Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) (8 page)

“Why is Victor afraid of you?” Betsy asked. While Victor had no problem stealing from them, she did see her father’s point.

“His mother asked me to take a switch to him a few times when he was a young lad,” her father said. “The experience left mental scars.”

“I don’t think we’ll have any money out of him. If I knew his hidey-holes I’d steal it back, but I don’t,” Violet admitted. “But if he hasn’t pawned my things we might get them.”

“We’ll take a sack,” her father said. “Do our best to fill it.”

“What about our landlord?” Betsy asked.

“Something will turn up,” her father said.

Betsy wanted to give the pair of them a good, long stare. Violet’s confidence gave her a moment’s pause. How scared of Victor was she, really? She couldn’t possibly be in on some kind of con game with him, could she? Why were they trusting her?

“You need to go to the police, remember?” Betsy said, touching her neck. Her knife wound had become an angry red line overnight. “Tell them to pick up Victor if they haven’t done so already.”

“After we get Violet’s things,” her father said, standing up and kissing her cheek. “Self-interest before Her Majesty’s interest.”

If he’d put self-interest first, they’d have money in a tidy bank account.
Bah
.

“Is your neck hurting?” Violet asked.

“Just a little sting. It’s nothing,” Betsy conceded. “You two run along. I’m the only one not dressed.”

Violet stood up from the table, and after one more concerned glance in her direction, left the room with Betsy’s father. Betsy wondered where Victor would pop up next. Hopefully in a jail cell.

 

Greggory stared at his secretary’s reports on the last two days’ receipts, feeling glum. He hoped the traditional, wealthy Redcake’s customer would return soon, but the next day wouldn’t help. They’d have to leave the tearoom closed again for the inquest. The coroner had to bring the jury to the crime scene as part of his investigation, after viewing the body at the morgue.

He hadn’t realized how thin his margin was until this. It was time to consult with Uncle Bartley to see if he should reduce the money he took out of the business. He could easily afford to pay for another department manager by reducing his pay, but at this rate the money might only cover what was being lost in the tearoom.

Murder was so uncommon, he had no one to speak to about what the long-term effects might be on his business.

At first, when he saw Miss Popham at her desk, he thought he’d imagined the wound on her neck. After all, he had violence on his mind. He spun mental images back through his brain. Had she been struck by the glass the day before? Not on the neck.

He heard a throat clear and peered at Miss Popham, who looked at him curiously.

“What is wrong, Mr. Redcake?”

“What happened to your neck?”

She grimaced and touched the thin, angry slash. “Victor happened again, I’m afraid. He was at my home when Violet and I arrived there last evening.”

He walked over and perched on the edge of her desk. “Did the police arrest him? I’ve heard nothing.”

“I don’t know. Violet and my father decided to try to get her things out of their home this morning before speaking to the police. I understand why of course; he threatened to throw everything she had into the street.”

“Dear me,” Greggory said.

“It’s a muddle,” she agreed.

“I can’t help but notice that you’re the one with the wound. He’s particularly targeted you, and then there’s Simon Hellman. I heard he was here last night.”

She touched his arm. “Thank you for hiring the night watchman. He was a great help.”

Greggory nodded, then leaned closer. What was that scent? He tilted his head. Was it in her hair? No.

“Mr. Redcake?”

He shook his head. “I am sorry. There is something in the air.”

“Probably the soup bowl. Mr. Soeur’s assistant experimented this morning, but I can’t say I approved of the results.”

He did see a half-full bowl on the opposite edge of the desk. “We’ll have to quash that effort. The assistant does not have the master’s light touch.”

“The chives are overpowering,” Miss Popham agreed.

Indeed, they were covering her usual scent. In that moment, he realized he’d had enough of the effects of Redcake’s on this pretty young woman. “Come with me,” he said, standing up and holding out his hand. Confusion showed in her eyes, but she took his hand, her fingers rougher than he’d expected but her touch light.

They walked down the corridor to his suite, holding hands. She didn’t protest, leading him to wonder if he would finally see her reputed sensual side. Might she have come in on Sunday to find him? No one else worked on this floor on the holy day. The air was empty of pens scratching on paper, typewriters, the clunking sounds of heavy books on desks, voices, steps. His awareness of her skin sliding against his was acute, but she let go when he opened his door. He ushered her to the cozy small sofa that was pushed against the wall in the outer office, to hold people waiting for meetings with him, and sat on the armrest, his leg brushing her arm. He felt the awareness of her body beginning to affect his.

