Battle Royal Page 11

  “Oh, wow.” Pet had pressed her hands together before her face, Dominic’s urgent envelope currently forgotten, squeezed between her palms. “I so ship it.”

  “I will concede they’re sweet,” Mariana said. “And that I shouldn’t be surprised the resident unicorn enthusiast is a hopeless romantic.”

  Sylvie had returned to rubbing her temples. “Pardon me if it’s obvious when two people are into each other.”

  “Is it?” Mariana murmured. And smiled at her blandly.

  “Speaking of sweet,” Pet said, “those little unicorn marshmallows you put in your hot drinks at Sugar Fair are the best. I’d like to steal your idea and add them to the menu at De Vere’s, but unicorns are not on Dominic’s radar.”

  “Unless they’re catapulting straight into his skull.” Mariana examined another piece of cake and prodded it between her lips.

  “Have you been giving me illicit patronage after all?” Sylvie teased Pet.

  “It’s evidence of my ironclad willpower and loyalty that I’m not facedown in a booze cauldron every Saturday night, but no. Sorry. Dominic’s apprentice is the one putting coins in your coffers. He loves them. And it sounds like he could do with the treats right now, poor guy.”

  “Going through a rough time?” Mariana asked incuriously through her mouthful of cake, and Pet nodded.

  “Yeah. He’s sole caregiver for a family member with high needs, and his work’s really been slipping. Dominic’s shortened and changed his hours so he can spend more time at home, on full pay, and given him a bonus so he can pay for some home help.”

  Sylvie looked up. “Dominic did that?”

  “Surprising.” Mariana’s response was blunt. Apparently, the warm fuzzies over her gifted silhouette had reached their expiry date.

  “I don’t think it’s surprising at all.” Pet folded her arms, but the belligerent gesture turned into something more like a self-hug. Sylvie was pretty sure that only she heard the soft follow-up: “But I suppose I don’t really know him well enough to say.”

  Sugar Fair

  Where everything has been running like clockwork in the boss’s absence and it is, as ever, one big happy family.

  It’s nice to have something to rely upon in a world of constant change and unwanted skin tingles.

  “For the third time,” Jay was saying when Sylvie finished decorating a golden anniversary cake that afternoon and walked through to the central shop floor, “could you mix up the lollipop selection? We’re almost out of birds and jungle animals, and we have way too many of these weird walrus things.”

  Mabel didn’t look up from the ball of sugar she was molding. “That’s you, dipshit. Just balder this time. I took the liberty of giving Lollipop Jay a haircut since the breathing version seems to have lost the address of his barber.” Helpfully, she added, “Imagine the walrus with a Steven Tyler wig, and look again.”

  Jay stared at her before his gaze dropped to the lollipop in his hand. Sylvie was eight feet away and she could already see the perfect likeness of his face sunk eerily into the sweet, like a tiny trapped spirit.

  An alarming crimson flush rose up Non-Lollipop Jay’s neck.

  She prayed for strength.

  “I have to go out for an hour or two,” she said loudly, “to do some research for . . .” She glanced at Mabel’s lowered head. “For a commission. Is everything going to be all right here?”

  “Sticky hands keep touching my art, and if this scraggly-haired idiot doesn’t stop interfering with my vision, I’m going to sculpt a six-foot-tall amezaiku voodoo doll and shove an ice pick in his dick,” Mabel returned pleasantly. “Business as usual.”

  Sylvie made the executive decision to just let that go. As she turned away to collect her coat, Mabel added, “Have fun poking about dusty old papers at the Royal Archives.”

  She stopped. Mabel was engrossed in her work. Fortunately, all their current customers were in the right atrium, beyond the waterfall, which muffled sound.

  “I won’t ask how you know that.”

  Mabel’s snort was scornful.

  Jay caught her up in the back cloakroom. “Do you want me to come? Lend an extra pair of eyes? I’ll let you borrow my magnifying glass.”

  Sylvie frowned, buttoning up her coat. “Don’t you have an early group in the Dark Forest soon?”

