by Dee, Bonnie
Candace Sweet’s Confectionery
The Providence Street Shops
Book Three
Bonnie Dee
© Copyright 2021 by Bonnie Dee
Text by Bonnie Dee
Cover by Dar Albert
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
[email protected]
Produced in the United States of America
First Edition May 2021
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notes:
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Bonnie Dee
The Providence Street Shops Series
Hattie Glover’s Millinery
Rose Gardener’s Florist
Candace Sweet’s Confectionery
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Bonnie Dee
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter One
Fall, 1907
A flurry of gold showered Candace and her friend Rose as wind rattled the branches overhead. Saffron leaves danced around the women’s feet before whisking away on the next gust. Like the honking geese rising from the pond en masse, the leaves seemed to be on a mission. Candace, too, felt the urge to rush. To where she didn’t know, but someplace far away. Someplace that felt safe.
“You are quiet today,” Rose interrupted her migratory thoughts. “Is something troubling you?”
“I’m merely thinking of all I must do to prepare for the opening.” Candace’s irrational thoughts of fleeing were nonsense, an embarrassing secret she would hold inside.
“Don’t worry. All will be well.” Rose always spoke with confidence, even when she wasn’t certain. It was a trait Candace admired in the bold, red-headed florist who had befriended her when Candace had no one to turn to. “Your enterprise will succeed. How could it not? Your sweets are to-die-for. Not to mention the holiday season is approaching. You couldn’t have chosen a better time to open. You’ll have a line down the street for your grand opening.”
Candace surveyed the avenue beside the park where they took their lunch. Providence Street was fast becoming a modish shopping district. Among the storefronts, the gilt-lettered green sign for Rose Gardener’s Florist embellished by a single rose drew Candace’s eye. Equally lovely was the white and lilac striped awning above Hattie Glover’s Millinery.
In contrast, the burnt umber of Candace Sweet’s Confectionary appeared drab. Why had she insisted on brown? The pastel hues of marzipan or petit fours would have been a better choice, but Candace’s true love was chocolate, so she had chosen glossy brown for her sign.
“How have you been sleeping?” Rose enquired, catching Candace off-guard so she almost replied, Terribly.
“Not bad, other than waking to make lists of tasks to accomplish.” Rose had already done so much to help her that Candace didn’t wish to complain about the fears that still disturbed her peace of mind.
“Are you certain? There are shadows under your eyes to suggest otherwise. If your sleep is uneasy, it is no wonder after your ordeal at Edward Merker’s hands.” Rose brushed away a stray leaf from her coppery hair. “Not to mention, the day of the Women’s Parliament was upsetting for all of us who marched, even we lucky ones who weren’t arrested.”
“One wonders whether our action made any difference at all in forwarding the suffrage movement,” Candace replied. “I wish I could wholeheartedly say I believe it did.”
A cold breeze pierced her light jacket, reminding her winter was around the corner. Ahead, Candace saw a fellow chasing his hat, which was cartwheeling across the grass. The man’s hair, dark brown as Belgian cocoa, swirled in wild curls. His lean face and long nose suggested an origin other than British. Perhaps Italian, Candace thought from his olive-skinned complexion.
Her spark of interest in the man would have quickly blown out if the breeze hadn’t changed direction to drive the hat directly into the women’s path. Its owner pounced on the chapeau, nearly running down Candace in his strenuous effort.
He pulled up short, straightened with his hat in hand and offered a bow. “Pardonnez-moi, Mesdames.”
She scarcely had a moment to observe his face; a neatly trimmed beard and moustache framing a wide, mobile mouth, dark brown, heavy-lidded eyes that seemed filled with some deep sadness. She opened her mouth to accept his apology, but the handsome Frenchman was already gone, hurrying off to retrieve a case he’d left lying in the grass.
“We had better get back,” Rose suggested. “My new assistant can’t be trusted alone for long. She’s only just learned the difference between a chrysanthemum and a gardenia. No great initiative in the girl, but she’s a willing enough worker.”
“I still feel remorseful for leaving you shorthanded in the shop,” Candace said.
Rose waved a hand, erasing her concerns. “I’ll tell you what Hattie told me when I left her to open the florist. You must pursue your dream. With every new female-owned business, we gain a greater foothold in a man’s world. Now they’ve witnessed our success, the other merchants on Providence Street regard us with greater respect. They listen when we speak and that is a great achievement given the deafness of most men. Except my Will
,” she hastily amended. “He is a jewel amidst swine.”