“I hate that Victor hurt you,” he said. “I want to protect you and I don’t know how.”

“The watchman,” she said again.

“He didn’t come home with you. I’ll hire someone for that.”

“No.” She brushed his idea aside as if it were a gnat. “My problems with the Carters predate my career at Redcake’s. It is not your fault. In fact, I am lucky you do not terminate my employment given the murder.”

“You are not at fault. I allowed you to hire Violet, even if that is at the heart of the murder.” Gently, he stroked her hair, just one finger, down one gleaming lock of mahogany.

“Mr. Redcake,” she said, but in a tone of frustration, not censure.

“I want to protect you, Betsy,” he said, letting his finger drift to her cheek, where her skin was every bit as soft as he could expect. His cock twitched, hardened.

“Betsy?” she said in a whisper.

“Yes. I want to be your friend, your protector. I don’t want you to ever be hurt again.”

Her full lips drifted apart, just the tiniest bit. “Protector?”

“Yes, in the fullest sense. I don’t mean anything improper, just—” He let his fingers slide along the knife wound; just a scratch really.

Her head tilted up in response to his fingers at her neck, and before he could quite process what was happening, the warmth of her breath was on his lips.
Oh, yes.
He moved the last half of an inch to capture her mouth with his. His hands worked into her hair and she moaned as he caressed the back of her head and slid his tongue between her lips. Her hands gripped his elbows. He felt himself sliding off the armrest of the sofa and pressed his leg against the side to keep himself in balance, but that momentary inattention gave her a second to think. She pulled away.

Her hands went to her face, covering her eyes. He stepped around her and sat on the sofa, putting his arm around her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“No,” she said. “It was my fault.”

“I hardly think so.” He wanted more, he wanted skin and heat, the intercourse he’d been denied for almost two years.

She shook her head, her face still covered. “I dreamed about you last night. Something pleasant, I suppose, after such a dreadful day. Many dreadful days really.”

Something pleasant
. He felt vaguely insulted. Her dream about him had been pleasant. She’d ended their kiss. While he’d never exactly believed he was a man who overwhelmed women’s senses, he had the feeling he’d left the job undone. “What were we doing in this dream?”

Her hands dropped. One went to her wounded neck, the other to the top of her plain navy dress. “We were in bed, naked.”

The simple words caused a rush of images to race through his head. He’d imagined Betsy Popham’s voluptuous figure unclothed more times than he could count, these past six months. His cock rose, thick and straining. The skirt of his frock coat hid the evidence at least. “Lying next to each other, I suppose?”

“Oh, no. Quite intertwined.” Her pale cheeks took on a rosy hue as he regarded her.

“Why, Betsy, I didn’t know a young lady like you was capable of such improper thoughts.”
Ha!

“I’m not some highborn, protected miss,” she said. “Which is not to say I don’t have morals, but I am a woman of the world.”

He smiled. “I’m glad you dreamed about me.”

“I suppose I should tender my notice, after a revelation this intimate.” She sighed. “But it is better than thinking about Victor and Simon.”

“I wouldn’t accept it.” Happily, he discovered his arm was still around her. He squeezed her shoulder. “I like the dream and our real kiss.”

She turned to him. “I know I meant to ask you something today, but the thought has quite flown my mind. I don’t think I’m going to be able to get any more work done.”

“You aren’t meant to be here on Sundays, Betsy. You must have some time to rest.”

“I feel safer here. You’re here.”

He liked that. “I’m not exactly, as my father used to say, a ‘gal-sneaker, ’ ” he admitted.

“What’s that?”

“A seducer. Some old bit of slang.”

“I never thought you were. I’ve worked by your side for two years, through some very sad events in your personal life.”

“Happy ones, too,” he told her.

“Of course,” she agreed.

“But nothing to do with our kiss.”

“We’ve been through a lot the past few days. I don’t suppose either of us is . . .” she trailed off.

He realized she was being careful not to insult him. “At our best,” he finished for her. “But Betsy, I like you like this. I have no idea how to court a young lady in my employ, but I assure you—”

She interrupted. “You said you wanted to be my protector. I could take that to mean you want me to be your mistress.”

One benefit of their long working relationship was a fair amount of honesty. “I meant it in a physical sense, a safety one. I wasn’t asking you to let me rent you a little house and buy you dresses.”

