“Rather,” he agreed. “We could meet at my office,” he suggested a bit dubiously.
“You have an office?”
“Phillip has given me a suite of offices at Hawthorne Shipping. That’s in Surrey Street, near Waterloo Bridge.”
“I know where it is. Your offices will do nicely.” She paused, considering, then added, “If the invitations are all expected to be answered within a fortnight, we could meet on Monday, the fifteenth. That’s two weeks from yesterday. Say, two o’clock?”
“Excellent. My secretary will have the details of the other events ready for you at that time as well. All right?”
She nodded, and Lawrence left the shop. After locking the door behind him, she flipped the sign hanging in the transom window above so that customers would know Martingale’s was now closed. Dropping back down onto her heels, she watched Lawrence through the window as he walked away down the sidewalk, but she couldn’t quite believe he had just put her in charge of the dessert menus for some of the most prominent events of the season. Anyone who counted in London society would taste her pastries. They could praise her…or they could condemn her.
Maria’s excitement once again vanished, supplanted by a sudden, overwhelming feeling of panic.
She’d just agreed to make desserts for hundreds of people, people of the aristocracy and the gentry, people who were accustomed to eating only the finest cuisine.
Maria pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling suddenly sick. What had she done? She had a skeleton staff, she didn’t have even one assistant chef, and she’d only been in business for a day, yet she had to make enough pastries for a ball of four hundred and she had less than a month to prepare? She was out of her mind.
And how would Phillip react when he learned what his brother had done? Despite Lawrence’s assurances to the contrary, she was by no means convinced that Phillip would “do the right thing.” Not if doing the right thing meant letting her work hand in glove with his brother. No matter what explanations Lawrence gave, Phillip would put the worst possible connotations on it.
Maria took a deep breath and shoved aside any consideration of what Phillip might think. She’d lost his good opinion long ago.
Lawrence had just given her the chance she’d always wanted—the chance to prove herself. Maria crossed her fingers, glanced heavenward, and said a little prayer that Phillip wouldn’t toss her out on her ear before she’d had that chance.
He ought to toss her out on her ear.
Phillip paused, one foot on the sidewalk before his house, one foot still on the steps his carriage driver had rolled out, watching the corner as his brother left Maria’s shop.
Damn it all, hadn’t he extracted a promise from her only three days ago that she would avoid Lawrence at all costs? Even though it was obvious his brother had sought her out, not the other way around, it still exasperated him. What magical quality did she possess that, even after twelve years, Lawrence still found her irresistible?
He pondered that question as he watched his brother halt on the corner. Lawrence must have been quite preoccupied, for as he glanced up and down Half Moon Street for a break in the traffic, he did not even notice Phillip standing by their front door. Instead, he crossed the street in the direction of Piccadilly Circus.
Phillip returned his gaze to Martingale’s. It was growing dark, and by the light of the lamps within, he could see her as she walked from window to window, drawing the curtains. She rose on her toes, arms stretched overhead, and he remembered her in a similar pose only a few nights ago.
Instantly, he felt that desire for her stirring once again inside him, a desire that had only been extinguished the other night after a cold bath and many long, sleepless hours, a desire that once again threatened to flare to life because of a mere glimpse of her through a window.
Without thinking, he started toward the front door of her shop, then stopped, realizing—much to his chagrin—that he had the answer to his question.
Maria Martingale was like true north—she possessed a magnetic pull that was almost impossible for a man to resist. Even he was not immune. Phillip prided himself on his self-control, but even he felt an almost unbearable temptation to go to her. No wonder Lawrence, so amiable and easily led, could not stay away. Though he did not know why she was still unmarried at twenty-nine, he suspected she had received a number of offers. He didn’t want Lawrence to be her next one.
