The Marquess of Cake

Book 1: Redcakes

by Heather Hiestand

Genres: Historical Fiction; Victorian Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Coffee. . .tea. . .or a pastry chef sweeter than any confection. . .

Scotch trifle fit for Queen Victoria, scones with clotted cream. . .Alys Redcake knows the way to a man's heart. Yet she is unaware that with each morsel--and flash of ankle--she is seducing the handsome marquess frequenting her father's tea shop. Unmarried at twenty-six, Alys's first love is the family business. But thoughts of the gentleman's touch are driving her to distraction. . .

With his weakness for sugar, the Marquess of Hatbrook can imagine no more desirable woman than one scented with cake and spice. Mistaking Alys for a mere waitress, he has no doubt she would make a most delicious mistress. And when he finds himself in need of an heir, he plans to make her his convenient bride. Yet as they satisfy their craving for one another, business and pleasure suddenly collide. Will Hatbrook's passion for sweets--and for Alys--be his heart's undoing?

85,000 Words

Release date: July 1, 2013

Publisher: eKensington

Print pages: 252

Sample

November 1886

Michael Shield, Marquess of Hatbrook, breathed in the mouth-watering scent of pastries drifting through the open iron gates of the corner shop at Oxford and Regent Streets. The window display of scones and shortbreads, sponges and meringues, and wafers and biscuits, reminded him of all the exquisite flavors to be had within.

He paused for a moment to admire the arrangement. A young woman, who was sheltered head to toe by a dark cloak, jostled his arm. She smelled like cake.

“My apologies.” She glanced in his direction, so that he received an impression of fierce, dark eyes, then turned her head to her companion. “I won’t be ordered into the country like I’m some sort of ornament for a hunting ball.”

“Too right, Alys,” agreed the shorter girl, striding briskly alongside. She, not as well dressed as the first girl, wore a shabby jacket and bonnet.

“I like my work too much to leave it,” said the cake-scented girl as the pair swept through the shop gates.

Cake. Redcake’s Tea Shop and Emporium was heaven right here in London. Heaven and hell, because if he partook of such a treat his hands might stop trembling and his thoughts might clear, but then, in less than an hour, the cycle would begin anew. A minor medical matter, to be sure, but an irritating one.

Only vigorous exercise kept his body trim, thanks to his frequent indulgences. Still, one small bun, perhaps a slice of fruitcake?

He caught the door with the hooked handle of his umbrella as the women dashed toward the bakery on the right. As he moved through the entryway to the tearoom on the left, he took a deep breath of yeasty goodness.

“Hatbrook, you degenerate! Just the chap I need!”

He spotted an old Oxford chum waving from a window-side table and made his way through the afternoon crowd. His friend, Theodore Bliven, mahogany curls in careless disarray as usual, moved a stack of newspapers, clearing a space for the bill of fare. A pert waitress, or “cakie” as they were called, placed the sheet in front of Michael before he’d even had time to remove his hat.

“Best girls in town, aren’t they?” Theo said. “I tried to hire one away to staff our house, but old Redcake pays them too well for that.”

“He isn’t being knighted for being a stupid tradesman.”

“He isn’t being knighted for being a good one either,” Theo chuckled. “I hear it’s because the queen can’t resist his Scotch trifle.”

The trifle was a rather extraordinary Christmas treat. “Why are you following the investiture lists?”

“It seems they’ll knight anyone these days.” Theo poked his finger into the newspaper. “That name sounds familiar.”

Michael made a face. “My man of business.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. When we were up at Balmoral this past summer, he fished one of the young princes out of the lake.”

“Why did you invite him to Scotland?”

“He brought me some figures regarding my winery expenses. I needed the information and his expertise.”

“A pity. That knighthood will give him airs.”

He did sense a change in the air at his solicitor’s office today. “What did you need me for, Theo?”

“You’re an old Sussex man. I need a recipe for cockles. It’s revolting what they do with them at my club.”

Michael reflected. “I like them in a pie, myself, with salt pork and onions. But why are they serving peasant food?”

“Hmmm. Some of the old men like them, I suppose. They’re always in a revolting white wine sauce.”

“Maybe they use cheap wine?”

“Like the kind that comes out of your vineyard?” Theo poked Michael’s leg with a damp boot.

Michael moved his leg to the left. Just because his piece of England was the sunniest part of the country didn’t make it the best spot for grapes. Still, his vineyard turned a small profit these days.

