Wedding Matilda (Redcakes Book 6) (3 page)

“Powdery.”

She took another bite and rolled it around in her mouth. “Talcum?”

“Some adulterant like that.”

“Our suppliers haven’t changed,” Matilda said, putting the plate down. “Don’t we use the same suppliers you use here?”

“Lady Hatbrook made some changes recently, trying out suppliers from Liverpool your sister’s fiancé told her about.”

“I see. What about the other cake?”

He opened the second box and wiped his knife clean, then allowed her to slice into it. She noted a few crumbles as she sliced, more than normal. He shook his head when she automatically offered him a sliver of the cake. It had the same taste when she took a bite.

She inventoried the ingredients of the shilling cake in her head. Everything tasted as it should except for the powdery aftertaste. “Do you remember Trumble’s Cakes from when we were children? That’s what this tastes like to me. Just standard, a cheap cake anyone could buy anywhere. We didn’t eat it at home, but I remember having it at a friend’s home for tea.”

“We didn’t have Trumble’s Cakes at school. I think they did all the baking in the school kitchens.”

She set her plate down. “What we have is a fine Redcake’s brand cake tasting like any other inexpensive cake. Not good. Of course I don’t understand why we’re selling shilling cake slices in our tearoom. You’d think we would sell better quality.”

“They redecorate them with seasonal fruit and add a dollop of frosting.”

“Even so. I never realized.” She wanted to feel pride that her cakes were so good, but under the circumstances that was impossible.

“What will you do now?”

“Go back to the factory. We have an additive problem, or an adulterant.”

“You’ll need to move fast to fix the problem before the next shipment.”

“I’m hoping it was one bad batch of flour,” Matilda said. “I wish the entire shipment hadn’t been bad. Thank you for speaking in Lord Judah’s stead. I can’t waste time.”

He inclined his head. “I am happy to serve Redcake’s, as always.”

She sensed a hint of irony in his tone, not something she had ever associated with him before. “Are you unhappy here?”

His chin pulled back. “What?”

“You are not yourself, Mr. Hales. I may not know you well, but I have known you for years.”

“There is nothing you need trouble yourself with.”

“If you are ill, you should return home.”

“I’m not ill.”

She had to agree he appeared to be in fine fettle. If anything, she’d say he had a martial light in his eye, but she had no interest in doing battle with him on any subject. She had to return to Bristol. “May I use the telephone?”

He directed her to it, and she rang her Bristol office, asking her secretary, Greggory, to have the cake factory manager meet with her at nine
A.M.
the next morning. She would start with him.

By the time she was done with the telephone, Mr. Hales had put the cakes into a larger box and tied it with twine so she could carry it.

She took it, then braced herself and stared up into his eyes. “You clearly do have some kind of trouble. Nothing you say to me would be repeated to my father or Lord Judah. If I can help, just say the word.”

“You are not known for your compassion, Miss Redcake.”

She shook her head, as if she could cleanse her brain of his words. “You do not know me.”

He pressed his lips together for a moment. “I am realizing that. Thank you, Miss Redcake. I hope you solve the problem with the cakes quickly. If you cannot, please notify me so that we can increase our production in the bakery here. I can bring on some extra men.”

“When does Lord Judah return?”

“I hope it will be a short trip.”

Upon reflection, she did think he appeared tired. Overwork, perhaps? But she couldn’t advise him to rest, not with the entire operational responsibility resting on those admittedly broad shoulders. He was gaining useful experience. She made a mental note to ask her father if the new shop and tearoom would have a bakery on the premises. It would be wise for just such emergencies as this.

“I do hope he returns soon. At least his departure created a learning experience for you.”

He raised an eyebrow. She held her ground despite his obvious derision. “You will have days like this when you are manager. I have learned that the hard way.”

His expression smoothed to a near perfect blankness. Instead of reading his expression, she noted the high cheekbones, the square chin, the skin that molded tightly along his perfect jawline. She could see a hint of beard under his lower lip. It would scratch her if she touched him there this late in the day.

“Miss Redcake?”

His tone was gentle. She had been staring.

She forced a smile. “I am woolgathering. I am not a fan of trains.”

“I will go downstairs with you and make sure you get those boxes safely into a hansom for your return journey.”

“Thank you.”

She followed him downstairs, admiring his lean, tapered body from behind. How could she turn off her admiration for handsome men? It would be best if her body learned what her mind already knew: She was doomed to spinsterhood as a consequence of her foolishness with Theodore Bliven.

The next day, Ewan returned to the law office of Shadrach Norwich for his first meeting with his great-uncle, the Earl of Fitzwalter. He felt unprepared. Did he call the man uncle or Lord Fitzwalter? He was a man unused to family. How did one behave? With more familiarity than you would otherwise? Would the man consider him an equal?

He still hadn’t resigned himself to the idea of being an heir to an earldom. This morning, in the mirror as he shaved, he saw a strange sort of expression in his eyes, like hope. For once, he wouldn’t have to do everything alone. Something was going to be handed to him on a plate, as if it was no more than a tea cake.

A title, no less. Matilda Redcake must have thought he was mad, the way he had behaved to her. Those adorable freckles, so large and brown across her nose and forehead, had all but darkened in confusion at his unusually democratic treatment of her. No longer did he have to bow and scrape to the Redcakes. Sir Bartley only held a title due to his knighting. Meanwhile, Ewan could call himself the Honorable Ewan Hales in correspondence now.