Phillip muttered a curse under his breath, turned on his heel, and retraced his steps toward his own house. Yes, he ought to toss her out now, before history repeated itself and Lawrence made an irrevocable mistake, a mistake that under these circumstances would be impossible to prevent. Unless…
Struck by a sudden notion, Phillip stopped again, and it occurred to him that he must look the veriest fool, dithering on the sidewalk this way. He resumed walking to his own house as he considered the ramifications of his idea.
It was certainly feasible, he thought as he gave an absent-minded nod to the footman who opened the front door for him. Nothing underhanded or dishonorable about it, so Lawrence couldn’t play on his guilt over it later. And, most important, it would work to separate his brother from Maria—at least temporarily.
He handed over his hat, gloves, and walking stick to his butler, then went up to his study, preparing to put his idea into motion.
“You’re what?”
Lawrence paused in the act of cutting his beefsteak and stared at his brother across their table in Willis’s Restaurant.
“I’m sending you to Plymouth,” Phillip repeated, taking a sip from his glass of Bordeaux.
Lawrence’s knife and fork hit his plate with a clatter. “But why?”
“Colonel Dutton has expressed a wish to see our shipyards before he commits to ordering any of our ships for his transatlantic line.”
“Yes, I know that, but I thought you were taking him to Plymouth yourself.”
“I cannot. Other pressing business matters have arisen which compel me to remain here. I want you to escort Colonel Dutton on a tour of our shipyards in my stead.”
Lawrence laughed with the delight of a small boy. “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”
“You’ve been asking for responsibilities in the company.” Hoping his brother wouldn’t discern the deeper motive for sending him out of town, he went on, “If you are going to settle down and be part of the business, you have to start somewhere. And you were quite right to ask for more responsibility, as I acknowledged the other day.”
“Yes, yes, but you said you wanted me to take over our philanthropic work.”
“So I do. You’re more than capable of doing both.”
“Not if they conflict. What about the May Day Ball? You also put me in charge of that, in case you’ve forgotten.” Lawrence leaned back in his chair and spread his hands in a gesture of bafflement. “How am I to make the preparations for that and go to Plymouth?”
“I’ll take over the May Day Ball. I don’t believe there are any other charity events we are sponsoring that can’t wait until you return.”
“But—”
“And besides,” he interrupted, “April is lovely in the country. It’s a perfect opportunity to acquaint the Dutton family with the beauty of our English countryside, something they would no doubt appreciate.”
“The Dutton family?” Lawrence repeated, looking even happier than before. “Do you mean the colonel’s wife and daughter shall make the journey north as well?”
“Unless the Colonel has brought other members of his family with him from New York, then, yes, I mean his wife and daughter.” Phillip took another sip of wine. “It might be a nice gesture to show them our estate in Berkshire as well. After all, Rose Park will be yours one day.”
“Yes, when I marry.” His brother studied him for a moment, and his pleasure faded to a suspicious expression. “Playing matchmaker, are you, Phillip?” he asked, his mouth taking on a rather mutinous curve. “Pushing me toward Cynthia?”
>
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Of course you don’t.” Lawrence laughed, his good humor restored as quickly as it had vanished. “That’s why your handprints are all over my back.”
Phillip did not reply, deciding it was best to leave things at that.
Chapter 7
Out of the frying pan, and into the fire.
Tertullian
During the fortnight that followed, Maria discovered that owning a bakery was far more stressful than simply working in one. Especially when that bakery had just agreed to take on some of the most prestigious events of the London season.
She interviewed dozens of apprentice pastry chefs, finally hiring two. During the hours the shop was open, while Miss Simms and Miss Foster waited on customers upstairs, Maria taught her apprentices, Miss Dexter and Miss Hayes, her methods for making the lightest scones, the tenderest puff pastry, and the flakiest strudel. She also kept the account books, paid the tradesmen’s bills, and monitored the supplies in and out of the larder with meticulous care.
