Apparently, Sylvie had been wasting time, money, and ingredients for months, constantly defending this woman to Jay.
And someone intimately connected to the Starlight Circus had just called her décor “kitsch.”
“Penny,” she said very calmly, with a smile just as vague, just as airy, and just as malicious, “get the fuck out of my home.”
Penny tossed her head—and froze as Mabel walked toward her, hips swinging, also smiling.
That smile had more eerie impact than every lighting effect in the Dark Forest combined.
The intern took a step back, but halted in momentary confusion when Mabel offered her the lollipop.
She took the candy skull automatically, and then shrieked as Mabel—tiny, deceptively delicate Mabel—made a blur of a movement with her foot and Penny tumbled across her shoulders.
Whistling, Mabel walked toward the back door and out into the alley, wearing Penny around her neck like a scarf. Through the window, Sylvie watched as her assistant calmly threw the intern into the dumpster.
As a stream of profanity drifted from the piles of rubbish—most of which, incidentally, was all the ingredients Penny had purposely wasted—Mabel returned to the kitchen.
“I’ll be off, then,” she said, collecting her bag and coat from their hook.
“Have a good night,” Sylvie returned serenely.
As Mabel passed her, without turning her head or altering her expression, their hands fleetingly clasped.
The door swung closed, leaving Sylvie alone with Dominic in a lovely, clean kitchen, while her former intern made a third cross attempt to clamber from the trash.
Locking the back door, Sylvie transferred the bland smile to him.
His dark gaze shifted from the window to her face, his handsome features expressionless. “I’m equal parts terrified and aroused.”
“What an excellent relationship motto for us. I think I’ll embroider it on a cushion.”
The death blow to his composure.
He had to hold on to the countertop, he was laughing so hard, and despite the chaos surrounding them at every turn, Sylvie grinned.
Chapter Twenty
“Though she be but little, she is fierce.”
—William Shakespeare
St. Giles Palace
Sylvie had never found it so difficult to draw a line and consider a design done.
She had tweaked her work over and over again since last night, would likely still have been fiddling with it down to the wire if she hadn’t needed to stop and dress for the ball.
But it was done. She and Dominic had both delivered their final tenders ten minutes ago, casting shrewd looks at each other’s folders and the accompanying cake boxes of samples.
Whatever decision the royal couple made, she was happy with her proposal. The whole thing was tinged with shadows over Jay, who was still screening her calls, but she was proud of herself and her team. It was a cake that could well and truly hold its place in the historical records.
And regardless of who got this contract, this experience had changed her entire life. Dominic stood at her side and their fingertips brushed.
Unfortunately, it was looking increasingly doubtful whether there would be a wedding to require a cake.
Once before, she’d sat in this palace, watching as Rosie and Johnny continually reached out to each other with hands and eyes. She’d rarely seen a couple with such a tangible connection. Such obvious affection.
They stood now on opposite sides of a small meeting room. In the fraught minutes since an odiously pleased Edward Lancier had ushered Sylvie and Dominic inside, Rosie hadn’t looked at Johnny once.
He, on the other hand, couldn’t take his eyes from her face. His desperation was visceral.
Much like last time, the Duchess of Albany was doing most of the talking. She looked more like a majestic iceberg than ever. “After the extremely unfortunate photograph that emerged yesterday, there will naturally be questions and comments this evening. You will ignore the atrocious manners of others and make no response. Any decisions and public statements will come at the appropriate time, through the appropriate channels. Do I make myself clear?”
“That’s right,” Edward decided to pipe in. “With the personages present this evening, this is hardly the occasion to publicly sever this engagement.”
Rosie jerked visibly, but she was already following her mother’s directive. She made no response, even to her family.
“We’re not s-severing anything,” Johnny burst out. He moved then, lunging forward to grab Rosie’s hand. She didn’t pull away, but her fingers were limp in his. “Rosie.”
The princess’s navy eyes had been frighteningly blank and flat, but as they lifted to meet the urgency in Johnny’s, a spark of pure anguish flared and extinguished.
“I’ll thank you to not raise your voice in this room, please, John,” the duchess said frostily. “Most of this situation has been entirely your own doing. Although there has clearly been an unacceptable breach of privacy.”
The chilling pale stare speared Sylvie. The moment the door had closed behind them, she had explained—quietly and succinctly, and to Rosie and Johnny, not the watching sharks—the circumstances that had led to the publication of their private pain. As Rosie knew, they had been in the grounds near Johnny. The photograph had been taken; Sylvie had left Pet’s name out of it. And a member of her staff had leaked it to the press. That person’s employment was now terminated, and she could only sincerely apologize.
Johnny had merely shaken his head, his face white.
Rosie had briefly looked at Sylvie, and said in an unnaturally calm voice, “I know you didn’t intend for it get out.”
Her mother was less forgiving, but as the aristocratic lip curled, Dominic shifted. Angling his body so that he was partly shielding Sylvie, he looked at the duchess—who actually flushed.
Even royalty couldn’t withstand the De Vere Glare.
The older woman drew herself up and redirected her fury, but for once Johnny didn’t quail under her disapprobation. He was otherwise occupied, obviously geared up for the fight of his life.
The fight for his life.
“Fidelity may not be a highly prized virtue in this family,” opined the duchess, who was strongly rumored to have at least four lovers herself, “but you are expected to act with a minimum of discretion. Cavorting in the palace gardens, for goodness’ sake.”
“I wasn’t c-cavorting anywhere,” Johnny snapped. He was still holding Rosie’s hand tightly, and he shook it gently as he spoke, urging her. “I would never be unfaithful. Never. It makes me feel sick even thinking about it.”
Even Edward Lancier, who clearly despised Johnny, must have heard the ring of truth.
Rosie drew in a shaky breath.
Johnny jerked a glance at Sylvie and Dominic, but although he spoke to them, he looked at Rosie. The princess’s head was down. “Her name is Helena. The woman you saw on Friday and making a scene outside our offices.” He was speaking with uncharacteristic matter-of-factness now, so focused on his fiancée that the connection between them might be a visible cable, zipping with electricity. “I’ve known her all my life. She lives in the village adjacent to my parents’ estate. There’s never been anything romantic between us, but she’s told members of the press otherwise. She’s built up a fantasy narrative in her head, and she’s been s-systematically harassing me for months, from the moment my relationship with Rosie first hit the papers. She’s not well, and I’m trying to see that she gets the help she needs.”