Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7)

by Heather Hiestand

  “It’s hard for a woman,” her half sister said. “Not enough pay, and always a man to take it.”

  “Who took your money?” Betsy asked.

  “I was engaged once, about three years ago. John was badly injured at his work and died,” Prissy said.

  “How unfair.”

  “He was a bounder. Always one to live beyond his means,” Prissy said flatly. “I made his clothes. I was quite good at it. I’ve never found another man I wanted to dress so well again, but I want a little shop of my own someday.”

  “No special followers?”

  “I did have another beau, more recently, but we had a falling out. He wouldn’t engage in his profession, thought it was beneath him.” Prissy sighed. “Still looking for the perfect one.”

  Violet undid the string on her parcel and pulled out the uniform, examining it by the light of the fire. “Lovely, neat stitches, Miss Weaver. Much better than I can do.”

  “That’s practice, that is,” Prissy said with a prideful air. “But Betsy, are you sure Ralph is correct to tell you not to ask for an advance on your salary? Mr. Redcake would hand it over, I know. He’s sweet on you.”

  “Oh, I never,” Betsy said. “Mr. Redcake?”

  Prissy smiled and patted her hand one last time before releasing it. Violet moved to kneel at Betsy’s feet.

  “Oh, how lovely. Are you courting?”

  “Of course not. I don’t believe he’s so much as looked at another woman since his wife died, and that was only about a year ago,” Betsy said. “I hope he sees me as a trusted employee, and that’s quite enough for me.”

  “But if you could catch him as a husband,” Prissy mused. “Think of all it could mean for you. He has connections in fashionable society.”

  “Not really. Just his cousins. He’s the first of his immediate family to come to London.”

  “But there must be loads of money,” Violet said.

  “I imagine,” Betsy agreed.

  “Grace Fair told me you were very friendly with Lady Hatbrook,” Violet said.

  Prissy’s eyebrows rose. “Does she have all the best clothes?”

  “Lady Hatbrook was never one for fashion. She used to complain about her sisters and their love of clothes, but in the end none of them became the sort of ladies who are painted and such.”

  “A pity,” Prissy said. “I wish I could have a commission for a real lady’s dress. I have some lovely sketches I’ve done, really new ideas.”

  “Maybe Betsy can marry Mr. Redcake and be your first wealthy customer,” Violet suggested.

  Betsy felt tears well up in her eyes again. “I’ll be happy to simply have a roof over my head by Monday. Oh, Violet, how can we both end up homeless at the same time?”

  “It’s a wicked legacy, my father and your mother,” Violet said solemnly, completely losing her earlier air of mischief. “It’s up to us to stick together and mend our fortunes.”

  “Ralph will be fine now, won’t he?” Prissy asked. “Now that he doesn’t have a second family to support. Wasn’t he paid this week?”

  “It’s all spent,” Betsy said.

  “That doesn’t mean much, as long as you have the cash in hand.”

  “We don’t,” she told her half sister. “Believe me, there isn’t a shilling to be found in this house.”

  “I wonder if you should ask Mr. Redcake to act as your banker in the future,” Violet said. “So Victor can’t come and steal from you. I’ll consider it myself, when I’m paid.”

  “He’s too busy for anything like that,” Betsy said.

  “Might be a way to make him concerned for your welfare,” Prissy suggested. “Really, Betsy, he’s looking for a second wife to raise his babies. A society girl won’t be as interested in him as she might have been if he were unencumbered. You should make a play for him.”

  Violet nodded. “Or see if I don’t!”

  Ralph came in with the simple meal he had prepared. They ate in front of the fire, before Prissy went to catch the bus back to Paddington. By the time Betsy had said her good nights, she felt utterly exhausted. She’d offered Violet half her bed, but the girl had decided to stay in the parlor on the couch, because the room was so warm.

  In bed, Betsy tossed and turned, plagued by dreams in which Lord Fitzwalter’s youthful face and form of four years before, naked and bent on erotic pleasure, was transformed to Greggory Redcake’s more mature person. By morning, she wondered how she would be able to look her manager in the eye, so thoroughly had she spent the night loving him physically.

