“At present, we’ve narrowed our choice to two establishments, including your own. We closely considered all submitted proposals.” A note of dryness underscored her tone. “And any unexpected ones that arose.”
“Or snuck in the back door,” Edward Lancier muttered peevishly. “Dragons. Good God.”
Dominic heard that bizarre grumble without immediate interest, but within seconds, it settled and sat sparking quietly at the back of his mind.
And provoked a whisper of suspicion . . .
The Captain’s Suite
5:03 p.m.
Meeting with Candidate: Ms. Sylvie Fairchild
“The princess was delighted by the attention to detail in your proposal,” only the bloody Duchess of Albany was saying.
One thinly plucked brow lifted as she continued to drill a disconcerting hole through Sylvie’s face. She had the extremely pale eyes Sylvie unfairly associated with fictional serial killers. Hopefully not the case here, although the woman definitely looked capable of yanking one of those ceremonial swords off the wall and skewering the maid for putting too much sugar in the tea.
There was still a feeling of profound unreality about this entire experience, heightened from the moment she’d been plucked from a hotel bar by a pair of black-clad protection officers. She was slightly disappointed that she hadn’t been taken to an underground facility and asked to join an eccentric gang of codebreakers or jewel thieves. And relieved that thus far she hadn’t ended up in witness protection or a woodland grave.
“Your rather unexpected proposal,” the duchess added, that piercing gaze narrowing to lethal proportions.
Sword-skewering and shallow grave imminent . . .
For all his pessimism, Jay would have passed off this inevitable confrontation with smooth charm. But at this stage of the proceedings, the royals had requested the presence of only one representative of the bakery. Therefore, Sylvie was handling this part alone and could only do a Sorry, but—
“I apologize for any—”
The duchess cut her short. “We’ll consider that as read. I do not condone the willful breaking of protocol. However, I respect a quantity of initiative.”
Over her shoulder, Princess Rose shot Sylvie a very rapid, literally blink-and-miss-it wink. Sylvie had seen the princess in person once before. She was far more put-together today. She also looked less comfortable, in both her attire and wider company.
At her side, her poor fiancé was twitching so much that his left cheekbone kept bouncing up and down. Every few minutes, Rose squeezed his fingers in a subtle show of reassurance, and he looked down at her with all his feelings blazing in his eyes.
Sylvie had been forced to remind herself three times now that it was incredibly patronizing to mentally clasp her hands and aww at an adult couple as if they were a basket of baby otters.
“This is a cake that will be photographed for every major publication in the world,” the duchess went on. “It will join the annals of history. It’s also a very lucrative contract. Our expectations are high. The margin for error is zero. If you have the least doubt in your ability to deliver—”
“Then I wouldn’t have broken protocol, and I wouldn’t be here today.” Her response was firm and adamant. She’d been nervous walking into this meeting. Naturally. But now that she was here, and for all the extraordinary circumstances surrounding this cake, it was a bake like any other. This was her thing. She would always deliver on such an important day for people celebrating their love. And in that respect, who those people were made absolutely no difference.
That ice-storm gaze again performed a visual dissection of her every feature; then the duchess nodded. “We’d like you to prepare a second proposal for the finalized cake. There are certain parameters to which you’ll need to work. Traditions that cannot be discarded even if your personal tastes are more . . . artistic.”
Sylvie bet Dominic wouldn’t receive that addendum at his briefing.
Clearly, the duchess was more of a white-fondant than sugar-dragon girl.
The Captain’s Suite
4:32 p.m.
Meeting with Candidate: Mr. Dominic De Vere
“You did an admirable job of incorporating necessary details and adhering to tradition in such an elegant way,” the duchess told Dominic. The heavy note of approval caused a flicker of reaction on Princess Rose’s previously expressionless face.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed slightly.
The duchess turned her head a fraction, and for the first time since she’d begun her monologue, she actually acknowledged her daughter and future son-in-law. “Within those guidelines, Her Royal Highness and Mr. Marchmont have expressed a desire that the cake still feel intimate—”
“So perhaps we could request those intimate details ourselves now, Mother?” Rose was probably the only person in Britain who’d ever interrupted the Duchess of Albany and withstood annihilation from the glare that followed. He’d underestimated the princess. She was outwardly dignified, but something hot and belligerent lurked behind that blandness, and in a very different way, she was suddenly as implacable as her mother.
The duchess stared with more coldness than most people would expect from a parent observing their offspring. To Dominic, it was a sight entirely familiar.
Her lips drew into a thin smile. “Of course.” She took a graceful step back, managing to lose no ground in the metaphorical sense. “My daughter and her fiancé will complete the briefing.” As she crossed behind John Marchmont, she murmured something. Dominic doubted if the staff around the table could hear, but he did. “Don’t stammer.”
The young man turned a painful shade of red, his freckles standing out in large dots. From his hairline to the hollow of his neck: human strawberry. Marchmont swallowed again, hard.
This job, a lifetime’s tenure in the public eye whether his romance lasted or not, really was going to decimate him.
Just for a moment, Princess Rose’s public mask shattered, and she shot a look of pure fury at her mother. The anger was covered as quickly as it had broken free, but before she addressed Dominic, she very lightly ran the backs of her curled fingers down Marchmont’s arm.
The tiny gesture was so weighted with feeling that even Dominic felt the poignancy.
Perhaps, under the rumpled curls and visible sweat, Marchmont was also burying unexpected depths.
If Sylvie were here, she’d be swooning all over them. Unsurprisingly, the woman who hurled handfuls of glitter at perfectly good cakes was starry-eyed for a love story, real or imagined. He’d seen her light up like a firecracker on set when she realized her pet contestants, Emma and Adam, were both single.
“First of all, I’d also like to thank you for the effort you put into making the pitch personal to us.” Rose had produced a smile that looked genuine. Given the turmoil roiling behind that façade, she was a bitter loss to the film industry. “The lace was a lovely touch, and the thoughtfulness in using peony poppies.”
A reminder that he owed his sister a bottle of wine.
Twice, Pet had tentatively tried to suggest a dinner to go with that wine. Both times, she’d wandered around the point like a lost rabbit in the woods and bolted back to her comfort zone before he could reply. Which was either organizing his business like a soft-voiced sergeant major, or determinedly flirting with every unattached member of his staff.