“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, their 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.