Someone, either at the Peabodys’ dinner or at the duke’s that evening, ought to have had the good manners to tell her privately to stop making the mistake. Obviously not! Thus, she’d been humiliated in front of the duke’s friends and family. And what did he think of her? Had he really been amused by her repeated error?
Amity lay back upon her bed in the borrowed gown and stared at the canopy above. She needed to dismiss from her mind the events of the night. Ruminating on things which could not be changed did not do one any good. She must look to the future, specifically hers. As for the duke, assuredly, he would have smoothed things over with his lady, hopefully identified the correct chocolates, and proposed as planned. The guests would have returned to the festive practice of drinking champagne, and all would be well by morning.
In a day or so, the engagement would be announced in all the papers. It was an important occurrence when one of England’s dukes was removed from the marriage market. And Amity would try to find it in her heart to wish them both well.
She groaned and closed her eyes. How foolish of her to imagine herself in love with him and how correct Madeleine had been — a shopgirl did not belong in the Duke of Pelham’s world. It was fraught with mud puddles of unknown customs into which she could step at any moment. The people were not kind — except for the duke and his dowager mother and even Lord Waverly. Everyone else seemed spiteful.
Amity had no business mingling with the nobility. It was as ridiculous as thinking herself in love with a shooting star racing far and high and out of reach. What she felt for the duke was infatuation, obsession, fascination — definitely not love.
Now that a little time had passed since the duke’s kiss, and with the certainty it would never happen again, she could think clearly about Jeremy. Determined to speak with him the next day, she hoped they could salvage their relationship. Over the course of the past year, she had been content with him and had been quite sure of how well they suited. Unsurprisingly, they had each expressed a growing affection for the other, and there was no reason to believe it would not continue. That was, if he could still entertain the notion of having her as his wife.
Eschewing Delia’s help, Amity managed to get herself undressed, took her hair down — a hundred pins seemed to have held it up! — and climbed into bed, absolutely exhausted.
In the morning, however, her plans to visit with Jeremy were for naught. The Rare-Foures were off to the country. When she went down to breakfast, Amity discovered some of the household was already packing up while Armand Foure read a paper with his tea and eggs.
“We never go away and close the store at this time of year,” she protested over her cup of chocolate. “What about all the inventory on the shelves?” she asked her father. Her mother was conspicuously absent.
“We shall dispose of some of it as a quick sale this morning and give the rest away. Don’t worry.”
Having her father tell her not to worry caused Amity to start worrying immediately. When Charlotte came in with Beatrice close behind, their glances flitted between her and their father.
“What is going on?” Amity asked her sisters. Each went to the sideboard to load up their plates.
“Um,” Charlotte said, keeping her back to Amity.
Beatrice turned and smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. Amity’s stomach clenched.
“Will someone please tell me why we are rushing to Coggeshall as if the hounds of Hell were after us?”
It was Beatrice who sat beside her and said, “The papers have not been kind to your and Charlotte’s attendance at the duke’s party last night. Our store was mentioned and something about Lady Madeleine nearly being taken ill by our confectionery.”
Amity felt the tears return, and she blinked hard to keep them from falling. “I told the maid which tin was for the duke alone,” she protested, trying to explain to her family whose livelihood she might have ruined. “But someone put them out, and, with exceptionally ill fortune, Lady Madeleine took one of those with flavors she did not appreciate.”
Her father shrugged. “It is no matter. We need a respite. Don’t you girls agree?”
At once, Charlotte and Beatrice said they did. Their kindness made it worse.
Amity sighed. “Father, isn’t it a mistake to close up the shop as if we are running away or hiding from something? Isn’t it like admitting guilt?”
“I don’t believe so, and I don’t want any of you to be harassed, so we shall take a short holiday in the country. Three weeks in Essex at the very least. Maybe you’ll have time to read up on any new developments in chocolate.”
“New developments in chocolate?” she asked with incredulity.
“I’ve heard rumblings, my girl,” Armand Foure said. “The Swiss are working on a machine — shaped like a conch if you can believe it — that will make chocolate even smoother. Some were discussing it at the sugar traders meeting. I found a few articles mentioning the method, which I’ll bring along for you to read, but they’re in French.”
Smoother chocolate? That was worth reading about, even if she had to struggle with the translation. On the other hand, it seemed cowardly not to face the customers of Mayfair.
“Where is Mother?”
“Tending the shop this morning. We shall leave when she returns.”
“She is by herself?” Amity asked with alarm.
“As I said, I don’t want you girls harassed. She has Delia with her, and they will set everything to right and put a notice on the door regarding our sojourn to the country. Don’t fret, Amity. Let your mother and I handle this.”
She finished her hot chocolate, which didn’t soothe her for the first time in her life.
What a disaster! So much for gaining new custom by creating a special confection for the duke. Instead, it seemed, they would have no customers at all.
“May I send word to Mr. Cole about our departure and where he can write to us if he wishes?”
“Certainly,” her father said, and to his credit, he didn’t look the least bothered about his offspring having driven them to close their store and flee London.
Standing, she went over to him and kissed his cheek, glancing at her sisters’ subdued expressions and noting the crumpled newspapers in a pile beside her father’s elbow. Apparently, he wasn’t going to share them today. At least, not with her.
Heading for their study, she sat down to write to Jeremy, wishing she could have spoken to him instead. As she set pen to paper, an awful thought crossed her mind. What if he’d already caught wind of the scandal — if it could be called such — and no longer wanted to be associated with her?
After all, in his profession, he must be above reproach. The taint of having supposedly made the future Duchess of Pelham become ill might follow Amity beyond the fleeting notoriety of the sordid gossip rags. She might become known as the poison purveyor of chocolates, or some such ridiculous moniker. Perhaps she should leave Jeremy alone.
In the end, Amity decided to let it be his decision whether to resume contact with her. She wrote to him of their departure to Coggeshall, an unremarkable town in the heart of Essex, with the open invitation to write to her or even to visit.
And then she began to pack her personal belongings.