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6
Rosalind stepped into the foyer and handed her cloak to their butler, Jacobson, who stood patiently hovering nearby. She’d had a simply wonderful afternoon. Kneading dough always put her in a good frame of mind. Something about the stickiness between her fingers. The smell of spices and sugar lingering in the air. Oddly enough, cherries had been involved.
Which, of course, had made Rosalind think of Torrington.
Glancing down at the flowered muslin of her dress, she was relieved to find out there wasn’t so much as a crumb on her skirts to signal she’d spent the day pitting cherries and making pastry crust. Pennyfoil and she had made at least three dozen pies while discussing their plans.
When the first batch of pies had been placed in the oven, and Rosalind had a cup of tea at her elbow, she told Pennyfoil that she had located a copy ofCuisiner pour les Rois. But she’d hastily added, as Pennyfoil jumped up, spilling his own tea in excitement, the cookbook was not in her possession.
Pennyfoil had sat back down with a disappointed flop.
The owner of the cookbook was possessive, she’d explained. But she would be receiving a translated version of the custard recipe very soon. The remainder of the recipes would follow.
At least, Rosalind hoped they would.
The rest of the afternoon consisted of checking on the pies, icing teacakes, keeping herself hidden in the back of Pennyfoil’s shop, and assuring Pennyfoil that the Duke of Averell wasn’t going to burst through his doors and take him to task for dragging Rosalind into trade.
A decadent custard, Rosalind decided, would go a long way toward keeping Pennyfoil calm and launching their business partnership. Even if Pennyfoil was having second thoughts, he wasn’t about to walk away from the recipes inCuisiner pour les Rois.
Now all she needed was for Torrington to appear, as he’d promised, with the custard recipe.
Rosalind fretted over that. She’d sent him a note shortly after their discussion at Blythe’s— a night all the Barringtons wanted to forget. Theodosia had ruined herself, with, of all people, the Marquess of Haven—informing Torrington that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Lady Richardson paid calls and was absent the better part of the afternoon. He was free to stop by at any time. Thus far, he had not. She doubted his need to give her the custard recipe was as urgent as her desire to receive it. Perhaps she should pay a call on Torrington herself. Granted, she could hardly force him to allow her access to the cookbook but—
“Jacobson, have you ever heard of a collection of recipes containing a dessert which was Louis XIV’s favorite?Cuisiner pour les Rois.”
“Cusine per—”
Rosalind waved away his terrible mispronunciation. “A cookbook from France.”
“I have not, miss. But I can check with Mrs. Hudley if you like.”
Mrs. Hudley was their cook. “Yes, thank you.” If Torrington didn’t appear soon or he neglected to be home when she eventually called on him, Rosalind would have to accept failure or find another copy ofCuisiner pour les Rois. She was getting desperate. Last week, she’d even approached her cousin to ask if he’d ever dined on a special custard made only at Christmas. Tony was the Duke of Averell. Surely, if someone were to make the bloody custard, they would serve it tohim.
Tony had rolled his eyes and asked Rosalind if she was taking nips of the scotch he kept in his study.
The butler, still holding her cloak, stared at her expectantly.
“Is there something else, Jacobson?” Honestly, sometimes gleaning information from their butler was an exhausting process. Mother said he would have made a brilliant spy.
“You have a caller, miss,” Jacobson finally said, shooting her a look of concern. “A gentleman. I informed him you were out, but he insisted on waiting.” He held out a card to her.
Rosalind’s pulse jumped as she read the card.Torrington.Finally.
“I’ve put Lord Torrington in the drawing room. He declined tea.” A frown crossed Jacobson’s tight lips. “Although he did avail himself of the sideboard.”
Of course he had. “Very good, Jacobson.”
“Should I summon your maid?”
For propriety’s sake, Rosalind knew her maid, at the very least, should be present to act as chaperone. But quite honestly, she was at the end of her third season, inching toward being on the shelf. Mother would be gone for hours yet. Their servants wouldn’t dare gossip. There really wasn’t anyone who would care if Torrington called on Rosalind except possibly Jacobson and his sensibilities.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Jacobson. Lord Torrington is merely delivering a recipe to me.” She lowered her voice. “I wish to surprise Lady Richardson. I’m making a custard, a special one.” The staff knew of Rosalind’s passion for making desserts as they were often the recipients of her experimentation.
Jacobson frowned again but merely bowed. If he wondered why the Earl of Torrington was delivering a custard recipe, he was too well-trained to ask. “Very good, miss. The staff won’t breathe a word to Lady Richardson. I do not want to risk ruining her surprise.”
“Thank you, Jacobson.” Taking a deep breath, Rosalind made her way to the drawing room, reasonably assured Mother would not find out about Torrington’s visit. Smoothing her skirts, she stepped through the open door, careful not to allow her excitement at his appearance to show on her face.
Torrington, a glass of what looked to be brandy in his hand, stood at the window, staring out at the small garden behind the house. He didn’t turn when she entered. Instead, his gaze stayed fixed on something outside.
