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“You’re comparing yourself to a well-made table, Rosalind.”
“There isn’t any other reason why Torrington or any man like him weds a girl such as myself. The need for a wife. One that is convenient. Easy to wed. A desperate girl in her third season.” She took in Theodosia, stunning even though she was squinting and feeling her way about like a blind mouse. “You couldn’t possibly understand. In any case, I find him repulsive due to his age and his rakish past.”
“Hmm.” Theodosia gave her a thoughtful glance. “I admit, I’m relieved. Torrington will likely be at Blythe’s party this evening, and I can’t have you mooning at him over the punch. Thank goodness you aren’t suited to each other.”
“Not in the least. I told you. I don’t intend to wed at all.” Rosalind’s heart pounded a little harder, and it wasn’t because of their pace or her corset.
Torrington would be at Blythe’s.
Rosalind and her mother, along with Theodosia, were attending Blythe’s party tonight. She straightened her shoulders, pressing her fingers over her heart which refused to regain its normal rhythm. What would it matter if he were in attendance?
The only positive aspect of her brief acquaintance with Torrington had been learning of the existence of the French cookbook, as it might very well make her fortune. And Pennyfoil’s. She found Torrington unacceptable. There was absolutely no reason for her heart to leap from her chest every time she caught sight of his silver-tinged head.
She really wished that would stop. The heart-leaping.
“So you think you might find this magical cookbook at Thrumbadge’s?” Theodosia wisely changed the subject from Torrington.
“I must offer something unique if I am to become popular. Exquisite desserts that can’t be found anywhere else. I must stand out from the dozens of bakeries and cafes in London. This cookbook contains such recipes.”
“I agree you must stand out.” Theodosia nodded. “But you’ve dozens of recipes tucked away, some you’ve been collecting for years. I’ve seen the little box where you keep them. Can you really improve upon your blancmange? Or that divine cake you made for my birthday? The trifle you presented at Christmas dinner was spectacular, but even so—”
“It’s averyrare cookbook,” Rosalind interrupted. “The recipes are uncommon. Different. It was Mr. Pennyfoil who first brought the cookbook to my attention.” Another small lie, but she didn’t want Theodosia becoming fixated on Torrington again. Besides, Torrington had only mentioned thenameof the collection of recipes. He’d given Rosalind not one lick of information about what it contained or where she could find it. It had been Pennyfoil who’d told Rosalind the importance ofCuisiner pour les Roiswhen she’d asked. He’d agreed that obtaining a copy, though unlikely due to the book’s rarity, would indeed make their establishment famous. “He’s been seeking a copy for years. The original was written in French—”
“Your French is horrific, Ros.”
“But there is a translation in English.” She frowned. “Or at least Pennyfoil believes there might be.”
Theodosia banged her shin as Rosalind opened the door of Thrumbadge’s. “Blast, that hurts. How does Pennyfoil know of such a book?”
“Mr. Pennyfoil’s mother once worked in the kitchens of the Earl of Ismere, whose French chef often consulted a cookbook when making some of his more spectacular desserts. The chef was so possessive of the cookbook, he let no one else look at it even though none of the staff spoke or read French.”
“Very much like you cannot.”
Rosalind nudged her with an elbow. “I know enough to read a recipe.”
“Sounds incredibly mysterious, Ros. A secret cookbook in French. But how many ways could there possibly be to make a custard? Or a torte?”
Theodosia knew nothing about the creation of pastries and cakes. Her forte was paints. Brushes. Pastels. Pennyfoil called baking an alchemy of sorts. Knowing the exact measurement of each ingredient and how the slightest change could alter the entire taste and texture required great mastery.
“When he was a child, Pennyfoil was fortunate enough to sample some of those desserts. The chef always made extra for the staff.” Pennyfoil had told Rosalind he would stay awake nearly half the night during one of Ismere’s dinners, waiting patiently for his mother to bring him a small square of cake or a tart. The perfection of such pastries was what had compelled Pennyfoil to have his own bakery one day. “There is a custard which is so exquisite, so decadent, it is only made once a year.” Rosalind’s voice rose in her excitement, recalling Pennyfoil’s worshipful account of the custard. “Can you imagine?”
“No, I cannot.” Theodosia peered into the dim, enormous space of Thrumbadge’s. “What if Pennyfoil is wrong?”
“He isn’t.” Torrington knew about the cookbook, so Rosalind knew it existed. And Pennyfoil’s awe when Rosalind had claimed she might know where to findCuisiner pour les Roishad been real. “An invitation to Ismere’s dinner parties was highly sought after because of the desserts his chef produced. Pennyfoil told me a fight broke out once because one of Ismere’s neighbors appeared, though he hadn’t been invited. The dessert being served that night is said to have beenthetart.”
Theodosia stopped. “A tart?”
“Keep your voice down.” Rosalind glanced around them to make sure no one was listening.
“Really, Ros. I doubt anyone cares about a tart,” Theo whispered back.
“The tart was reputed to be the favorite of Louis XIV himself. The entire cookbook is filled with such exquisite desserts. A tart known to be the favorite of a king could turn a bakery into an establishment known all over London,” Rosalind said. “Perhaps even all ofEngland.”
“So, a tart is going to make you and Pennyfoil wealthy?” Theodosia snorted in disbelief. “A tart.”
“I’m sure of it. Don’t you see? I’ll have something unique, something that cannot be found anywhere else. And best of all, I won’t have to wed. No husband.”
“I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it?” Theodosia muttered under her breath.
