The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

by Mr. King

Installment Iin which our lonely Heroine is forced to endure the company of a Person with a most Roguish reputation!

In the village of Chippingwich was a confectionary shop where sweets of unparalleled deliciousness were sold by a woman who had not long been a resident. Tallulah O’Doyle’s arrival in the picturesque hillside hamlet had gone mostly unnoticed until she opened her shop and became quite quickly a favorite of many villagers. She created and sold peppermints and taffies, anise candies and sweets with soft cream centers. She included cakes and biscuits in her offerings and showed herself quite adept at all that she made. Indeed, she had no equal in the matter of confectionary delights.

Alas, her life was not nearly so honeyed as the sweets she sold! Tallulah was quite alone in the world, without parents or siblings, without the dear friends she’d known when she was young, without the beloved granny who had raised her on tales of the Fae and warnings of creatures lurking somewhere between myth and reality. Tallulah now lived far from her childhood home in Ireland, far from the familiar paths and fields she’d daily traversed. To England she’d come to build a new life, and, for all her show of bravery and determination, she was lonely and terribly uncertain.

“Lemon drops, please, Miss Tallulah.” Seven-year-old Belinda Morris clinked a ha’penny onto the shop counter, the top of her head barely visible.

“Not peppermints?” That was Belinda’s usual choice of sweets.

“Marty likes lemon drops.”

Tallulah leaned forward across the counter, the better to see the dear child. “And he has convinced you to try them?”

She shook her head. “He don’t have a ha’penny. I’m sharin’ with him.” Her eyes darted toward the shop window.

Little Marty, near in age to Belinda, stood on the other side of the glass, watching with a look of earnest worry. She knew his family was not particularly flush; the sweets he purchased now and then came dear to him. That this girl, whose situation was not much better, would buy his favorite in order to brighten his day . . . Dear, kind Belinda!

“Perhaps I could give you three lemon drops and three small peppermint sweets,” Tallulah said. “Then you would both have your favorite.”

“How many candies is that?” Belinda asked.

“Count them on your fingers, dear.”

Belinda did, her lips moving silently. “Six! But I usually only get four with a ha’penny.”

Tallulah simply smiled. She pulled three of each candy from the glass display jars on the nearby shelf and wrapped them in a small bit of paper. “You are a good-hearted girl, Belinda,” she said, handing the prized sweets over the counter. “And a very good friend, indeed.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Tallulah!” She skipped from the shop. Her exchange with Marty was visible through the windows, an innocent bit of kindness. A mere moment later, Marty rushed into the shop and behind the counter.

He threw his arms around Tallulah’s waist. “Thank you, Miss Tallulah.”

“Make certain you thank Belinda. ’Twas her ha’penny.”

“I will, Miss Tallulah. I promise!”

He rushed out and rejoined his friend. Tallulah smiled at the sight and, after they’d slipped from view, at the memory. She’d once had dear friends like that as well. She was gaining acquaintances in Chippingwich, but she was often lonely. And far too often alone.

As she wiped down the counter, she allowed her thoughts to whirl in the winds of time, carrying her back to Ireland and the life she’d lived there. It had always been home to her. Could this tiny village feel that way? Could she find home again? How heavy was her heart with so difficult a question resting upon it!

The shop door opened once more, and the local squire stepped inside. Tallulah did not know him well. He spent far more time at the pub than the confectionary shop, a not unusual preference amongst the men of the village. Mr. Carman was a man of great influence and importance in the village.

Tallulah greeted him in a tone of deference. “Welcome, Mr. Carman. How may I help you?”

With a flick of his red cape, the squire placed himself at the counter but somehow seemed to fill the entirety of the shop. He wore a hat in the same shade of crimson. Tallulah had never seen him without either accessory. It made him quite easy to identify. As did the almost putrid smell of him. Tallulah struggled against the urge to hold her nose when he was nearby. Yet, no one else seemed the least bothered.

“I am hosting a fine family who are passing through the area, and I am in need of a very elegant cake.”