  “Oh . . . right.” He ran his hand over his jaw. “And another group later, yeah. We’re doing well for bookings. All this promo for Operation Cake and the social media campaign is really boosting sales.” He reached out and pulled her plait free of the coat collar. While his hand was in the vicinity, he gave her cheek a fond stroke with his thumb. “Sorry it’s at the expense of daily run-ins with De Vere.”

  “Yeah,” Sylvie said after a moment. She stretched her lips into a smile. “The sacrifices we make for the bottom line, right?” Reaching up on her tiptoes, she took his shoulders in a little hug, and pressed an affectionate kiss to his cheek. “Call me if there are any major disasters. Please try not to murder Mabs, and vice versa.” She turned back at the door. “Oh, I meant to ask . . .”

  Jay’s hand fell from his cheek and he looked at her inquiringly.

  “How are things with Fiona? It’s been so busy lately we never had that dinner together, and you haven’t mentioned her for a while.”

  Something in his handsome face closed off. His smile became as forced as hers. “We’re not seeing each other anymore.”

  “Oh no.” Sylvie’s hand fell away from the doorknob as she stared back at him in dismay. “Oh, Jay, I’m so sorry. I know you really liked her.” She returned to wrap her arms around him again. After a beat or two, his hand fisted in her coat, at the base of her spine. “Can I ask what happened?”

  He continued to hold her a second longer. One broad shoulder lifted. “We just weren’t right. One of those things.”

  “But—” Sylvie’s phone buzzed. “That’s my taxi.” She didn’t move, undecided. “Look, should I stay? Do you want to talk?”

  “No.” He softened the abrupt rejection with another smile, more genuine now. “Honestly, it’s fine, but I appreciate the offer.” He jerked his head. “Go forth and discover what made Prince Patrick tick.”

  She could hear the distant tooting of a car horn now.

  “Okay, but if you do want to talk—”

  “I’ll track you down somewhere between a bowl of cake icing and a stack of dusty papers.”

  When she was halfway through the door, Jay said, suddenly, “Syl.”

  She looked back.

  “I love you.”

  “Back at you, slick.” She blew him a kiss and ran to catch the taxi, which was already starting to pull away from the curb without her.

  The Royal Archives were spread amongst multiple institutions, but as the main repository for information relating to the king’s siblings, the natural starting spot was Abbey Hall. Located perpendicular to St. Giles Palace, the archival stores had apparently received most of the effects they’d bequeathed for preservation.

  Sylvie had already made use of the modern treasure hunter’s first aide, Google. But Johnny wanted the top tier of this cake to be incredibly personal and special for Rosie, and so far, no bald, dry detail of Prince Patrick’s life pulled from a webpage was jumping out to be included in the design. The king’s younger brother had been popular with lower-level palace aides, but reputedly despised the topmost advisors. Never married. A passion for people, philanthropy, and the arts. A close bond with his young great-niece.

  And that was about it.

  After some well-publicized exploits in his youth, Patrick had kept a low profile outside of his official appearances. He’d carried out his public engagements with bland correctness and generally sailed under the radar. During his teen years and twenties, he’d been photographed with a number of women, each resulting in a press frenzy. The tabloids had shredded every girlfriend like sharks circling bloodied meat, analyzing their past relationships, their appearance, their clothing, t
heir smallest gesture. Anyone who appeared with the prince more than once was mooted as a potential wife.

  That appeared to have stopped abruptly in his late thirties. From the age of about thirty-eight until two years ago, when he’d died from cancer at sixty-three, the prince had really never been the subject of even the most tepid romance rumors. No more women with an arm hooked through the crook of his elbow as they left a restaurant, not a hint of an engagement on the horizon.

  Considering that he’d been a handsome, kind-looking man in the prime of life even without his royal status, she found that interesting from a purely nosy point of view, but it was hardly helpful for the cake design.

  She had found a few covers on YouTube of some pretty terrible rock songs he’d written as a student, the existence of which he’d understandably chosen to ignore in later life. One was titled “The Staring Eye of Death,” which she’d assumed was going to be a metaphorical reflection on mortality, but had turned out to be an ode to the prince’s favorite childhood meal: poached haddock in milk.