“Gentlemen?” asked a cakie in a businesslike tone. “What may I bring you today?”

Michael considered her. The young woman with elfin features didn’t look familiar, but she smelled delicious. With a start, he realized she’d been the cake-scented girl who jostled him just a few moments ago outside. He wondered why she’d prefer waiting tables to a trip to the country.

Michael forced his eyes from the avowed city girl’s generous curves, which were ornamental indeed. He couldn’t get that blasted Scotch trifle out of his head. The memory of that heather-honey flavor of the Drambuie in the sponge, reminding him of simpler times, had his mouth watering anew.

“A dish of the special holiday trifle, if you will, and coffee.”

“I’m so sorry, sir. We’re all out.” The cakie’s voice didn’t change tone as she delivered this tragic news.

“That’s ‘your lordship,’ young miss,” Theo said, mischief dancing in his eyes. “You can’t refuse trifle to the Marquess of Hatbrook.”

A woman at the next table gasped and nudged her neighbor, whispering, “A marquess, that is!”

The cakie swallowed sharply, but then her pointed chin went up. “I’m sorry, your lordship, but it’s all gone to Buckingham Palace for a celebration.”

“Buck House,” whispered the other gossip at the next table. “How fancy!”

“Very tiresome,” Michael said, enjoying the cakie’s show of spirit. An attractive girl with heat in her eyes was as welcome as Scotch trifle. He wondered if she ever put those rosy lips to use in other passionate endeavors. “Instead, I’ll have a plate of scones with honey.”

“Would you like some Drambuie with that?”

A gasp went up from the other table. “Did she just offer his lordship spirits? I thought this was a respectable place?”

The cakie flushed scarlet, but her chin stayed up. Her gaze had regained the besieged fire he saw outside.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Yes, your lordship.”

Her clipped tone had him glancing at her again. Those eyes were as dark as Theo’s, but the high color and pursed full lips told him of her pique. Though a cap covered most of her hair, he could see, not surprisingly given her temper, that her hair was a carroty red, though smooth and shiny at the part. All together, a young woman with spark, and he wondered again why she would want to spend her days here. Of course, times were hard, and poverty sent many girls into the workforce. Since the girls wore black dresses of a conservative cut with white aprons, they offered no hint of individuality, though he thought this particular girl was the least subservient cakie he’d ever run across.

The girl’s gaze captured his and he realized he’d been staring.

Her forehead and cheeks flushed crimson. “I-I’ll get your order for you, your lordship.”

She darted away, skirts fluttering, offering a glimpse of trim ankle. Fetching, very fetching indeed. He wondered what she’d look like in a ball gown under gaslight, with her hair aglow and her pale skin enhanced by golden glamour.

He started, the smell of pastry and Theo’s grin reminding him where he was. Only the cakie’s delectable scent of cake and, yes, orange flower water, had him thinking these sensual thoughts about a working girl. He had no time for romance, either marriage or dalliance-minded, not with the time it took to float money from holding to enterprise to mortgage, as he rebuilt his family fortune from the mess his father’s gambling had created.

“Are you staying in town through the holidays?” Theo inquired.

“Yes. My mother wanted to come in to shop and then my cousin Laurence is being knighted tomorrow. Smythe, my man, is being knighted at the next investiture in three weeks.”

“Maybe you’ll get some trifle tomorrow then.”

“I’m sure the royal family will hoard it to their collective bosom,” Michael said.

“I once thought you might marry into the royal family,” Theo said. “Since you are an intimate.”

“Ah. The queen’s children are all married off now.”

“Your mother must be disappointed,” Theo observed.

“She’d like someone very grand for my sister, at least. Beth is seventeen now, if you can believe it.”

Theo winked. “She’s much prettier than you. I’ll take her off your hands.”

“No, thank you,” Michael said. “You aren’t very grand.”

Theo sighed theatrically. “I have prospects. Only three elderly bachelor cousins have to die before a title comes to my side of the family.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. There’s a good chance I’ll be an earl by the time I’m fifty.”

“Plan to live that long, given your propensity for trouble?”

“Fifty does seem terribly old,” Theo admitted.

“My mother is forty-seven,” Michael said, toying with Theo’s plate. It was covered with crumbs and he wondered what Theo had been eating. It looked like a red, seedless jam had been involved.

“I’m sure she looks much younger.”