  Violet looked concerned when she joined Betsy and her father in the kitchen for oatmeal and tea. “Didn’t you sleep well?”

  Betsy yawned. “I’ll be fine after a cup of tea.”

  Ralph smiled. “Now, you aren’t going to ask Mr. Redcake for money, I hope?”

  “No, but I’m going to go into Redcake’s. Maybe he’ll give me a bonus for extra effort,” she said.

  “I like that idea,” Violet said. “Shall I come, too?”

  “I think we should see Victor,” her father said. “Assuming the police haven’t picked him up. Try to take your things away from him, if nothing else. He won’t try anything with me present. If he isn’t there, more’s the better. We can pack your things.”

  “Why is Victor afraid of you?” Betsy asked. While Victor had no problem stealing from them, she did see her father’s point.

  “His mother asked me to take a switch to him a few times when he was a young lad,” her father said. “The experience left mental scars.”

  “I don’t think we’ll have any money out of him. If I knew his hidey-holes I’d steal it back, but I don’t,” Violet admitted. “But if he hasn’t pawned my things we might get them.”

  “We’ll take a sack,” her father said. “Do our best to fill it.”

  “What about our landlord?” Betsy asked.

  “Something will turn up,” her father said.

  Betsy wanted to give the pair of them a good, long stare. Violet’s confidence gave her a moment’s pause. How scared of Victor was she, really? She couldn’t possibly be in on some kind of con game with him, could she? Why were they trusting her?

  “You need to go to the police, remember?” Betsy said, touching her neck. Her knife wound had become an angry red line overnight. “Tell them to pick up Victor if they haven’t done so already.”

  “After we get Violet’s things,” her father said, standing up and kissing her cheek. “Self-interest before Her Majesty’s interest.”

  If he’d put self-interest first, they’d have money in a tidy bank account. Bah.

  “Is your neck hurting?” Violet asked.

  “Just a little sting. It’s nothing,” Betsy conceded. “You two run along. I’m the only one not dressed.”

  Violet stood up from the table, and after one more concerned glance in her direction, left the room with Betsy’s father. Betsy wondered where Victor would pop up next. Hopefully in a jail cell.

  Greggory stared at his secretary’s reports on the last two days’ receipts, feeling glum. He hoped the traditional, wealthy Redcake’s customer would return soon, but the next day wouldn’t help. They’d have to leave the tearoom closed again for the inquest. The coroner had to bring the jury to the crime scene as part of his investigation, after viewing the body at the morgue.

  He hadn’t realized how thin his margin was until this. It was time to consult with Uncle Bartley to see if he should reduce the money he took out of the business. He could easily afford to pay for another department manager by reducing his pay, but at this rate the money might only cover what was being lost in the tearoom.

  Murder was so uncommon, he had no one to speak to about what the long-term effects might be on his business.

  At first, when he saw Miss Popham at her desk, he thought he’d imagined the wound on her neck. After all, he had violence on his mind. He spun mental images back through his brain. Had she been struck by the glass the day before? Not on the n
eck.

  He heard a throat clear and peered at Miss Popham, who looked at him curiously.

  “What is wrong, Mr. Redcake?”

  “What happened to your neck?”

  She grimaced and touched the thin, angry slash. “Victor happened again, I’m afraid. He was at my home when Violet and I arrived there last evening.”

  He walked over and perched on the edge of her desk. “Did the police arrest him? I’ve heard nothing.”

  “I don’t know. Violet and my father decided to try to get her things out of their home this morning before speaking to the police. I understand why of course; he threatened to throw everything she had into the street.”

  “Dear me,” Greggory said.

  “It’s a muddle,” she agreed.

  “I can’t help but notice that you’re the one with the wound. He’s particularly targeted you, and then there’s Simon Hellman. I heard he was here last night.”

  She touched his arm. “Thank you for hiring the night watchman. He was a great help.”

  Greggory nodded, then leaned closer. What was that scent? He tilted his head. Was it in her hair? No.

