“Are you deaf?” The maid beside him nudged his arm. “Three times he’s asked you to step forward and place your order. Can’t you see there’s a queue? I ain’t got time to waste.”
The crowd grumbled in agreement.
Theo grinned, their annoyance playing into his hands.
He approached the counter and addressed the man with a beer barrel for a belly. “I’ll take the largest plum pie in the cabinet.” He presented the Home Secretary’s letter. “You have been named as a witness in an official investigation. You’re required to close the shop so we can speak privately.”
“Did you hear that?” a customer cried. “He’s closing the shop.”
Like a run on the bank, the crowd pushed forward, waving their hands and shouting their orders. Amid the cacophony, the baker raised the wooden countertop and beckoned Theo and Miss Darrow forward.
“We’re not closing,” the baker reassured his patrons, gesturing to the woman in a white pinny. “Gertrude will serve you. Form an orderly queue.” Then he turned and ushered them through a door at the back.
Two women were busy rolling pastry on a long oak table in the large kitchen. The heat hit Theo the second he entered. The poor boy stoking the ovens had a face as red as a berry.
“What’s this about?” The baker stood with his folded arms resting on his paunch. “What am I supposed to have witnessed?”
“A barrow boy brought a letter here some months ago,” Miss Darrow said. “It was a small letter, an inch square. It was so tiny it would be memorable. We need to know if the recipient works here or if someone came to collect the note. It was sealed with green wax.”
The baker remembered the incident clearly. “Yes, the boy handed me the note. I asked who it was for, and he said he didn’t know.”
“Did you open it?” Theo said, daring him to lie.
“Yes, the writing was so small that the wife had to use a magnifying glass.” He jerked his head to the buxom woman behind him. “It was the oddest thing.”
“But she read it?” Miss Darrow asked.
That’s when the baker winced in obvious discomfort. “It’s private business. Nothing that should concern anyone else.”
Theo showed the baker the letter again. “You don’t need a hand lens to see the official seal. You’ll answer our questions here or at Bow Street.”
After exchanging odd expressions with his wife, the baker confessed. “It said I was to appeal to Thatcher’s & Sons solicitors in Fetter Lane, and a certain debt would be settled in full.”
“We were glad of it, sir,” the wife blurted. “The debts were mounting, and all requests went unanswered. Getting the note was like a blessing from heaven. Within days, all the bills were paid.”
“We will need the name of your debtor.” Theo mentally scratched his head. Why would Lucille Bowman have debts at a baker’s shop? And why had her father not settled her account?
“Does it matter?” the baker said, raising his voice to compensate for the rowdy noise in the shop. “It would be wrong to reveal the name of such a prestigious client.”
“It matters,” he snapped. “We know Lady Lucille Bowman sent the note. We need you to confirm it was the case.”
The baker’s brow creased in confusion. “There must be some mistake. The debt belonged to a gentleman, sir.”
“A gentleman?” Miss Darrow tapped her finger to her lips. It took her mere seconds to make sense of the conundrum. “Then the debt belonged to her father, or her affianced? I would guess Lord Wrotham ran up the debt.”
While the baker remained tight-lipped, his wife said, “He ordered cakes by the dozen most days. He spent ten pounds one week.”
“Ten pounds? On cake?” Theo had to laugh. The lanky fop was all skin and bone. “How much did he owe in total?”
Bowing his head in shame, the baker said, “Almost a hundred and fifty pounds. It’s been a problem for over a year.”
“Since settling his account, he’s not been back,” the wife added.
So, Lady Lucille was secretly paying Lord Wrotham’s debts. Theo would wager the bookshop owner and perfumer told a similar tale. A visit to the solicitor’s office would confirm as much.
But who lived at Finch Lane, Cornhill? Another creditor? And how was it linked to the damage at Miss Darrow’s shop?
“We’ll ask Daventry to find out why Wrotham cannot settle his own accounts,” Theo muttered in Miss Darrow’s ear. “We can visit the office tomorrow.”
She looked at him and nodded. Plagued by a sudden tiredness, she failed to stifle a yawn. “Forgive me. It’s been such a long day. I’m not sure I have the strength to visit anyone else.”
“We should go home. Nothing is so important it cannot wait until tomorrow.” He thanked the baker and led Miss Darrow through the crowded shop and onto The Strand. “You’ve not eaten all day. Perhaps that accounts for your flagging spirits. We’ll dine with Aaron before the club opens at eight. Then you should rest upstairs.”
She glanced at him through tired eyes. “What about our game of piquet? You have debts to pay. You owe two forfeits.”
He resisted the urge to stroke her cheek and say something wicked. “They’ll be your stake in the game tonight. I shall do my best to win them back. Assuming you’re well enough to meet me for a midnight liaison.”
She smiled before yawning again. “What might I claim if I win? I shall have to give the matter a great deal of thought.”
“I’m a man of many talents. I suggest you choose wisely.”
“Hello!” The baker’s assistant came hurrying out of the shop, something wrapped in parchment in her hands. “You forgot your plum pie. Your wife seemed keen to take one home.”
His wife?
Theo did not correct the misconception. He thrust a few shillings into the woman’s hand despite her insisting it was a gift. He did not take advantage of the hardworking classes. He was not his cousin Wrotham.
They settled into the carriage, Miss Darrow cradling the wrapped pie in her lap. “We should have it with our claret at the card table tonight.”