“She does try. All that trying is quite expensive. I think I’ll marry a woman who isn’t obsessed with her appearance.”

“They make women like that?”

“My plan is to tell her how beautiful she is on a regular basis, so she doesn’t get any ideas that she is losing her looks.”

“Sound in theory, but do you think women really listen to their husbands?”

“Mine will. I’ll only marry a sweet, biddable girl, not a termagant like Mother.” Remembering the cakie, he added, “One who enjoys rusticating far more than the hustle and bustle of the city, like I do.”

His stomach rumbled in anticipation when their cakie crossed the floor, holding a plate of scones with a small dish of honey and a cup of coffee on a tray. As the girl passed the table with the gossips, one of the ladies gesticulated wildly. Her arm caught the tray. The cakie jerked back nimbly enough, but the tray dislodged from her hands when the lady threw up her arm yet again. The cakie rocked on her heels and, in seeming slow motion, began to fall backward.

Michael leapt up, his thigh slamming the edge of his table as he caught her by the apron, then found purchase for his hands around her hips. The tin tray clattered to the floor as he pulled her curvy hips flush against his legs. Her body pressed against him. He scented that delectable perfume of hers. Eau de Redcake’s.

The ladies at the table shrieked and another employee ran toward them, a cloth in her hand. Michael glanced down and saw the cakie’s large, brown eyes staring into his, confusion evident.

He blinked at the girl. “How beautiful you look today.” He peered at the black embroidery on her apron. “Alys.”

Her entire body vibrated. She stepped away from him almost before his lower body reacted to the sensuous press of her substantial bosom against his chest. Her cheeks were scarlet, which made the freckles high on her cheekbones stand out adorably. Given a choice between a display of cake and her, he might just stare at this girl.

The other cakie exclaimed and helped Alys gather up the ruined food, broken cup, and saucer before running for a mop and bucket. The gesticulating woman at the next table rose, muttering about the falling standards of the tea shop. The other tossed bills on the table and departed with a last frank stare in Michael’s direction.

He sat abruptly as the injured muscle of his thigh contracted, reminding him he had slammed his leg against the table during his rescue.

Theo guffawed. “You do have a way with women.”

He stared at the departing gossips. “How rude, when they caused the accident.”

“Your mother would have reacted the same way and you know it.”

“It’s so depressing to realize she’s not the only horror in the world.”

“It’s no problem, sir,” the cakie with the mop said, looking up. “We’ll get you another plate immediately.”

Alys rushed away. In less than two minutes she had returned with fresh dishes.

“I do apologize for my clumsiness, your lordship. Of course, there will be no charge.” Mouth pursed, color high, she had a damp stain down one arm.

“Quite all right. Not your fault.” Even underneath her starched white apron, he could see her bosom was as magnificent as it had felt against him for that tantalizingly brief moment.

“I should have been more careful.”

“Not at all. Please do give me the bill. I won’t hear of it being otherwise.” He rather liked this Alys and didn’t want the bill to come out of her salary.

She blinked and shook her head. “I’ll see about that.”

She rushed away, leaving Michael quite bemused by her pride.

“It was about time Mother hired us a dressmaker,” Rose Redcake opined loudly from her pose in front of a floor-length mirror as Alys dashed into the shared dressing room.

Their other sister, Matilda, nodded from her perch on a rich, red velvet sofa.

Rose continued, twisting her thick locks into a knot at the top of her head. “Father must allow us to dress for our new position in society.”

Their father had been spending a great deal of money lately, and not just on their mother. He had bought this Georgian house on St. James’s Square just two years ago from an earl. Last week, he’d purchased a country estate in Sussex, a parcel of property the Duke of Devonshire had been discarding. Alys found this purchase worrisome. She couldn’t understand why her father would buy a home so far away from his industrial base in Bristol, the mills and baking factories that had made him wealthy. The Tea Shop and Emporium she adored was merely the diamond in his crown.

“The shops are lovely here,” Matilda argued. “I’ve found the most beautiful dresses at Liberty and Co.”

“Ready-made,” Rose sniffed. “Machine lace.”

“Eighteen and already a snob,” Alys sighed, dropping onto a padded ottoman next to her youngest sister.

“Please change out of that uniform before you leave Redcake’s,” Rose said. “You look like a maid.”

Alys looked down at her sensible dress with affection. One of the best perks of holding a position was wearing comfortable clothing much of the time. “At least I don’t have to lace my corset so tightly that I risk swooning, unlike some young ladies I know.”