The contract Lawrence had promised was delivered to her shop by his secretary, but that document did little to banish her apprehension over catering her first significant social event. She focused all her energies on preparation, knowing that was the best way to ensure her success. Late into the night, when the bakery was closed, after her apprentice chefs and her shop assistants had gone home and her kitchen maids were asleep upstairs, Maria kept working, experimenting with her best recipes, trying to improve them, striving for a slate of desserts that would impress even the most jaded aristocrat’s palate. She never fell into bed before midnight, but she always rose before dawn to do it all again.
All her efforts proved worthwhile. By the time she arrived at Hawthorne Shipping to meet with Lawrence, she was satisfied that she had a comprehensive selection of unique and elegant desserts from which he could choose.
The central foyer of Hawthorne Shipping was a large room, plainly but elegantly furnished in the modern style. There were several leather Morris chairs, a floor of polished wood with a plain but luxurious rug. There was also a large mahogany desk, its many cubbyholes filled with letters, packages, and documents.
Behind the desk, a stairway led to the upper floors, and to her right was an open doorway, through which she could see mustachioed clerks, with green baize eyeshades on their foreheads and armbands on their shirt sleeves, pouring over stacks of ledgers. The door to her left was closed, but on the other side of it she could hear the distinct tap of typewriting machines.
The clerk who sat behind the desk before her stood up as she approached, giving her an inquiring glance over the pair of gold-framed pince-nez perched on the tip of his nose. “Good day, madam. How may I assist you?”
“My name is Maria Martingale,” she said as she paused in front of him. “I am here to see Mr. Lawrence Hawthorne, please.” She lifted the leather dispatch case in her hand. “I have an appointment.”
The clerk’s brows rose, a world of meaning in that simple gesture. “Do you, indeed?”
“Yes. For two o’clock.” She glanced at the clock on the wall to her left. “I am several minutes early.”
Her punctuality did not seem to cut any ice with the clerk. He folded his hands together and smiled at her with a patient sort of superiority. “I’m afraid you cannot see Mr. Hawthorne.”
“But I have an appointment.”
“That is impossible.”
Confounded, Maria gave a little laugh. “I assure you it is perfectly possible, sir. I am the proprietor of Martingale’s Pâtisserie, and Mr. Hawthorne has contracted me to prepare the dessert menu for their annual May Day Ball. He requested this meeting.”
“That is a strange thing, since Mr. Hawthorne would be unable to attend such a meeting. He is in Plymouth at present on a matter of business.”
“Plymouth?” The mention of that city struck a familiar note, but it took her a moment to realize why. “The shipyards!” she exclaimed. “He’s gone with his brother to visit the shipyards.”
The clerk did not confirm or deny her conclusion, but Maria didn’t need him to do so. “This is just the sort of thing Lawrence would do,” she said in frustration. “So like him to leave me hanging in the wind and go gallivanting off to Plymouth with his brother, the addlepated nitwit. Why on earth didn’t he send me a note to tell me he was leaving town?”
“Since I am not privy to the private thoughts of Mr. Hawthorne, madam, I cannot answer that question.”
These words were uttered in such a condescending fashion that Maria was tempted to respond with a mature, well-mannered reply—such as sticking out her tongue—but the clerk’s next words enabled her to control that impulse.
“And you are quite mistaken,” he informed her with obvious pleasure, “to believe that Mr. Hawthorne accompanied his brother to Plymouth. I know for a fact that the marquess has remained in town,” he added loftily, as if by providing this information he was demonstrating that his knowledge of all things involving the Hawthorne family was far superior to hers. “He has sent his brother to Plymouth in his stead.”
Maria groaned and pressed her fingers to her forehead, silently cursing Lawrence for being so bloody irresponsible, and cursing herself for forgetting that particular trait in his character. She thought of the hours and hours of preparatory work she’d done, the two apprentice chefs she’d hired, and the additional supplies that filled her larder, supplies for which she had already paid.
She lifted her head. “When is Mr. Hawthorne expected to return?”
