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“No. You’ve the custard orders to get ready. Whenever Rothwell hosts a dinner party, we end up with dozens of new customers. We can’t afford to disappoint them. I never imagined we would come so far so quickly.”
“It’s the recipes fromCuisiner pour les Rois,Miss Richardson. I told you they were unique. Exquisite. Like nothing else in London. Rothwell claims he’s never in his life tasted a custard quite like ours. I suppose it doesn’t hurt to mention the recipes were once only served to kings and the nobility. Now all we need is the tartand our fortunes will be made.”
Pennyfoil had been gently nudging her for the recipe forbaiser du cielthe entire week, and Rosalind didn’t have the heart to tell him that there was a real possibility the recipe might never be in her possession. “I’ll have the tart recipe soon, Pennyfoil. I promise.”
“Wonderful, Miss Richardson. But I must ask why we are limiting ourselves. Wouldn’t it be better—”
“No, not at all.” Rosalind had neglected to inform her partner that she didn’t have complete access toCuisiner pour les Rois.He assumed she could consult the cookbook whenever she wished. “I think only presenting one new pastry or dessert at a time creates excitement. You told me that Lord Manville’s cook comes by every morning hoping for something new. We must keep London guessing, Mr. Pennyfoil.”
“True, true.” Pennyfoil ran a hand through his thick ginger hair. “And it is wise to limit our quantities thereby driving demand for specific desserts.”
“Exactly. We have the custard, the sponge cake, and now the torte.”
“Rothwell adores the sponge cake. I’ve sent word to him that we now have a lemon torte and he’d best order his before they’re all gone.”
“Very wise, Mr. Pennyfoil.” Rosalind’s hand snaked out, grabbing Torrington’s recipe for the torte and putting it in her pocket. She’d recopied the recipes for Pennyfoil. It didn’t feel right to allow her partner to have the ones Torrington had done specifically for Rosalind with his special notes and drawings.
Another pang of longing for Torrington stung Rosalind, sharper than the first.
Her fingers brushed over the paper, thinking of how beautiful Torrington had been with flour on his cheek, stirring chocolate sauce. She should be grateful he’d had the sense to stop before completely taking her virtue. Becoming lovers would not have been a wise decision, Rosalind could see that now. She could well have found herself married to Torrington, or worse, her emotions might have led her to do something far more stupid.
Like fall in love with him.
