“You chew them whole?”
“Yes, my lord. Bitter but I enjoy them anyway. Sometimes raw, sometimes roasted.”
He nodded and said nothing to that. He must think her an undeniably odd woman. After another few feet, he asked, “Do you make your own chocolate?”
She wished she could say yes. “No, but that’s because I could not do it as well.”
His footsteps faltered slightly at her side, and she turned to him. “I’m surprised,” he confessed.
“It is more complex to make quality, smooth chocolate than you can imagine. The beans are roasted and the shells removed to reveal the nibs, and then, as with coffee, they must be finely ground. The result is a cocoa paste, which is pressed to draw out the cocoa butter, the slimy part you mentioned when too much is left in your cocoa powder.”
“So, the paste is solid chocolate?” he asked, sounding interested.
“Well, it is,” she said, as they passed store windows, slowly making their way through the multitude of pedestrians. “However, it isn’t very pleasant to eat. To make an edible chocolate bar, you need to add back in more cocoa butter and, of course, sugar. And you must blend this for ages to make it smooth and delicious. Our store buys readymade blocks of chocolate, mostly from Switzerland and France, because it is superior to what I could create.”
In fact, Rare Confectionery had a wonderful relationship with the chocolate manufacturers who supplied their shop. When she had renounced having a Season, her family had spent the money saved for ballgowns and party tickets on travel. Her first destination had been to Switzerland where Amity learned secrets from Monsieur Peter, the man who’d invented milk chocolate and now sold it to her.
Afterward, they had spent time with her grandparents in France. There, Amity visited the famed Debauve and Gallais chocolate shop on the 30 Rue des Saints-Pères in Paris where it had already existed for sixty years. She’d come home with the so-called “coins” created for Marie Antoinette to stave off headaches.
Another highlight had been her tour of the Menier chocolate factory in Noisiel, perched directly upon the Marne River so water wheels could power it.
“The ornate iron-and-brick factory, itself, looks like a confectionery treat,” Amity told him, recalling how charmed she’d been by its facade. “I came home with their popular version of drinking chocolate for my own consumption, and it was superb. Menier recently opened a factory here in London at Shoreditch. Most convenient, my lord.”
Amity hoped she wasn’t boring him, but she loved sharing what she knew about the best thing in the world. “We could not be more fortunate than to live at this time,” she declared.
“Because of the chocolate?” he asked, a teasing tone to his voice.
“Exactly,” she agreed. “Today, I intend to purchase some molds from the tinsmith’s finished goods shop on Cork Street. Do you know it? We also get our tins for gift-giving there.”
A strange expression came over the duke’s face. “I confess I do not know of any tinsmith on any street anywhere. Do you think less of me?”
She burst out laughing. When she recovered, she said, “I expect you also don’t know the best place to purchase the purest sugar or the creamiest butter.”
“Both appear as if by magic on my dining table as needed.” Then he snapped his fingers. “I do know where to buy the best brandy.”
“And cigars, too, I’d warrant,” Amity guessed.
“Certainly,” he agreed. “And most definitely coffee beans. Although usually I send my footman to purchase all of these items.”
“As you should. Thus, we both have our areas of interest, do we not?”
“We do,” he said amiably, holding her gaze for a long moment.
She directed his steps down Clifford Street and, after a short block, they turned onto Cork Street. The second shop window from the corner glittered with tin molds.
When they entered, she appreciated how he immediately had an interest in his surroundings.
“They have every shape and size,” he marveled.
“There are molds for soap, candles, sweets, and even if you wish to get fancy with your blancmange or aspic.”
He hesitated and stared at her.
“I mean your cook, my lord. Not you,” she amended hastily in case she’d offended him.
“No, it wasn’t that which gave me pause. Just the notion of fancy aspic. I’ve never cared for jellied anything. I much prefer my chocolate in a decorative shape than my aspic.” He shuddered.
“Agreed. Today, I want to buy twelve walnut molds, and if you see something you would like for Lady Madeleine, we can decide against the fondant chocolate center, which must be hand-rolled into a ball, and I will make molded chocolates instead.”
“Very well. I shall look, but if I find something, I will buy it,” he insisted, “not you.”
She wasn’t going to argue with him, since he probably wouldn’t allow her to use it again after creating the original Brayson chocolate.
When he chose a flower-shaped mold for his lady, she explained she needed a tray of at least a dozen into which she could pour tempered chocolate.
“See this,” she said, showing him a tray of rabbits hinged to bring the front and back sides together and create a fully formed rabbit. “But your molds should be flat on the bottom, so no hinge.”
She watched the duke wander around again, exclaiming over the cleverness of one after the other, until he found a tray of flowers he thought suitable.
When he picked up a well-crafted stag, he went quiet. Amity crossed the store to his side.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“It reminds me of my father,” he said softly. “He had a painting of a stag like this in his study, which is now my own. It makes me think of when we went hunting together.”
The duke had a wistful tone to his voice, and Amity decided to return and purchase an entire tray of stag molds. When she finished Lady Madeleine’s chocolate, she would craft him a special stag-shaped confection.
“Where next?” he asked when they had finished making their purchases.
Thus, she found herself accompanied by an escort from the highest echelon of British nobility while she purchased yards of blue ribbon her mother wanted to tie around the tops of their white Rare Confectionery bags. The strangeness wore off quickly, and they chatted like friends, pointing out items in the shop windows. Amity had the feeling he didn’t window shop often or shop at all very much. Nevertheless, the duke seemed to enjoy himself.
“It’s the chocolate lady,” came a young voice at her elbow. She didn’t always recognize her youngest patrons, but they absolutely recognized her.
Reaching into her reticule, she drew out a paper sack. Today, she had balls of chocolate fondant with a small marzipan center hidden inside. Handing one to the boy, who thanked her and ran off, she looked up to see the duke staring hard at the sack, like a dog would at a bone.
Laughing, she offered him one.
“Oh,” he exclaimed after devouring it. “That’s very good.”
“That’s Miss Charlotte’s marzipan,” she told him, “elevating the humble chocolate into something else entirely.”
“I believe that’s the delicious chocolate elevating the humble marzipan,” he quipped.