He did wonder, as he gazed at the sagging front door of the law offices, why an earl would hire someone from such a miserable-looking law office. Had Norwich come down in the world? Was it mere loyalty to a long-term relationship that kept Lord Fitzwalter with the man? Perhaps the earl didn’t understand that Norwich made rude comments about the family. Ewan’s head had positively swum with
Walter
comments after he’d left. It had been a wonder that he’d made it through the Matilda Redcake conversation with such aplomb. He’d explained the flour problem well enough and sent her back to Bristol to deal with it.

If he still cared about his position, he’d advise Lord Judah to bend Lady Hatbrook’s ear about why her sister didn’t exercise proper quality control at the factory. Those cakes never should have left Bristol. On the other hand, would that be dangerous to his career? You didn’t tell tales on the sisters of the owner of your company. You buttressed up their mistakes and moved on.

He wondered if Lord Judah would consider buying his cakes from another factory if the Redcake’s offerings continued to be unacceptable. But who made such high-quality products other than the Redcakes?

No one he knew of. No competition had tried as hard. But now Matilda was at the helm. Would Redcake’s lose its edge?

“I do not care. I do not care,” he repeated to himself. If he kept saying it, he might believe it.

Once inside the main door, he found the anteroom as deserted as it had been on his visit the day before, but Mr. Norwich entered from his inner sanctum almost immediately, as if Ewan’s presence was more important this time.

“Mr. Hales,” he said with a nod.

Ewan noted the man’s eyes were dilated. Had he been at his brown bottle earlier today? When he became earl, the man would be fired if he was still in the family’s employ.

Ewan nodded back. “Has my great-uncle arrived?”

“Oh, yes. We had certain matters to discuss.” The solicitor rubbed his hands together, transferring ink from one index finger to the other. He must have been taking notes. One ink-stained hand went to the door, holding it open. It would leave spots when Norwich pulled his hand away. “If you will, Mr. Hales.”

Ewan entered, a sharp eye on the figure seated on one of the two brown leather chairs in front of the desk. The man tapped one liver-spotted hand on the armrest of his chair. From his hand alone, Ewan thought the man must be in his sixties. He had thick, steel-gray hair, though there was a bald spot on the back of his head. When he turned, Ewan had the impression of an unsmiling soul, spotted again around the corners of the eyes, and scored deeply with wrinkles. Late sixties, then. The thin lips were pursed together. Ewan searched for some sign of resemblance and found none, other than the man’s shoulders, which were not stooped with age and seemed to be the same width as Ewan’s own.

The earl perused him in return, then nodded. “Walter’s boy,” he rasped.

“I had not thought I had any distinguishing characteristics,” Ewan said.

“You have the same hangdog expression in your eyes, as if you are desperate to be liked and cannot understand why you are not.”

Ewan felt his face go blank. He had been prepared to smile, it was true, despite the irritating presence of Norwich. Surely such a reunion or, indeed, first meeting between earl and heir should be private? But no, this earl was prepared to insult, not appease or welcome. Good Gad, he was worse than any Redcake or Shield.

“I am forced to accept your interpretation of my looks. I cannot say with any accuracy what expression was habitually on my father’s face. It has been too long since I saw him.”

“Talks in speeches, too,” the earl remarked to Norwich. “Tiresome.”

Ewan turned to the solicitor’s desk and saw no evidence of the brown bottle. It had been hidden away for the duration. Norwich caught his eye for a moment, then went behind his desk. He seated himself, his knees creaking.

Ewan suspected Norwich was a decade, or even a decade and a half, younger than the earl, but not as well-maintained.

“Norwich here tells me you had no idea of your ancestry,” the earl remarked, staring not at him but straight ahead.

“Correct,” Ewan said, with brevity.

“I paid for your education.”

“So he led me to believe.”

“Your father?”

“No, Mr. Norwich. I knew nothing of my finances, only that there was nothing for me upon leaving school, so the headmaster helped me secure a position directly upon completion of my studies.”

“And you’ve been with Redcake’s ever since?”

“No, I worked elsewhere early on, then the Redcake’s business was broken up. I stayed in my position and now work for the Marchioness of Hatbrook, who was born a Redcake.”

“What skills have you?”

“Gathering information, writing letters, typewriting, general duties.” Ewan shrugged.

“And your masters? Would they give you good characters?”

“Yes. Sir Bartley wrote me an excellent one when he gave the business to his daughter. Just so I would have it.”

The earl nodded. “You’ll need to use your talents on behalf of our family now. Estates and such. Know anything about the Fitzwalter properties?”

He had wondered what was coming. Not a life of leisure, obviously. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”

“Any experience in land management? Rents?”

He kept his tone level. “I assume my skills can be universally applied.”

“I will take that as a no.” The earl sighed and took out a cigar case. “Nonetheless, without developing your knowledge, you can have no hope of success as earl. So we must make amends, and quickly. I never thought to find you my heir, but here we are. I only had a daughter, you know. Lady Honoria, who is now Mrs. Keep of New York.”

“I remember. Redcake’s supplied her wedding cake. Has she had children?”

“A daughter. Never met her. In America.”

Ewan realized his time as heir might be brief. “How old is Lady Honoria?”

“Twenty-seven. She married rather late.”

Still plenty of time to have a grandson for the earl, however. “I see.”

The earl peered at him over spectacles perched on the edge of his nose. “There is no hope of another child. She had difficulties. But any son of hers could not inherit in any event.”

“I see. I am sorry.” He did not entirely understand inheritance law.

“But you must understand why I never thought you would be the heir. At the time you were being educated, I might even have had another child, but my wife died and I have never remarried.”

“You still might,” said Norwich, more hopefully than Ewan would have liked.