Page 11 of A Recipe for a Rogue (The Beautiful Barringtons 5)

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“What is it we are looking for again at Thrumbadge’s?” Lady Theodosia Barrington blinked at Rosalind before squinting down the street. “I was quite comfortable having tea and those delicious scones. They were nearly as good as the ones you make, Ros.”

“A cookbook.” Rosalind looked over at her cousin. “A rather marvelous one. Entirely made of pastry recipes and the like.”Torrington’s cookbook. He hadn’t made up the existence ofCuisiner pour les Rois.No, cad that he was, he’d merely declined to tell her where she might find a copy.

Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him if his corset was laced too tight.

“You’ve dozens of cookbooks. Does our visit to the booksellers have anything to do with Mr. Pennyfoil?” Theodosia’s astute gaze took in Rosalind. “He greeted you personally when we sat in his small establishment and had our tea. You seem well acquainted.”

Rosalind cursed the spurt of madness which had led her to taking Theodosia to Mr. Pennyfoil’s small establishment. But she’d needed to ascertain how well the tiny cakes she’d made were selling. It was an old recipe, one she’d found stuck in a forgotten drawer. As she often did, Rosalind had added some of her own ingredients, tinkering with the recipe until she was pleased. When she’d asked for one of the cakes, Pennyfoil had informed her, while glancing at Theodosia, that he had sold the last one merely an hour ago.

Rosalind had nearly swooned with excitement at her small success.

“Don’t say his name so loudly,” she instructed Theodosia in a whisper, sneaking a look at the maid and footman trailing them. “I don’t want you to be overheard.”

“You mean to enter trade with him, don’t you?” she whispered back. “As Romy did with Madame Dupree. I think it a marvelous idea.” Theodosia looked over her shoulder. “Something to rival Gunter’s, I expect. That makes the most sense.”

“Yes. A bakery or merely a café isn’t nearly grand enough. I want to be a destination.” Rosalind wished, not for the first time, that Romy was here to advise her on how best to enter trade and avoid scandal, though her cousin hadn’t completely succeeded in the latter. But Romy was in Italy, on a grand tour with the block of ice most of London knew as the Duke of Granby, her new husband. Rosalind had written to her, of course, but it wasn’t the same as being able to speak in person. It could take weeks or even months before a response was received.

And time was of the essence.

“You’ve always wanted to be in the kitchen, baking away. I loved when you practiced making roses, daisies, and swirls while you were decorating cakes.”

“Because you were the recipient of my mistakes.”

“So delicious.” Theodosia gave a sigh. “You do have a way with icing. You’re much better at making tiny marzipan trees than you are at playing the harp.” She shot Rosalind an apologetic glance. “My mother’s doing, I’m afraid. She convinced Cousin Winnie you must be musical. And you aren’t.”

Not in the least. Even Rosalind’s singing voice left much to be desired. “How did you gain exemption from learning an instrument?”

“I’m an artist. I paint. You are an artist as well, Ros. Only your palette is dough upon which you use jellies, frostings, candied fruit, and the like.” She squeezed Rosalind’s arm. “You see, I do understand.”

Rosalind smiled.

“And I’ll be grateful if you never pluck the strings of a harp again. Gave me a headache when you were forced into a recital. As to learning an instrument, Mama says we must all find our passion, something which feeds our own hearts. She wrongly assumed yours might be a harp. But I suppose your true passion feeds all of us, does it not?”

Rosalind’s smile broadened. “I like to think so. Nothing brings me greater pleasure than creating a special dessert and watching the pure enjoyment of those who taste it, all while knowing I was responsible.”

“Very much like what I do upon canvas, I think,” Theodosia said. “Where does Cousin Winnie think you are today?”

“I told Mother I’m posing for one of your little paintings.”

Theodosia primarily painted portraits. All miniatures. The sort one might carry about as a keepsake. Lately, she’d been experimenting with creating landscapes the size of a book, excited to be expanding to art of a much larger size. Rosalind thought there was little difference between a miniature and a tiny landscape, but she knew little about art. “It was the only excuse I could come up with that might take hours. You can say if she asks that you couldn’t get my hair quite right.”

“Yes, we can’t have her know you’re visiting a man who owns a bakery. She might suspect you of doing more than kneading dough with Mr. Pennyfoil. As would anyone else who becomes aware of your friendship with him. Honestly, Rosalind, Cousin Winnie might make you wed Pennyfoil if she finds out. I don’t think she’ll even care that he’s beneath you.”

“Then I cannot allow her to find out. Mr. Pennyfoil is only a friend. He ismyMadame Dupree.”

“It hasn’t been so long since there was talk about Romy and her dresses. I’m not sure anyone quite believes she isn’t a modiste, though no one dares say a word now that she’s the Duchess of Granby.”

“But I’m much less important than the daughter of a duke,” Rosalind said. “I doubt anyone is interested in me enough to bother to talk.”

“I fear you underestimate the gossips in general.” Her cousin nearly ran into a passing gentleman, his hands full of packages. She sidestepped, nearly pushing Rosalind into the street.

“Why on earth aren’t you wearing your spectacles?” she hissed at Theodosia, pulling her skirts away from a puddle of water.

“You know why. Blythe could appear at any moment.”

“He’s unlikely to be at Thrumbadge’s. He doesn’t strike me as the sort to read.” The Earl of Blythe was the object of her cousin’s affections, a golden-haired god of a gentleman. Every young lady this season had set her cap for Blythe, though he didn’t show a marked preference for any of them, including Theodosia, who had hopes Blythe would one day offer for her.

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