“One must suffer for fashion,” Rose wheezed.

The discussion was cut short by their mother’s entrance, along with a short, stout dressmaker and her two frightened-looking assistants.

“The girls need reception gowns for an affair at Buckingham Palace.” Ellen Redcake floated her left hand next to her cheek, as graceful as any dancer.

“Sensible,” Alys said. “Something we can wear again, in our regular lives.”

“Silk,” Matilda insisted.

“Fit for the Palace.” Rose made a grand gesture with her pinky pointed.

“Everyone at this investiture is on the rise,” their mother said. “Who knows who you might meet there?”

“I know what I would like,” Matilda said.

“No pink, Matilda,” their mother said. “It clashes with your hair.”

“But I love pink,” Matilda cried.

“No man will find you attractive in pink. You’re twenty-one now, dear, it’s time to be careful.” She raised a hand. “Alys, twenty-six isn’t too old to wed.”

“I don’t want a husband,” Alys muttered. Her mother could even dangle that handsome marquess from Redcake’s in front of her and she’d still say no.

“All women want husbands. You simply require a very special man.” She tilted her head into a dreamy pose.

Alys focused on the dressmaker, hoping she could be measured first. She had a new idea for a wedding cake decoration she was dying to experiment with before a wedding consultation the next day.

Unfortunately, the dress discussion went on for hours, as Matilda wanted romance, Rose wanted something fit for a duke’s daughter, and Alys wanted something severely tailored.

With their mother’s assistance, they settled on kilted skirts of silk, with velvet bodices and tunics due to the time of year. Matilda found a forest-green silk in the dressmaker’s samples and matched it to a velvet decorated with yellow flowers. Rose, who could wear pink, chose a pink silk skirt and cream velvet. Alys insisted on a delicate gray for both of her fabrics. They also argued over the size of the bustle but their mother agreed with Alys and kept it relatively small.

“You will all be a credit to your father, girls,” their mother said approvingly.

“Perhaps we might order another few dresses?” Rose asked. “I have nothing to wear on calls to new friends, and what if we receive party invitations, Mother?”

“I have work to do,” Alys muttered, and left the room as quickly as she could, impeded by the tightly laced corset her mother had forced her to wear.

Three weeks later, Alys smoothed her dove-gray gown over her hips as she listened to Rose and Matilda argue next to the fire.

Her twin brother, Gawain, recently of Her Majesty’s army, and her inventor cousin, Lewis Noble, paced the drawing room, looking very handsome in their morning coats. Her brother’s limp made a thump, slide, thump noise against the parquet as he stomped around the edge of the rug. They stopped in front of a family portrait painted by their mother. The watercolor depicted smiles all around, quite a contrast to today’s mood.

“Look, Gawain,” Lewis said, pointing to the brass parrot on his shoulder. Dear Lewis, always trying to cheer people. He might never be precisely fashionable, since he cared little for his appearance, but he never had an unkind word to say to anyone. “She talks. Pretty, isn’t she, Alys?”

“Cracker,” said the parrot’s deep, ghostly voice. Its metal wings fluttered, sounding like the tinkling of tiny bells.

Rose laughed, then coughed. The pestilential London fog bothered her lungs fiercely at this time of year, and Alys suspected the greenery decorating the room did her no good either. Their mother had ordered Rose to keep her corset loosened at all times, but Alys knew her sister insisted their maid tighten it whenever she left the house.

“How did you make that silly thing speak?” Matilda asked, drowning out Alys’s, “Very pretty.”

Lewis grinned at her, his teeth shining through his slightly inadequate blond beard. “It’s a secret.”

Ellen Redcake glided into the room in a long, purple-and-green flowing gown more suited to the medieval age than the modern era. Mrs. Nettleship, her mother’s dressmaker, often designed for the theater and it showed.

“The carriage is waiting, ma’am,” Pounds, the butler, said, entering the room.

“Where is Father?” Alys asked.

“We’ll pick him up at Redcake’s. The weather is simply dreadful.” Her mother’s hands fluttered. “Why did the queen have to schedule this investiture today?”

“She can’t predict the weather, Mother,” said Gawain.

“You poor dear,” Mother said, rubbing her hand along Gawain’s sleeve. “You must find this so very trying, after India’s warmth.”

“I’m happy to be home.” Gawain glowered at her, despite his words.