Candace smiled at the misquoted idiom. Rose always brightened her spirits when she felt melancholy. This was certainly a day to be cheerful for, setting aside the darkness in her past, her dearest wish was about to come true.
The women parted ways on the street, Rose heading down the sidewalk toward the floristry. Candace paused in front of her own shop to study the sign that looked delicious enough to lick: Candace Sweet’s Confectionary. The white letters were stark against a dark background that brought to mind a chocolate bar freshly unwrapped from gold foil. She was content with the color she had selected, for there had been too many years of her life when she possessed no freedom to choose at all.
Entering her shop, the delicious aroma reminded Candace of Madame Lisette’s confectionery in France. As a schoolgirl at Madame Brodeur’s Academy, Candace had visited the elderly chocolatier whenever the students were allowed a day of shopping. Her schoolmates had outgrown the sweet shop to spend their allowance on gloves, scarves, trimmings for their hats, or the scandalizing perfume and rouge which must be hidden at the strict school. Despite the fact there were no occasions to wear it or boys to impress, simply possessing contraband delighted them.
But Candace had never wavered from her love for chocolates since her very first visit to Madame Lisette’s as a homesick girl in a foreign land. The taste was heavenly and under the cook’s tutelage she learned the craft of making exquisitely decorated truffles. Her mentor’s kitchen was the first place that had ever felt like home. Ingredients fresh. Stove the correct temperature. It requires precision and intuition to make the perfect chocolate, comprenez vous? Madame Lisette’s voice remained with her.
Candace recreated that sense of contentment by spending each day surrounded by pots, pans and sweet sugar combined with bitter cocoa. She headed toward the kitchen now, intent on decorating the tray of marzipan on the cooling rack. Swirls and dots of different colored frosting would fill a peaceful afternoon, the concentration required keeping her from dwelling on anything else.
Someone knocked at the door, ignoring or not reading the “Opening Soon” sign in the window. Candace sighed with impatience but put a smile on her face as she went to greet a potential future customer. When she saw the man on the other side of the glass, her excitement evaporated.
The Frenchman from the park stood on her doorstep, his runaway hat in hand. He returned her smile with one as manufactured as her own. She could tell it was false because it never quite reached his grave eyes. She did not believe he was there to buy sweets, but had come for some other purpose—perhaps a nefarious one that entailed trapping a woman alone in her empty store.
She flashed back to that horrible night when Edward Merker’s thugs had drugged and kidnapped her. The sensation of strong hands grabbing her hard enough to leave bruises seemed imprinted on her flesh as well as in her memory. She shivered and folded her arms across her chest.
“May I help you, Monsieur?” she asked through the safety of the glass pane, although he could certainly break through it if he wanted to.
“Oui, Madame.” He held up his case so she might read the script on one side: Moreau Chocolates. “I saw your store advertised in a newspaper and hoped to interest you in my product.”
Immediately Candace’s fears abated for she recognized the Moreau brand as a venerable one in France. Her fears quelled, she unlocked the shop door and opened it. “Do come in.”
The man entered, trailing an aroma of coal smoke and subtle cologne. A few stray leaves scooted inside before Candace closed the door.
“You may set your case on the counter,” she indicated the main display by the cash register. “I am familiar with your chocolates, some of the finest in the world.”
“Yes, they are,” he agreed, before placing the bag where she directed. “May I introduce myself? I am Alain Moreau, son of Gaston Moreau.”
Not a mere salesman but heir to a dynasty of chocolatiers. Royalty had come to call.
Candace had rarely introduced herself to anyone, particularly a strange man. Usually a third party facilitated meetings between a sheltered young lady and any person unfamiliar to her. But she was no longer a budding debutante. A businesswoman must meet people from many walks of life in different circumstances from what Candace had been taught were acceptable.
“I am Miss Candace Sweet, the proprietress of this shop.” She extended her hand to shake.
Moreau bowed over it. Although he did not deliver a kiss, she could imagine the pressure of his lips, and a tingle of delight sparkled through her at his courtly gesture.
“Enchanté, mademoiselle.” He straightened to survey her domain. “What a charming confiserie.”