  She might have more “artistic” tastes in cake design than the Duchess of Albany would like, but even she drew the line at dead fish.

  Sylvie seriously hoped that Abbey Hall could provide a metaphorical key, turn an elusive shade into a personality and a soul with hopes and dreams and loves. She needed there to be something that would give her the edge here.

  De Vere’s was formidable competition in this race. She didn’t underestimate Dominic. He had the existing prestige and probably the backing of the more traditionally minded royals. He also had an advantage in the other half of the quest, the transformation of Midnight Elixir from beverage to bake. His handling of flavors was literally second to none.

  Where he slipped back a step was sentiment and connection to the material. He was all technique and cold perfection, all the time. Rosie and Johnny wanted heart. And therein lay her opportunity, the small gap through which Sugar Fair could slip.

  If she could somehow reach back across the years and catch hold of Patrick.

  The person, not the prince on paper. The man Rosie had loved.

  When the taxi let her out at King Charles Square, she shivered and tugged her hat down her forehead as she walked around the cobblestoned boundary of St. Giles Palace. Her boots slipped on the icy ground, and she wiggled empty gloved fingers at a pigeon that hopped closer, ever hopeful.

  “Sorry, little chap.” She suddenly remembered something. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the napkin containing one last square of Emma’s Victoria sponge, shoved at her by Mariana when the other woman had been called back to set. She crouched and tossed the cake to the hungry pigeon. “Enjoy. And make sure you appreciate it,” she said severely. “It’s the best cake you’ll ever taste.”

  “Unless he manages to snatch a crumb of the royal wedding cake. As baked by De Vere’s.” Unlike Emma’s sponge, the words behind her were dry. Sylvie swung around, and Dominic raised his brows. The wind was blowing his thick hair around. He looked, as she’d already vocally noted once before, huge in his wool coat, the fabric stretched taut over his broad shoulders. “Talking to pigeons now?”

  “Better company than a lot of human beings. Just ask Nikola Tesla.” She straightened. “I would say fancy meeting you here, but it appears that right now our wavelengths are crossing so often we’re weaving a veritable fucking lattice.”

  “Abbey Hall?” Dominic cast his eyes up when she nodded. In the silence that followed, she could hear the pigeon making little bobbling sounds.

  Dominic stepped back and made a short gesture. “After you.”

  He walked more or less at her side, however, and Sylvie felt . . . ruffled. Self-conscious in a way she usually was not.

  The tip-tip of her boot heels was loud on the stones. It was a quiet time of day for the square, with minimal foot traffic.

  “So, your sister’s lovely,” she said mostly to suppress the urge to flat-out sprint the remaining distance to Abbey Hall.

  “Yes, she is.”

  She peeked a glance sideways. He was scanning the square with narrowed eyes, his hands tucked into his pockets. No bowed head and shoulders for Dominic; always alert and aware of his surroundings.

  “Did you get your urgent correspondence sorted out?”

  “I did,” the Master of Loquacity confirmed.

  With all these words constantly spilling out of him, it was amazing she could get a phrase in edgewise.

  He’d obviously prefer to walk in silence. She considered gifting that wish.

  Decided no.

  “Secret business to do with the Albany contract?” she pried, with another sidelong glance through her lashes.

  “Odds I’d tell you if it were?” Dominic stopped and crouched to pick something up from the pavers. When he stood, there was a worm between his fingers. He looked around before walking over to deposit the little guy in a plant pot. “But as it happens, no.” He dusted his hand off against his trousers. “Upcoming function for Farquhar’s. Six cakes. Eight hundred chocolates.”

  There were horribly starchy insurance firms, and then there was Farquhar’s. Their current CEO had once been Sylvie’s local councillor during his short-lived political career. The man was so unbending she was surprised he didn’t snap in half like a twig every time he sat at his desk. A perfect match for Dominic’s repressive aesthetic. They were never likely to be a client for Sugar Fair, and she murmured as much.