A trio of housemaids entered with outer garments for everyone. An extra carriage had been hired for the occasion and it was agreed Alys and her brother would go to Redcake’s while the others went on ahead.

Would anyone at Redcake’s recognize her in these clothes? She looked like a lady. Would his lordship, the Marquess of Hatbrook, think she was his social equal in clothing like this? She’d found it hard to forget him these past weeks. Had the sensation of his hard chest and strong thighs flush against her body made such a lasting impression? It seemed so. That saucy friend of his no doubt was a gentleman as well, but as lively and naughty as he’d been, she preferred the more austere character and looks of the marquess. Though admittedly, he’d had the hungriest eyes she’d ever seen. She shivered at the thought.

How exciting that such people came to the tea shop now. To think it had started as so small an operation that she’d been the one to suggest many of the menu offerings, including the Scotch trifle her father’s mother used to serve at Christmastime. What happy memories those had been, when their older brother, Arthur, was still alive and learning the mill business, before Gawain had gone into the army, before she’d learned not everyone was kind.

Now Arthur was dead of some horrible wasting disease that had claimed him at twenty years of age, and Gawain had a patch over his ruined eye and a permanent limp. His career had been ended by the injuries, though Father hadn’t been sorry to see his only living son safely back at home again and ready to work at Redcake’s.

She pressed her lips together and tried to return to happier thoughts. How could she not admire the marquess, with his wavy, brown hair just touched with a hint of the sun, despite the time of year? She thought his eyes must have been a stormy sea blue, though of course it was awfully hard to say since she had tried not to stare.

The carriage entered the alleyway behind Redcake’s, where their father waited on the loading dock. He worked entirely too hard, but she understood why. She loved Redcake’s as much as he did. The tea shop and emporium part at least. She wasn’t so fond of the factories.

Bartley Redcake nodded to his son and kissed his daughter’s cheek as he entered the carriage, bringing the scent of flour and vanilla with a backdrop of tobacco. He was a hands-on manager still and she didn’t doubt he’d checked a measurement and stirred a pot or two today.

“Are you nervous, Father?” she asked.

“Oh, the queen isn’t so different from you or me,” he said heartily, adjusting his topcoat over his substantial stomach.

The buttons strained and Alys made a mental note to tell her mother so she could alter the garment.

“Still, it’s something, isn’t it? Really something.”

“We’re all so proud of you,” Alys assured him.

Gawain said nothing, just took out a cigar and began the ritual of preparing it.

“I’ll take one of those, son.”

Without a word, Gawain passed him his cigar case.

An hour later, she held hands with Matilda and Rose as they craned their necks for a view of the spectacle. Queen Victoria entered the richly decorated, polychrome ballroom in Buckingham Palace, attended by two Gurkha orderly officers and various support staff.

The queen, a short, elderly woman dressed in black with touches of lace, wore a style of gown in fashion when Alys was a baby. She wore a lace veil to indicate her widowed status and her thick fingers were covered in rings. In one bow to contemporary fashion she wore a velvet band around her neck, black of course, from which dangled a diamond pendant that caught the light.

The dais held five members of the Yeomen of the Guard, dressed in their Tudor finery of red and gold. The room was enormous and Alys could well believe it the largest room in London.

“I like their hats,” Rose giggled, poking at the feathers in her hair. “Too bad the Yeomen are all such old men.”

“Isn’t that usher adorable?” Matilda said from the other side, lifting her chin toward a young man dressed in black, his curly, blond hair surrounding a face still encased in more baby fat than Alys could find attractive.

“I think that’s the Earl of Lathom with the queen, he is Lord Chamberlain presently,” Mrs. Redcake said, turning from her position just in front of them. “What is he thinking with that beard? So unattractive.”

She stopped speaking when “God Save the Queen” began to play. Afterward, the earl announced the first recipient and his achievements. Another man bent to whisper in the queen’s ear as an elderly man doddered forward. The queen took a sword from a servant. Alys felt it an incongruous sight to see a large sword in the hand of such a grandmotherly figure.

She watched as an usher helped the man kneel on the investiture stool and receive his accolade from Queen Victoria’s sword.

The elderly man stood as the queen stepped back, seeming taller than before. Alys could have sworn he held his shoulders straighter, and he certainly walked better. As an usher announced his name the elderly man smiled, appearing almost handsome.

“How different the knighting has made him seem,” Matilda whispered in her ear, echoing Alys’s thoughts.

Th. . .