Her cheeks lost their rosy hue. Embarrassment at her misunderstanding? He wasn’t sure. After squeezing her shoulder one last time, he felt he was overdoing it and moved his hand away from her.

“I see. How foolish you must think me.”

“You’d never have said yes.” His voice came out in a riotous explosion of boyish enthusiasm. He put his hand to his forehead.
What an idiot
.

She smiled. “You’ll never know, Greggory.”

She grinned at him, showing she knew exactly how provocative it was that she’d used his first name as well. He had the sense that he’d permanently given this woman the upper hand in their relationship. At least he trusted her completely. She’d proven herself true many a time, and not just to him, but to his cousin, Lady Hatbrook.

“I like this saucy side of you, Betsy,” he murmured, standing. “But I want you to relax the rest of the day. I’ll send one of the watchmen home with you, in a cab, to make sure you can get in safely. Tomorrow we need to be at our best, with the inquest going on. We both have to testify.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” She was quite pale now, and he longed to take her in his arms. But that would lead to uncharted waters, and he wasn’t ready for that with her, not yet. He was in a place where the wants of his body were not in line with the wants of his mind or heart.

Right?

S
o much had happened, and her night had been so sleepless, that Betsy had a difficult time sitting still as she waited to give her testimony at the inquest late the next morning. The smell of spilled ale filled the air, because she sat in the crowded taproom of a local pub. The inquest was being held upstairs, in a room crowded with officials, jurors, and witnesses. She wished she could have a glass of ale to steady her nerves.

How had Simon Hellman and Victor Carter managed to evade the police? How had she managed to kiss Greggory Redcake yet not ask him for the loan? And tonight after work she had to pack up their house. The landlord was giving them until midnight to vacate. He’d all but chortled when her father had admitted their lack of funds last night, rubbing his hands together and saying his newly married daughter had been hoping to live in the house, now that she was expecting her first child.

“All for the best,” the landlord said. “Go stay with friends for a few weeks and I’ll see what I can find for you. Mind the furniture, Mr. Popham. I know most of it came with the house.”

He was correct, which meant packing would not be too much of a trial. Violet had suggested the three of them sleep in her flat, because Victor hadn’t reappeared. Her father had said that seemed like the best option, but Betsy didn’t know how she could sleep with the fear that she’d be murdered in her bed should Victor sneak in.

“Miss Popham?” A young constable appeared at the bottom of the worn stairs. “The coroner will see you now.”

 

“Miss Popham?” Greggory tried to sound casual when he rounded the corner and spotted Betsy at her desk that afternoon. “The coroner’s verdict has come back. Willful murder, presumably by Hellman, Carter, or persons unknown.”

“Did you learn anything new?” she asked, sounding as unconcerned as he hoped he did. She’d left after giving her testimony.

“Some things about Cross’s doings as a jewel thief. Nothing that concerned us.”

She nodded and looked back to her stack of paperwork. “I see.”

“Are you working on an important order?”

“It’s almost wedding season. We don’t do the cakes of course, but we have many orders for other desserts. At least we did. Cancellations are starting to come in.” She lifted one sheaf of papers, then another.

“That’s not good. We count on a profitable June.”

She nodded. “I was hoping the inquest would bear better fruit.”

“I’d expect you to be more, I don’t know, passionate about it. It’s your livelihood, too.”

She set the papers down and rested her palms on them. He felt sick as he considered the idea that she’d been deeply insulted by their kiss. Had he misinterpreted the shared nature of the connection? Was she about to give notice?

“I am sorry. I have a great deal on my mind.”

“I will continue to provide security,” he assured her. “I will even have someone meet you and Violet in the mornings, if you like. Chiswick isn’t so far.”

“We won’t be in Chiswick anymore,” she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

“No?”

“That money Victor stole a few days ago was all our savings. The money he stole Saturday was our rent. The landlord was delighted to kick us out. He wants our house for his daughter. I pack this evening and then—”

“Then, what?” he prompted.

“I guess we are going to Fulham.”

“To the Carters’ flat?”

She shrugged. “Victor hasn’t turned up.”

“Do you think it is safe?”

“Safer than being on the street.”

“Respectable people don’t belong on the street. Or in Fulham, for that matter.” He made a snap decision. “Stay with me. You and your father. Violet can stay with Winnie Baxter. I know she had a sister who just married and moved away. I gave her a discount on a wedding cake.”

