, trash blowing into shops on Oxford Street, even a horse carcass left to rot north of Hyde Park, as well as the ever-present complaints about the stench of the Thames. A letter protesting a bad day at a confectioner’s shop seemed futile. Irksome as it was to let the article go unchallenged, writing a letter to the paper’s editor would be a watery defense.
