“I’m getting married in a few hours, which means today is my last day of being able to amble across the square to the German bakery. How about we celebrate my last day of freedom with some freshly baked sourdough bread? We can be back before Mama and the modiste arrive to start dressing me,” said Victoria.
She was still undecided as to how she felt about this whole marriage business. Everything had happened so quickly, but there was one thing she was certain of—if she was going to face a church full of thehaut ton’sstony-faced matrons, followed by a three-hour wedding breakfast and an evening ball, she was going to do it with a belly full of hot bread and salted butter.
George was in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea when Robert made his way downstairs a short time later. He held up his hand in greeting. “Morning, Your Grace. Happy wedding day.”
Robert furrowed his brows. He’d seen his man of business only a few hours ago and George, along with his wife, was coming to the wedding.
Why is he here?
“Did we have business to conduct this morning?” he asked, racking his brains trying to recall if there was a spice shipment coming.
George pointed at the loaf of bread and pat of butter which sat in front of him on the wooden kitchen table. “We have a problem with the German bakery in Berkeley Square.”
He was getting married in a matter of hours—what could be so important about a bloody bakery? Robert sucked in a deep, calming breath. He had been practicing them regularly ever since the afternoon he’d been to see the Duke of Mowbray to ask for Victoria’s hand in marriage.
Fortunately George was an intelligent man and could read his master’s mood. He cleared his throat. “The German bakery that we have been supplying spices to for well over two years has undergone a sudden change of ownership. Some well-heeled chap recently returned from serving the East India Company in Surat has apparently bought it. Which means we have made our last spice delivery to that shop.”
Damn. That’s one of our biggest customers.
With the loss of the bakery, he’d have to find somewhere else to offload several barrels of cinnamon and other spices each week. It would also mean the East India had regained their stronghold in what had become his part of the London market.
“We have to make the customers want to go elsewhere.”
Robert nodded. “Yes, we can’t just sit by and let them take our slice of the market.” He thought for a moment. While it was too late to stop the sale, they could still mess with the new owners and rob them of the existing loyal clientele.
What’s the best way to get loyal customers to stop buying from the new owner?
In his long efforts to thwart the East India, he’d adopted a simple motto. By all means necessary, legal or otherwise. And if his underhanded competitor thought it could start buying up businesses, that’s exactly how he was going to fight.
Dirty.
“George, this is what I want you to do.”
When Victoria and Coco arrived at the bakery later that morning, there was an unusually large and surprisingly raucous crowd gathered outside. The sisters exchanged worried glances.
“Is it always like this?” asked Coco.
“No, never. Most mornings there are one or two people in the shop ahead of me, but never people waiting outside,” replied Victoria.
A well-dressed, middle-aged couple moved away from the door of the bakery and headed in their direction. From the expressions on their faces and the way they walked, they didn’t seem the least bit happy.
When the couple got to where Victoria and Coco were standing, Victoria waved them down. “Pardon me, but what’s going on?”
The gentleman motioned toward the bakery. “They are closed. Rumor has it that several customers found pieces of rat in their pies this morning. And a bone in a bun. Can you believe it? The new owners only took over the place this morning, but it seems that things have already gone seriously downhill.”
“Yes, we will have to find a new place for our morning sourdough. Such a pity the old owners have left,” added his wife.
The disappointed couple continued on their way, leaving Victoria staring after them. There went her hopes for a final sourdough and butter breakfast before she became a duchess.
Was nothing going to remain steadfast in her life?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Victoria was doing her best not to grip too firmly to her father’s arm, but it was a struggle. The rest of her body was wound tight like a spring. She feared what might happen if she let loose the hold on her suppressed emotions.
As she and the duke made their way down the aisle of St. Georges Church, Hanover Square, her gaze darted left and right. So many people. The pews were close to overflowing.
Breathe in. Count to four, then breathe out. Slowly. Maintain calm.
