She sighed and drew out a bag of confectionery from her beaded purse. Haphazardly opening it, she offered the manager one. He paused, about to refuse, but then he caught a whiff of chocolate and helped himself.
“Delicious,” he proclaimed. “We have never had a problem with the quality. That is for certain. Such a shame.”
“Then give me the chance to remedy this,” she insisted.
He held up his hand. “For all I know, you might have been the one perpetrating the deceit.”
“Sir!” she exclaimed. “My family owns the shop, and I would not make mischief for them or myself. But I am certain I know the culprit.”
“I ordered and paid for seven pounds per week,” he persisted, “and on more than one occasion, I received a mere five. That’s no small matter.”
Charlotte recalled packing the latest delivery herself, and then handing it to Edward. Only a child, a relatively honest one with little experience at duplicity, would do something so stupid that could easily be traced back to him.
“I agree, it’s no small matter. Thievery never is. Can you tell me when it began, if you know?”
“I can’t say exactly since until we noticed it, we didn’t start to examine each delivery. We have more important things to do than to weigh chocolates. But it has definitely occurred over the past couple of months.”
“I know I can stop this ever happening again. And we have been providing you with excellent confectionery since last year. You know you cannot find its like elsewhere.”
“Strange you should say that,” The Langham’s manager said, clasping his hands together on his desk. “When I was speaking with one of my staff about your confectionery, she said she’d bought the exact same marzipan pig off a street seller at Covent Garden.”
“I am sure others make similar marzipan shapes,” Charlotte said, despite not having personally seen any other pigs. But to think it would be on a street cart and not even in a fine confectioner’s shop was unsettling.
“Not similar, Miss Rare-Foure, identical in taste and shape. I was going to send someone round there to find out who makes them.”
She drew back, shocked.
“Because the same street-seller also had chocolates and toffee, all as good as yours and not as costly.”
Naturally, not as costly,Charlotte thought. The person didn’t have a New Bond Street rent to pay.
“If you will give us another chance, we won’t let you down,” she promised.
“You shall have to drop your price,” the manager said so quickly she knew he’d been waiting for her to beg.
However she was not that desperate.
“Absolutely not,” she told him, clearly hearing her mother’s voice reminding her how much The Langham charged for a room, or even for a pot of tea in one of their dining rooms. “If you wish to pin your reputation to your guests on the capriciousness of a Covent Garden street-seller’s ability to deliver you pounds of confectionery every week, then I wish you good luck, sir. And even if you look in other London shops for our quality at such good prices, again, I wish you luck.”
She stood, refusing to be cowed or broken down.
He rose to his feet. “The Langham will continue selling your confections, as long as you personally reassure me that the matter — or the nefarious person — has been dealt with.”
“Of course,” she agreed. Meanwhile, she was going to Covent Garden to discover this confectionery seller who could mimic their sweets so perfectly.
CHARLES COULDN’T BELIEVE his luck when he saw Charlotte crossing the street toward him. Having just finished his midday meal at a pub around the corner from the Italian-style piazza that surrounded Covent Garden marketplace, he’d emerged from the Lamb and Flag. Over a meat pie and chips washed down with a glass of ale, he’d written up notes for court. He always sat in the back by the fireplace, whether it was lit or not, as the tables were larger than in the front by the bar. Even so, he’d scarcely managed to concentrate while his mind wandered to what his lady-friend was up to, imagining her safely tucked behind the counter of Rare Confectionery.
And yet there she was, having just exited a cab.
“Miss Rare-Foure,” he called to her.
As her gaze landed upon him, a smile broke out across her face that made his heart race.What a perfect English rose she was!He wanted to pluck her from the bush of single females. He nearly laughed at that, the most poetic thought he’d ever had. He wanted to follow it up with something about establishing her in the marital vase but lost the thread, and then they were but a few feet away.
Bowing slightly to her, he received a nod in return.
“What a delight running into you here, my lord,” she began, unmindful that he wanted to be the one to say that first. She didn’t need to fawn or gush over him. He was lucky such a welcoming, warm and luscious woman was interested in him, boring as he now feared he was, with an uninviting home to which she’d been privy and a cranky father.
Thank goodness he was a viscount, for he couldn’t think of anything else that would recommend him to her.