“Of course.” Tallulah jotted down his requirements for flavor, size, and style, and the time and date he would need it.

While they discussed the particulars, the door opened yet again. For a moment, she was entirely distracted from her purpose. The man who had just entered was known to her by reputation, and that reputation was not an entirely angelic one.

Royston Prescott was known for two things. First, he was the local haberdasher and quite good at what he did. Second, he had a reputation for being a rogue. Not a true scoundrel or someone a person ought to be afraid of. Rather, he was playful and mischievous. He made trouble, but in a way that people liked him all the more. Liked him, but perhaps did not entirely trust him. He was known to flirt with any and every female he came across. He was known to joke when he ought to have been serious, to take lightly those things which ought to be taken quite seriously.

Tallulah was not afraid of him. She doubted anyone truly was. But he was a rogue and a flirt. Men of that sort were best taken with an enormous grain of salt.

“I will be with you in a moment,” she said.

He smiled a very personable smile and accepted his lot.

To the squire, she said, “Have you any other requirements for—”

A sound echoed off the walls—a gurgling noise that sent shivers down her spine.

Neither the squire nor Mr. Prescott seemed to have heard it. Odd.

She gathered her wits and tried once more. “Have you any other requirements for your cake?”

“Let me see your list, and I will make certain it is correct.” He reached for the paper.

For just a moment, Tallulah thought she glimpsed, not a hand, but a claw. She looked again and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Her gaze shifted to his face, but the shadows of his hat hid most of it. An uncomfortable sensation tiptoed over her, but she dismissed it. Her mind, no doubt, was playing tricks on her.

“All is in order,” the squire said. “How fortunate the village is to have you. Do you mean to make your home here permanently?”

“I do hope so,” she said.

The squire, despite having posed the question, did not seem entirely pleased with the answer. Odd, that. He had said the village was fortunate to have her.

He stepped back from the counter and past Mr. Prescott. The two exchanged looks that were not easily discernible. Tallulah couldn’t tell if the two men were on friendly terms or if ’twas animosity she sensed between them. The squire’s crimson cape fluttered behind him as he left the shop.

Mr. Prescott stepped up to the counter. Even his swagger held a heavy hint of self-admiration.

Fortunately, Tallulah was rather immune to such things. She too could flirt and make lighthearted conversation. And she was known to toss about an expert bit of banter. But she was unlikely to fall under the spell of a scoundrel.

“You seem to have secured the patronage of our most significant local personage,” Mr. Prescott said.

“And it appears I’m soon to have the patronage of our town’s most flirtatious local personage.”

He tipped her a crooked smile, one complete with a twinkle of the eye and a raise of an eyebrow. “My reputation precedes me.”

“And what reputation might that be?”

The man chuckled lightly, far from offended. “You cannot deny that I have a reputation.”

“I don’t intend to deny any such thing. I simply wondered if you are aware of what is said of you.”

He leaned an elbow against the counter, watching her with a gaze that was at once curious and assessing. “Let me see if I can sum it up. I am a man of exceptional taste. I run a successful business. I am quick with a word of praise, predisposed toward finding beauty in everything around me. I enjoy banter and flirting, but all the women in the village are warned not to take me too seriously.”

It was, in all honesty, a good summary of what she’d heard.

“You’ve left something off,” she said.

He tipped his head to one side, clearly attempting to sort out what he might have left out.

Tallulah went about her business, wiping the counters and removing finger smudges from the glass displays about the shop, not offering him the least clue.

“You have baffled me, Miss O’Doyle,” he said. “What aspect of my rumored character have I omitted?”

“You neglected to mention the weakness you have for sweets, and”—she motioned to the colorful display on the wall behind her—“your intention to buy a great many confections while you’re here.”

That brought the smile to his face once more. Oh, he had an intriguing smile indeed! His reputation was widely spoken of, as was his ability to cut quite a fine dash. The fact that he was handsome and personable was mentioned at every opportunity. Yet, even with all of these warnings, Tallulah found herself ill-prepared for the impact of his roguish smile and knee-weakening good looks.

She would do well to be on her guard with this one.