“After yesterday—” Betsy said, her fingers straying to her lips.

He winced. “Ignore yesterday. Emotions ran high. You are long-term, respected employees of my family. You don’t belong in some dead woman’s flat in a poor neighborhood.”

“I wonder if we’ll ever stop paying for what my mother did,” she said.

He hated the dullness in her voice. She sounded so exhausted. He wanted his bustling, competent, lovely assistant manager to return. “I have a very nice suite standing empty. Dudley, my brother, stays there when he is in town. One of you can stay in the sitting room and the other can have the bedroom. Unless, that is, you want to take an advance on pay.”

She seemed to be staring right through to the wall behind him. “We still couldn’t find lodgings tonight, unless it was a hotel.”

“That will eat up your money so quickly that you won’t be able to get ahead.”

She nodded. “My father insisted I not take an advance. He’s worried that it would be stolen, too.”

“He’s not wrong, with Victor on the loose.”

“And Simon Hellman. He’s taken at least a quarter of my income for years.”

“He has no power over you now.”

“Except his acts of violence or insanity. I cannot wait until Mr. Cross’s murder is resolved. I am desperate to know if it is me at fault. If so, I’m going to return to Bristol and you’ll never hear of the Pophams again.”

He stepped forward and pressed his hand against her arm. “Never say that, Betsy, please. Redcake’s would not be such a place of refuge for me if you were not here.”

She blinked, the sight of those large, thick-lashed eyes making him harden. “I would have said I make Redcake’s more difficult.”

“No, never. Especially not for me. I have had hard times as well, you know. Seeing you bustle about, cheerful and efficient, has helped me go on. ‘What would Miss Popham do?’ I’ve asked myself when I’m at my most exhausted. Your energy gives me strength.”

She nodded and drew herself up. “Then, Mr. Redcake, I shall endeavor to be the employee, and the woman, you think me to be.”

“Use the telephone in the bakery to phone your father to tell him you’ll both be staying with me,” he said, wondering how she’d react if he told her what kind of woman he’d like her to be.

“I will, and I’ll also ask Winnie to speak to Violet. I admit I will feel more secure being separate from her.”

“Has she been trouble?”

“I must confide I don’t entirely trust her. Not from anything she’s done, but just because of the Victor situation.”

“It is wise to split his focus,” he agreed. Did Betsy even trust him? “I hope the police will pick up both men soon. Now that they are officially persons of interest, I hope the matter will receive the attention it deserves.”

 

Betsy stayed late at Redcake’s that evening, putting the tearoom back to rights. Mr. Redcake had given most of the cakies the day off, so she and Violet had a great deal to do and couldn’t do it while the bakery was open for fear of disturbing the customers with the sound of moving furniture. When Winnie came to collect Violet, they were only half-finished, but then Betsy’s father arrived and helped her with the final cleaning of the floor.

“That’s all set to rights, then,” Betsy said with satisfaction.

“Your dress will need a thorough scrubbing,” her father said, looking at the streaks of chalk, furniture polish, and who knew what else marring Betsy’s skirt.

“Not until after we’ve packed up the house. We’re going to be up most of the night.”

“We only have until midnight,” he reminded her. “It was kind of Mr. Redcake to offer us the delivery cart and driver. I don’t imagine he expected you to be here all hours. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were afraid to go home.”

Betsy’s jaw tightened. “Are you sure you know me so well, Papa? Why wouldn’t I be afraid? I’m happy to leave our house. It’s unkind of me to wish mischief on our landlord’s daughter, but honestly, she is welcome to take on Victor Carter.”

“You’re exhausted. Having Violet in the house is a trial.” Her father shook his head. “I could hear her snoring through the wall. At least we don’t have to wait for the bus.”

They went out through the loading dock, where the Redcake’s delivery driver, Liam McNair, waited for them. A family man with a fourth baby on the way, he was willing to take on any little task that netted him more money for his growing family.

Betsy climbed up next to him, feeling her lower back and hips ache as she finally sat after long hours of manual labor. Her father climbed under the canvas canopy, where a wooden crate would be his seat.

Despite Liam’s long day, he effortlessly shifted crates through the Pophams’ narrow front door and carried them out again when they were full. It only took three hours to remove their sparse belongings from the house.

“It might have been a blessing that Violet stayed with us,” her father said as they packed their dishes into straw-filled crates. “She ate everything, so our food supplies didn’t go to waste.”