  “Mr. Redcake?”

  He shook his head. “I am sorry. There is something in the air.”

  “Probably the soup bowl. Mr. Soeur’s assistant experimented this morning, but I can’t say I approved of the results.”

  He did see a half-full bowl on the opposite edge of the desk. “We’ll have to quash that effort. The assistant does not have the master’s light touch.”

  “The chives are overpowering,” Miss Popham agreed.

  Indeed, they were covering her usual scent. In that moment, he realized he’d had enough of the effects of Redcake’s on this pretty young woman. “Come with me,” he said, standing up and holding out his hand. Confusion showed in her eyes, but she took his hand, her fingers rougher than he’d expected but her touch light.

  They walked down the corridor to his suite, holding hands. She didn’t protest, leading him to wonder if he would finally see her reputed sensual side. Might she have come in on Sunday to find him? No one else worked on this floor on the holy day. The air was empty of pens scratching on paper, typewriters, the clunking sounds of heavy books on desks, voices, steps. His awareness of her skin sliding against his was acute, but she let go when he opened his door. He ushered her to the cozy small sofa that was pushed against the wall in the outer office, to hold people waiting for meetings with him, and sat on the armrest, his leg brushing her arm. He felt the awareness of her body beginning to affect his.

  “I hate that Victor hurt you,” he said. “I want to protect you and I don’t know how.”

  “The watchman,” she said again.

  “He didn’t come home with you. I’ll hire someone for that.”

  “No.” She brushed his idea aside as if it were a gnat. “My problems with the Carters predate my career at Redcake’s. It is not your fault. In fact, I am lucky you do not terminate my employment given the murder.”

  “You are not at fault. I allowed you to hire Violet, even if that is at the heart of the murder.” Gently, he stroked her hair, just one finger, down one gleaming lock of mahogany.

  “Mr. Redcake,” she said, but in a tone of frustration, not censure.

  “I want to protect you, Betsy,” he said, letting his finger drift to her cheek, where her skin was every bit as soft as he could expect. His cock twitched, hardened.

  “Betsy?” she said in a whisper.

  “Yes. I want to be your friend, your protector. I don’t want you to ever be hurt again.”

  Her full lips drifted apart, just the tiniest bit. “Protector?”

  “Yes, in the fullest sense. I don’t mean anything improper, just—” He let his fingers slide along the knife wound; just a scratch really.

  Her head tilted up in response to his fingers at her neck, and before he could quite process what was happening, the warmth of her breath was on his lips. Oh, yes. He moved the last half of an inch to capture her mouth with his. His hands worked into her hair and she moaned as he caressed the back of her head and slid his tongue between her lips. Her hands gripped his elbows. He felt himself sliding off the armrest of the sofa and pressed his leg against the side to keep himself in balance, but that momentary inattention gave her a second to think. She pulled away.

  Her hands went to her face, covering her eyes. He stepped around her and sat on the sofa, putting his arm around her.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “No,” she said. “It was my fault.”

  “I hardly think so.” He wanted more, he wanted skin and heat, the intercourse he’d been denied for almost two years.

  She shook her head, her face still covered. “I dreamed about you last night. Something pleasant, I suppose, after such a dreadful day. Many dreadful days really.”

  Something pleasant. He felt vaguely insulted. Her dream about him had been pleasant. She’d ended their kiss. While he’d never exactly believed he was a man who overwhelmed women’s senses, he had the feeling he’d left the job undone. “What were we doing in this dream?”

  Her hands dropped. One went to her wounded neck, the other to the top of her plain navy dress. “We were in bed, naked.”

  The simple words caused a rush of images to race through his head. He’d imagined Betsy Popham’s voluptuous figure unclothed more times than he could count, these past six months. His cock rose, thick and straining. The skirt of his frock coat hid the evidence at least. “Lying next to each other, I suppose?”

  “Oh, no. Quite intertwined.” Her pale cheeks took on a rosy hue as he regarded her.

