The orange sponge cake, now perfected, was spectacular and would likely produce the same results.
Pennyfoil was overjoyed.
He had found them the perfect location for their new establishment near Berkeley Square, but the expense was great. Mr. Ledbean, the owner of the building, wanted far more than Rosalind and Pennyfoil could afford at present. Yes, they were making a profit, but not so much that they could spend all of it on their new establishment. Rosalind, footman trailing her, had walked past the building earlier, knowing in her heart the location would be perfect.
Pennyfoil told her he would visit Ledbean again the following day and see if there was any movement on the price. If not, there were other buildings in London.
She gave herself one last glance in the mirror and, satisfied with her appearance, made her way down the stairs. Rosalind had prepared an entire tale to explain her absence today should her mother inquire after her whereabouts.
The butler awaited her downstairs. “Miss Richardson.”
“Jacobson.” Rosalind gave him a small nod. “I’m off to see my cousin.” She didn’t bother to specify which one. If Mother thought she was visiting the Averell mansion, she wouldn’t ask for details.
“Yes, miss.” He nodded. “Another box of oranges has been delivered to the kitchens.”
“Wonderful.” Oranges had appeared the day after the custard tasting, and a new box had arrived every few days. Torrington had access to an orangery, either his own or someone else’s. There had been no note on the box of fruit when it was delivered, but the oranges couldn’t possibly have been from anyone else.
Rosalind claimed to the kitchen staff she’d ordered them to experiment with a new recipe. Not a complete lie. She held out her hand. “My basket, please.”
Jacobson handed her the small basket Rosalind had packed earlier containing the orange sponge cake. After pulling back the napkin to ensure the cake was tucked safely inside, Rosalind tilted her head in the direction of the drawing room, hearing the muted voice of her mother. “Do we have a caller?”
“Lady Hertfort, miss. She arrived a short time ago. Lady Richardson asked not to be disturbed.”
“Very good. I might be gone for some time. A walk around the park will likely be in order after cake.” She patted the basket. Rosalind had no idea how long seduction might take but thought it best to be prepared.
“I’ll inform Lady Richardson, miss.”
Rosalind hopped into the carriage, secured the sponge cake, and clasped her hands in her lap. Nervous energy had her toe tapping against the floor of the carriage as the vehicle lurched forward. She hoped Pennyfoil could negotiate the price down with Ledbean. Rosalind wanted to do it herself but had been sternly reminded by Pennyfoil that she was a silent,discreetpartner.
She firmly pushed aside her irritation. Pennyfoil was right. What did it matter that she couldn’t speak to Ledbean directly? Rosalind’s final season was at an end. Pennyfoil’s was well on its way to becoming a success. Mother would be forced to accept the inevitable.
Add to all that the fact that Rosalind wasn’t wearing a corset or underthings and would likely return home with another magnificent recipe but not her virginity? It was quite a lot to contemplate.
10
Ashort time later, Rosalind was ushered into the foyer of Torrington’s home, her eyes moving over the tasteful, elegant décor. She’d never been to an unmarried gentleman’s home without a proper chaperone.
Her expectations of Torrington’s home were based on the house she’d lived in until her father’s death. Rosalind had been expecting thick burgundy velvet covering every surface. Plush, expensive rugs. Lots of gold tassels. Gilt gracing every surface. Statues of cherubs engaged in questionable activities. Poorly painted art, also of a questionable nature. Mother had not redecorated, for some reason, only managing to force most of the more dubious furnishings out of view of visitors.
Torrington’s home was far different than Rosalind had imagined.
The interior was warm. Comfortable. Smelling, oddly enough, of chocolate and not stale cheroot and dust. The furnishings, though masculine, weren’t overly heavy or intimidating. No cherubs dotted the tops of his tables or were hidden in an alcove. Rosalind didn’t have an appreciation for art—that was her cousin Theodosia—but even she could see that the paintings hanging in Torrington’s foyer were likely done by a master artist.
“Lord Torrington is expecting me,” she crisply informed Torrington’s butler, a tall, faintly disapproving older gentleman. “I am Miss Richardson.”
Rosalind had sent Torrington a note late yesterday asking if she could call. He’d responded that he would be at home but said little else. A brief rush of panic filled her at the thought that perhaps he’d forgotten. About inviting her. Telling her not to wear a corset. All of it.
She clasped her fingers tighter around the basket.
“I am Watkins, Lord Torrington’s butler.” He looked behind Rosalind to her carriage, in expectation of someone else popping out. When no one appeared, the butler gave a sigh and shut the door. “Shall I take that, miss?” He nodded at the basket in her hand.
“No, thank you. This”—she held up the basket—“is for Lord Torrington.”
“Very good. This way, Miss Richardson.”
She’d expected to be led to the drawing room and offered tea while she waited for Torrington, but the butler passed by what Rosalind took to be the drawing room. Instead, he led her down a long hall to a set of stairs at the back of the house.
Watkins waved her forward.