“Were you sweet on Mrs. Carter?” Betsy asked, hoping enough time had gone by since her death that she could ask without upsetting her father.

“We understood each other. Neither of us had it easy,” Ralph said. “There was a time when I might have aspired to some other kind of life, but these past years I’ve settled into my own little routine.”

“Which she fit, nicely.”

“I know you resented the Carters, but it was our Christian duty to take care of them. If Maria had worked outside the home when they were young, what would have become of her children? Tied them to her chair, most likely, so she could bend over a needle sixteen hours a day. Terrible life for a child.”

“So you gave her all our money so she could stay at home while I worked?” Betsy let the weight of sarcasm fill the words. Didn’t her father realize he’d sentenced her to the life he hadn’t been willing to give his Maria Carter?

“She took in fine washing in recent years,” he said in a calm voice. “Wasn’t one to sit around embroidering.”

“Then where has our money been going?” Betsy asked. “Two decent incomes between us, especially these last two years. I don’t understand.”

“I know you wouldn’t.” Her father’s hand went to the chain holding the cross he wore around his neck. It always rested against his throat under his shirt.

“You’ve been giving all our money to the Church?” she said incredulously.

“What was left. For your mother’s sins.” His own jaw tightened, reminding Betsy that they did have some characteristics in common, no matter how much she looked like her late mother.

“You’ve been giving my money—the money I’ve earned—to the Roman Catholic Church to say masses for my dead murderess mother’s soul?” she shouted. “I don’t eat well, I don’t dress well, I work my fingers to the bone, for that?”

“You have no right to speak to me that way,” her father said quietly.

“How dare you?” she said, spinning on her heel. Unable to ignore it, she picked up the crate carrying her secondhand, chipped teapot and cups, and hauled it out to the cart.

“You’re crying,” Liam said when he saw her. “Here, let me take that. It’s hard to lose a home, I know.”

She wiped angrily at her eyes. “No, I’m glad I’m leaving. I’m done with this life. I’m never turning my paycheck over to a man ever again.”

Liam’s bushy red-brown eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re a grown woman to be sure, but until you marry, you’re under your father’s care. It’s the way of things.”

“He should be under my care, the foolish things he’s done,” she hissed. “To think we came to this because of a thief and a funeral. How am I ever going to hold my head up at Redcake’s?”

“No need to have so much pride,” Liam said. “You’re one of us, Miss Popham. Just one of us folks, despite being friendly with Lady Hatbrook.”

“I’m not that friendly with her,” she admitted. “She has two children now, lives in Sussex. I might get a letter from her once a quarter.”

“Time to find new friends,” Liam said. “Let the past go.”

“I agree with that.” Betsy crossed her arms against the night chill and pulled her shawl close as she looked back at the house. “I’m letting the Carters go, and this house, and my father’s religion. From now on, I worship at the church of commerce.”

Liam crossed himself and shook his head. “You’re too good a soul for that, but I’ll admit you’ve had a trying time, between that corpse and Simon Hellman and this eviction. No harm in your being bitter for a few days, before you pull yourself together again.”

Her father came out with a crate in his hands. “That’s the last of it. Betsy, you should look through the bedrooms one last time.”

“We’ve packed it all,” she said. “I’m too efficient to have missed anything.”

He looked her over slowly, then nodded. “Very well, then. It is very late. I’ve turned off the gas, so all we have to do is pass off the key.”

He gave Liam the address of the landlord’s house, three blocks away. Half an hour later, they were driving toward Kensington and an uncertain future. Betsy only wished she and her father were heading to separate destinations.

 

Betsy expected they’d need to tiptoe into the house through the back after unloading their possessions into the garden shed Mr. Redcake had said they could use, but even at nearly midnight, when Liam rattled off in the cart for a few hours of sleep before the morning bread deliveries, the lights were still blazing in the four-story brown-brick Redcake house.

When the housekeeper appeared at the kitchen door to welcome them in, Betsy heard the first sounds. Babies crying. Not just one either.

“Are the children ill?” she asked, concerned despite her own exhaustion.

“No. The poor mites aren’t the best sleepers. That’s the way of it in this house. I’m Mrs. Roach, and I’ll take you up to the rooms you’ll be in. It’s the third floor, I’m afraid. The master has the babies on the second.”

“We are much obliged,” her father said, smiling at Mrs. Roach. “Especially this late.”