Once his first harvest from his country estate was ready, he would start to mix his own spices in with the ones he had stolen. Over time, his reliance on stealing the East India’s goods would taper off, and he could begin to compete purely on quality, service and price.
He kept telling himself that, but at the same time, Robert had to admit he got quite the thrill out of stealing from the East India. His own set of morals might well lean toward the gray, but as far as he was concerned, the East India had none whatsoever. His business rival was fair game.
Sorry George, I am going to keep stealing from those swines as long as I can.
But even the Duke of Spice knew that bringing down the mighty East India Company was going to involve more than just a spot of good old thievery. The only way to ensure that the spice trade became a fair one was to see a bill stripping the East India of more of its power successfully passed through the English parliament. And that could take years. Until such a piece oflegislation could muster enough support, Robert would continue with his dirty little enterprise. His one man war.
Oh, speaking of dirty.
A blast of foul wind from the nearby Fleet Ditch had him burying his nose in the sleeve of his coat. The vile reek which filled his senses made his eyes water.
The River Fleet had long ago stopped being a functioning waterway and was now little more than a stench-filled sewer. Robert pulled up the lapels of his greatcoat and did his best to stifle the smell. Hurrying his steps, he broke into a trot and headed further down the Strand.
Not the spice I was looking for.
George was standing hands in pockets on the corner of the Strand and Surry Street. He greeted Robert with a nod. “Evening, Your Grace. I’ve just finished with the proprietor of theJamaica Winds. He will take as much pepper as we can supply. And if we can offer them a regular barrel of cumin, he’ll take that as well.”
Robert broke into a smile. “See, this is all coming together rather nicely. That makes sixteen customers on our list and also calls for a celebratory drink. Come on, let’s go grab a pint of ale, then you can head home to your wife and tell her she has absolutely nothing to worry about.”
His man of business took a step back. “The drink will have to wait for another time, Your Grace. I’m already in enough trouble for being out this late. If I come home smelling of ale, she’ll be in tears. I will see you tomorrow.”
As Robert’s gaze followed George’s hurried steps down Surry Street and toward the River Thames, he wondered what it would be like to have someone waiting for him at home. Someone who loved him so much that she sat up and worried until the moment he set foot through the front door.
He couldn’t ever imagine finding a woman who cared that much about him.
Chapter Three
Victoria wasn’t one for giving up on an eating establishment simply because it had experienced a bad night of service. Cooks took ill. Supplies ran low. There could be any number of perfectly acceptable reasons as to whythe Graceful Swanhad failed to live up to its positive newspaper review. In the interest of fairness, she pressganged her other brother Matthew into accompanying her to the restaurant the following Thursday. He would be her impartial food taster.
She pretended not to notice the empty tables as she and Matthew were shown to the same one that she’d shared with Richard the previous week. Her review methodology was as scientific as she could manage. Same night of the week. Same table. Same menu. Just a different sibling.
As soon as they were seated, she smiled up at the waiter. He gave her an odd look, to which Victoria nodded. “Yes, I am back. And hoping your establishment has recovered from its little misstep and can now live up to its reputation.”
The waiter went to hand her the menu, but Victoria waved it away. “No need, thank you. We shall have the sole, a plate of fried oysters, and the roast beef.”
“Don’t I get to choose my own meal?” protested Matthew.
She shook her head, and tutted. This wasn’t just a meal—it was a controlled test. Neither her brother nor the service staff atthe Graceful Swancould possibly understand the intricacies of restaurant reviews, and how vital it was for diners to be able to rely upon them, so it was all down to her.
Without reliable culinary reviews, the alternative was anarchy.
“No, you don’t get to choose. I must have consistency. These are the exact same items Richard, and I ordered when we dined here last week. I need to be sure that our disappointing and rather tasteless meals were simply an aberration.”
I need to know I can rely on this place.
The waiter bit down on his bottom lip. “I wouldn’t hold out much hope for the food, miss. We’ve been having supply problems.” He bent and whispered, “The owner mentioned something about us getting caught in the middle of a spice war. But you didn’t hear it from my lips.”
He wandered off in the direction of the kitchen to place Victoria and Matthew’s order, leaving his customers sitting and scratching their heads.
“What on earth is a spice war?” asked Matthew.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea, but it sounds thoroughly intriguing.”
The food might still be a problem, but if there was something happening in the world of fine dining, Victoria was all ears. She was well aware that the spice trade in England had been controlled by the East India Company for hundreds of years. The thought of someone else thinking to take them on piqued her interest.
But if restaurants likethe Graceful Swanfound themselves caught up in the middle of a turf war, the only people who would lose out were them and their valuable customers.
I wonder if the reviewer for the Morning Herald knows anything about this?