  “We do have distinct markets.” His tone was reciprocally unflattering about the parties who preferred her own work.

  “But could both thoroughly benefit from the prestige of this contract.”

  His gaze collided with hers. “Yes.”

  “A lot of ups and downs for the whole industry lately,” she murmured, an automatic exchange of commiserations with a fellow pâtissier, temporarily forgetting which pâtissier.

  However, he responded frankly. “The industry has been in turbulent waters for a good five years. Hence the need to boost income.”

  She blinked. Twice. “Is that why you do Operation Cake?”

  “Of course that’s why I do Operation Cake. I have staff who need paying; they have families to support. And that bloody show brings in a hell of a lot of associated business.”

  Well.

  Layers of things in common. Who would have thought?

  He was close enough that she could smell his cologne again, overlaid with the familiar scents of sugar and caramel. He smelled both delicious and like hard work. The wind blew loose strands of her hair against his face and he reached up to catch them, holding them away from his skin.

  A shiver followed the gust of cold air slipping down Sylvie’s spine.

  They both tucked their hands into their pockets, and she started walking again, more briskly. She wanted out of the cold. And she was privately quite psyched about the next hour or so. Museums were her jam, the pokier and dustier the better, and she rarely got a chance to indulge.

  They mounted the long strip of stone stairs, and Dominic held open the glass-paneled door for her.

  The interior of the repository was a bit of a disappointment. Sylvie had hoped for hidden treasures, and lush tapestries, and lots of old volumes with that nice dusty-book smell. Instead, she got very neat filing cabinets and display cases, and the smell of lavender floor cleaner.

  “How . . . antiseptic,” she said glumly, examining the floor plan of the public areas.

  “What were you hoping for?” Dominic’s shoulder touched hers. “Abandoned attics, mysterious objects, the odd ghost or two?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Abbey Hall, not Thornfield Hall.” He shook his head. “All right. Consider this my yearly good deed.”

  Curiously, she followed as he went to the service desk and spoke in low tones to the clerk.

  After a minute or two, another door opened and a beaming elderly Black woman bustled out, hands extended to take Dominic’s. “Dominic De Vere. How wonderful to see you.”


  She gave his fingers an affectionate little shake and reached up to kiss him extravagantly on both cheeks.

  After years of failing to rise to any bait, rarely cracking a smile, never losing his composure—the back of Dominic’s neck reddened.

  If the most interesting thing Sylvie found in this building was Patrick’s laundry receipts, this entire excursion had already justified itself.

  Dominic’s very gallant lady friend released his hands and patted him on the arm. Her lively eyes moved to Sylvie. “And who is this lovely young woman? Introduce me.”

  A killing stare dared her to even look at his sweet wee lingering flush. The tips of his ears were red, too. “This is Sylvie Fairchild, owner and head chef at Sugar Fair in Notting Hill. Sylvie, meet Dolores Grant, curator of rare books for Abbey Hall, and the woman with the magic keys.”

  “Ah, you want access to the inner sanctum.” After shaking hands with Sylvie, too, Dolores rubbed her palms together. “May I inquire why?”

  “The late Prince Patrick.” Without turning his head, Dominic touched Sylvie’s arm, pulled her closer to his side, then immediately let her go. Simultaneously, a patron reaching around her for a book dislodged a whole shelf of folders, which now fell on the ground instead of her foot. “What do you know about him?”

  “King James’s younger brother. Never married. No offspring. If you mean beyond the basic biography,” Dolores said, “I met him a number of times throughout my career. By far the nicest member of the family with whom I’ve had professional dealings. Unfailingly polite. Always interested. An unusually moral man.” She looked suddenly thoughtful. “Not by the measure of royalty. By the measure of humanity. Prince Patrick was a thoroughly decent human being.”

  Sylvie was listening intently. “And a talented musician, I believe.”

  Dolores’s ready smile put the most beautiful light in her eyes. “When that man sat down at a piano . . . There are no words,” she said simply, before adding with intense wryness, “There are also no words for his short-lived foray into metal, for an entirely different reason.”