“Merci.” Candace couldn’t help but glow at his compliment, even though he would probably say that to any confectioner with whom he hoped to do business. But reviewing the brightly-colored jars of penny candy, the muted pastels of petit fours, and the earthy palette of chocolates, she absolutely agreed with Moreau. Her little shop was every bit the enchanting, welcoming place Madame Lisette’s had been. Entering the door, one might find delight and contentment.
“Have you samples to show me, Monsieur Moreau?”
“Indeed. He turned his case toward her, unfastened the latch and opened the lid.
Candace gazed covetously at the glorious treasures inside. She wanted to plunge her hands in and taste one after another of the exotic treats. “Beautiful,” she breathed. “May I?”
“But of course.” He tipped the box in invitation.
She selected as carefully as if the choice would shape her destiny.
“Excellent decision. The ganache contains a blend of cacao and Brazilian Maragnan beans for a distinctive bittersweet one either adores or finds too bold,” he explained.
Very aware of his gaze upon her, she lifted the truffle, inhaled its fragrance then put it to her lips. Biting through the outer shell, she reached the rich velvet inside. As described, a burst of full-bodied coffee flavor awoke her taste buds. She would have closed her eyes to experience the flavor fully, but retained composure in front of this potential supplier.
“Marvelous. A very impressive blend.”
“One my great-grandfather’s personal recipes. You may rely on consistency as each batch of Moreau chocolates contain the highest quality ingredients and are crafted with precise conformity to each recipe.”
“I am familiar with your product and have no concerns about its quality. The issue would be a matter of pricing. I am only just starting out and have limited budget and floor space. Not to mention”—she indicated the truffles in the display case—“I want to promote my own brand. How could my novice treats stand against those of the one of the best chocolateries in Europe?”
Her guest studied the array. “May I sample yours?” Immediately after asking, he flushed and coughed.
Unclear about the cause of his apparent embarrassment, Candace replied eagerly. “Of course! I would be honored and pleased to hear your opinion. Which would you care to try?”
“Only the best, naturellement, and you, the creator will know which that is.”
Nervous as a student facing a final exam, Candace reached into the display case with serving tongs to seize a pepper-infused truffle she had named Fireball. She’d been wondering if the bite of pepper was too strong. In a moment she would have an expert’s opinion.
She offered the truffle decorated with a tiny adornment of leaves, and shifted nervously as Moreau studied the piece with intent gaze. He darted out his tongue to taste the exterior and a sensation of powerful excitement leaped to life inside her. Before she could consider this unexpected feeling, Moreau’s lips parted and strong white teeth bit into her creation.
He paused, allowing the chocolate to melt, considering and savoring each element of flavor before swallowing.
A potent blend of anxious anticipation and earthy attraction infused her veins and raced through her body as her heart beat fast. F
everish, light-headed and rather short of breath, Candace craved more of this addictive rush like that of too much sugar ingested too quickly.
*
May I taste yours, the unintended innuendo of his words made Alain cringe. Luckily, his potential buyer did not seem to read any underlying meaning into them as she offered him a truffle. Miss Sweet’s lovely, wide-eyed face reminded him of a young doe which had wandered from the wood, too innocent and trusting for its own good. No matter what the chocolate tasted like, he would sugar-coat his response.
But then he noticed her shadowed eyes and a premature furrow between her brows. Miss Sweet carried some hidden burden, some secret pain. She was not a naïve doe at all, but one which had already been wounded by a careless hunter. He turned his mind away from wondering what had happened to her as he bit into the truffle and focused on examining its flavors.
When he had finished, he offered his true assessment, understanding she would prefer honesty over any prevarication meant to spare her feelings. “The note of pepper is correct, neither too much nor too little. It has a smooth consistency and rich flavor. I would rate it—quite highly.”
She noted his hesitation. “But not top marks. You are the first professional who has sampled my cooking. My friends are too generous with their praise and lack sophisticated palates where chocolate is concerned. As a connoisseur, you must be frank with me.”
“Are you certain?”
“Indeed. I am not afraid of making mistakes so long as I improve from them.”
What refreshing honesty, and how well-spoken. How had a clearly well-bred miss become a shopkeeper and chocolatier? For the first time in weeks curiosity rather than anxiety nabbed his attention.
“You must understand assessing flavor is subjective. Do not assume anyone’s criticism is right or wrong.” A lesson Alain wished he had embraced early in life whenever his father shot down one of his suggested improvements to the business.