“I was not informed of the precise date. However, I believe his schedule dictates a return to London in mid-May.”
“This is a fine kettle of fish,” she muttered in disgust. “How am I to prepare the dessert menu for the May Day Ball without consulting Mr. Hawthorne? I don’t know which pastries he wants me to make, I don’t know the quantities…” She broke off, too exasperated to continue.
The clerk blinked at her above the pince-nez on his nose, uninterested in her difficulties. Hands folded atop his blotter, that superior little smile still on his lips, he said nothing. He simply waited as if expecting her to scurry away.
Maria had no intention of doing so. She hadn’t done all this work for nothing. “Then I should like to see his secretary.”
“Mr. Witherspoon accompanied Mr. Hawthorne to Plymouth,” the clerk answered at once with obvious relish. “You cannot see him either.”
That meant only one option was left to her. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought, and took a deep breath, hoping she was not about to make a huge mistake.
“Since Mr. Hawthorne and his secretary are both unavailable,” she told the clerk, “I should like to see the Marquess of Kayne, if you please.”
The smile became even more condescending. “His lordship is fully occupied with important matters of business. He has no time to meet with a…” He paused to glance over her person, looking down his nose. “A cook.”
She stiffened at the snub, but before she could reply, he spoke again.
“You might leave a note for his lordship’s secretary and request an appointment,” he suggested, sounding as though he doubted that course would accomplish much.
She doubted it, too. But she had no intention of allowing all her hard work go to waste.
“Thank you, but a note won’t be necessary,” she replied and donned a grave expression. “I can see I must discuss this matter with the Duchess of St. Cyres. She will determine what is to be done.”
The clerk’s superior expression vanished. “The Duchess of St. Cyres?”
“Hmm, yes. The duchess had intended to offer a generous contribution to the London orphanages,” Maria went on, hoping the lie sounded convincing, “which, as I am sure you know, is the charitable purpose of the marquess’s May Day Ball. But—” She paused, shook her head, and gave a heavy sigh. “As the duchess’s personal pâtissier, I’m afraid I shall have to explain to her grace that I was prevented f
rom meeting with Lord Kayne about the ball’s dessert menu because of a…” She paused, and it was her turn to look down her nose. “A clerk.”
He swallowed. “Madam—” he began, but she cut him off.
“This delay could put the entire supper menu in jeopardy, for the ball is only two weeks away. Her grace will withdraw her contribution, of course, and she will feel compelled to explain her reasons for doing so to the marquess.” She glanced at the brass nameplate on the clerk’s desk. “I have no doubt your name will be mentioned in that conversation, Mr. Jones.”
She started to turn away, but the voice of Mr. Jones stopped her. “Perhaps,” he said, “it might be best if I escorted you up to his lordship’s secretary, Mr. Fortescue?”
Maria turned back around and gave him her prettiest smile. “That would be quite satisfactory. Thank you.”
She was ushered up to a suite of offices on the third floor, where Mr. Jones handed her over to an elegant-looking silver-haired gentleman, murmured something to him in a low voice, and departed with obvious relief.
Mr. Fortescue eyed her with disfavor, his manner only slightly less condescending than that of Mr. Jones. He glanced over her plain beige walking suit, straw boater, and leather dispatch case, raised an eyebrow, and said, “You wish to see his lordship, I understand, but you do not have an appointment.”
Maria sighed, wondering if she would be forced to endure a repetition of her entire conversation with Mr. Jones. “I had an appointment. It was—”
“And you have been sent by the Duchess of St. Cyres with a message for his lordship regarding the May Day Ball?”
Tired of explanations, Maria decided that one would suffice. “Yes.”
“Very well. Wait here, Miss Martingale. I will determine if his lordship is available to see you.”
He turned away, knocked at the closed door behind him, and upon hearing a reply, opened the door and went inside. He closed the door behind him, leaving Maria to wait.
Secret Desires of a Gentleman Page 10
