“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.”
“I did listen to an impassioned performance of his breakfast anthem.”
“Youth is a time for making an arse of oneself, and His Highness excelled at the brief.” Dolores bent to her computer and pulled up a catalogue entry. She scrawled a series of numbers on a Post-it note. “But there’s a recording in the archives of him playing Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2. Listen to it. The man wove magic.” Her silky-smooth voice was low and musing. “He treated his instrument with the skill and respect of a devoted lover, and it responded to his touch like a woman in the throes of desire. Every sound, every sigh, coming together in pure harmony.”
The skin over Sylvie’s cheekbones felt slightly taut. Fleetingly, compulsively, her eyes slipped sideways again to where Dominic stood quietly listening to Dolores.
And silently scrutinizing her.
Her heart, increasingly unreliable the past few days, did another skippety-hop, and her stomach muscles clenched.
She swallowed, dragging her gaze away, and saw that the smile in Dolores’s dark eyes had deepened into intense speculation.
Perhaps taking pity on Sylvie’s obvious discomposure, Dolores tilted her head and switched that perspicacious stare to Dominic. “And why the sudden fascination with Patrick?”