  “Why, Betsy, I didn’t know a young lady like you was capable of such improper thoughts.” Ha!

  “I’m not some highborn, protected miss,” she said. “Which is not to say I don’t have morals, but I am a woman of the world.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad you dreamed about me.”

  “I suppose I should tender my notice, after a revelation this intimate.” She sighed. “But it is better than thinking about Victor and Simon.”

  “I wouldn’t accept it.” Happily, he discovered his arm was still around her. He squeezed her shoulder. “I like the dream and our real kiss.”

  She turned to him. “I know I meant to ask you something today, but the thought has quite flown my mind. I don’t think I’m going to be able to get any more work done.”

  “You aren’t meant to be here on Sundays, Betsy. You must have some time to rest.”

  “I feel safer here. You’re here.”

  He liked that. “I’m not exactly, as my father used to say, a ‘gal-sneaker, ’ ” he admitted.

  “What’s that?”

  “A seducer. Some old bit of slang.”

  “I never thought you were. I’ve worked by your side for two years, through some very sad events in your personal life.”

  “Happy ones, too,” he told her.

  “Of course,” she agreed.

  “But nothing to do with our kiss.”

  “We’ve been through a lot the past few days. I don’t suppose either of us is . . .” she trailed off.

  He realized she was being careful not to insult him. “At our best,” he finished for her. “But Betsy, I like you like this. I have no idea how to court a young lady in my employ, but I assure you—”

  She interrupted. “You said you wanted to be my protector. I could take that to mean you want me to be your mistress.”

  One benefit of their long working relationship was a fair amount of honesty. “I meant it in a physical sense, a safety one. I wasn’t asking you to let me rent you a little house and buy you dresses.”

  Her cheeks lost their rosy hue. Embarrassment at her misunderstanding? He wasn’t sure. After squeezing her shoulder one last time, he felt he was overdoing it and moved his hand away from her.

  “I see. How foolish you must think me.”

  “You’d never have said yes.” His voice came out in a riotous explosion of
boyish enthusiasm. He put his hand to his forehead. What an idiot.

  She smiled. “You’ll never know, Greggory.”

  She grinned at him, showing she knew exactly how provocative it was that she’d used his first name as well. He had the sense that he’d permanently given this woman the upper hand in their relationship. At least he trusted her completely. She’d proven herself true many a time, and not just to him, but to his cousin, Lady Hatbrook.

  “I like this saucy side of you, Betsy,” he murmured, standing. “But I want you to relax the rest of the day. I’ll send one of the watchmen home with you, in a cab, to make sure you can get in safely. Tomorrow we need to be at our best, with the inquest going on. We both have to testify.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” She was quite pale now, and he longed to take her in his arms. But that would lead to uncharted waters, and he wasn’t ready for that with her, not yet. He was in a place where the wants of his body were not in line with the wants of his mind or heart.

  Right?

  Chapter Eight

  So much had happened, and her night had been so sleepless, that Betsy had a difficult time sitting still as she waited to give her testimony at the inquest late the next morning. The smell of spilled ale filled the air, because she sat in the crowded taproom of a local pub. The inquest was being held upstairs, in a room crowded with officials, jurors, and witnesses. She wished she could have a glass of ale to steady her nerves.

  How had Simon Hellman and Victor Carter managed to evade the police? How had she managed to kiss Greggory Redcake yet not ask him for the loan? And tonight after work she had to pack up their house. The landlord was giving them until midnight to vacate. He’d all but chortled when her father had admitted their lack of funds last night, rubbing his hands together and saying his newly married daughter had been hoping to live in the house, now that she was expecting her first child.

  “All for the best,” the landlord said. “Go stay with friends for a few weeks and I’ll see what I can find for you. Mind the furniture, Mr. Popham. I know most of it came with the house.”

  He was correct, which meant packing would not be too much of a trial. Violet had suggested the three of them sleep in her flat, because Victor hadn’t reappeared. Her father had said that seemed like the best option, but Betsy didn’t know how she could sleep with the fear that she’d be murdered in her bed should Victor sneak in.