Johnny managed not to pop up like a disastrously honest jack-in-the-box again, but the unspoken It’s not ours, either hung in the air.
Rosie dutifully pushed on. “With regard to the wedding cake, how difficult would it be to add an additional two tiers?”
She’d done a sketch of the changes they wanted, and Sylvie took a photograph of the drawing for later reference.
“This is a beautiful building,” Pet said suddenly. “Is it a permanent base for business? Or just a one-off hire for today?”
“For a number of reasons, we prefer to run some of our engagements outside of the palace.” Rosie was seemingly unbothered by the rapid-fire questions. “We keep an external suite of offices here, although we don’t advertise that fact.”
There was a very slight, very polite warning in those words, which Pet immediately discarded. “It can’t be that secret,” she said, so bluntly that her resemblance to her brother was momentarily marked. “Somebody was trying to get in to see you downstairs, and she obviously wasn’t invited.”
Rosie frowned. “Probably a member of the press,” she said, with an ironic twist on the last word. “If she may be so called. We have a reciprocal agreement with the media, but one of the tabloid papers in particular respects very few boundaries, and their photographers have been increasingly invasive.”
“Yes, my staff have had to shoo a few out of Sugar Fair.” Sylvie clicked off her pen. “But I don’t think your visitor today was a reporter. She was quite insistent about speaking to Johnny, and she was rather . . . cross,” she finished inadequately.
Flicking over a new page in her notebook, she looked up and caught the looks on the couple’s faces. In Rosie’s expression, she saw nothing but faint irritation, no obvious concern or suspicion.
Johnny, however—just for a second, something flickered. Alarm? Guilt?
Interesting. Worrying.
“That’s why we have security.” Rosie dismissed the subject and clasped her hands together. “We do want a quick word with you separately. We don’t expect you to divulge your secrets in front of each other.” The princess started scrolling through pages on her tablet. “But with regard to the design honorific to Uncle Patrick . . .” She saw their mutually raised eyebrows. “I’m afraid that surprise lasted about half an hour.”
Johnny pinkened. Whatever Sylvie had just seen in his face had gone, vanquished by a rush of self-deprecation. “When I’m excited about anything, my first instinct is to tell Rosie. She’s my best friend.”
Pet had heart-eyes again.
“It was a really lovely thought,” Rosie said, her gaze lingering and gentle on Johnny. “I miss him a lot.” Her smile twisted as she turned back to Sylvie. “Patrick—he genuinely cared about other people. He was interested in their lives. Truly happy when things went well for them. Just . . .” She made a little gesture with her hand.
“A good man,” Dominic said.
“Yes.” Rosie glanced at her lap, then drew in a deep breath. When she straightened her shoulders, getting back to business, the professional demeanor slipped back over her like a veil. It was like a holographic image—turn the picture one way and see the royal trappings, the well-trained princess; tip the image and catch a glimpse of the normal human woman. “As I was saying, with regard to that element of the design, I’m aware it’s quite a difficult brief. I was closer to Patrick than probably anyone else in the world . . .”
Another break in the trained exterior; her face was fleetingly stark. Bleak. Then it was gone. “I have no idea what to suggest for the design. Patrick was an intensely private man, and for as long as I knew him, he was primarily focused on his charities. And his music. But unfortunately, you can’t put his piano sonatas on a cake. Nor do I want a sugar facsimile of his pet bees.” A wry postscript. “Short of straight-out writing his name on a tier, which would go down like a bucket of cold sick with my grandfather,” Rosie added with graphic bluntness, “I can’t provide much help. But it occurred to Johnny that you might want access to the private records at Abbey Hall . . .” Closely observing their faces, her shrewd eyes narrowed. “You’ve already been there.”
“We both have, yes,” Sylvie said, and exchanged rapid glances with Dominic. Ask about Jessica Maple-Moore now, or when they split groups shortly and someone could speak to Rosie privately? She was inclined toward the latter and Dominic clearly agreed. He raised his hand to push back a strand of that lush silvering hair—and made a tiny gesture with his forefinger and middle finger. It was Operation Cake language, a smattering of hand signals that the crew used to communicate while the cameras were rolling. In this case: Wait. A full dialogue in a matter of seconds, without saying a word. She inclined her head. “It opened possibilities.”
Rosie lifted her brows. “Impressive.” She picked up her Starlight Circus cup. “And how about progress on the Midnight Elixir layer? Does it also advance?”
It advanced straight into the bin. Layer upon disgusting layer.
“I don’t know about De Vere’s,” Sylvie said primly. “But we’re very close.” Dominic cleared his throat at that, and she lifted her chin. “Very close.”
Johnny took a sip from his own cup. “God, it actually is ghastly.”
The end of Dominic’s tapping pen hit his paper hard, and Sylvie looked up from her own notes. Having put money into Darren Clyde’s cash register, and the world’s most revolting cake onto her poor, abused taste buds, she couldn’t even begin to hide her expression.
Belatedly, Johnny explained, “My assistant picked up the wrong drink today. I don’t know what this is exactly, but it’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Yet, he kept drinking it, looking perfectly happy to do so.
“Johnny’s assistant is leaving after the wedding,” Rosie explained, probably to smooth over their unblinking silence. “He’s getting married himself. Naturally, he’s become a little distracted. But I’m pleased to hear you’re so close to translating the flavor.”
They split up, then, Dominic and Pet going into an adjacent room with Johnny. Sylvie answered a few of Rosie’s questions about her progress and asked for clarification on several points. She was probing into which flavor notes of the Midnight Elixir the couple most enjoyed when she realized that Rosie was answering on autopilot. Very polite, very practiced, but very definitely worried.
If she saw anyone upset or stressed, Sylvie asked if they needed help. She was quite sure it wasn’t in the etiquette books to ask a princess what was up; nor would it be protocol to receive a truthful response. Nevertheless . . . “Your Highness. Are you all right?”
Rosie didn’t stiffen or startle. She looked up smoothly, her face serene. Sylvie fully expected an immaculate brush-off.
The other woman’s eyeliner was smudged, just a tiny bit, at one corner. Those large eyes searched Sylvie’s face. And she spoke. And it was neither a brush-off nor a social lie. “I don’t take for granted the privileges of my birth. They are many and legion. In many ways, I’m one of the most fortunate women in this country.”
Sylvie said nothing.