Chapter Eight
By the next night, with the ovens steady and the raid expected any day now, Rosine laid out her work in careful ranks—crisp pastry shells, sugared garnishes, crystallized fruits, caramel drops small and glossy, and a bowl of freshly milled cinnamon—so that, at the first signal, she could cook the custards, whip the cream, and, with Marta and Bridget beside her, send a confectioner’s spread to the gambling room in less than two hours.
“You’ve been summoned to the Black Widow of Whitehall,” whispered Marta, who had just returned from bringing Mrs. Dove-Lyon her evening hot chocolate.
Rosine wiped her hands on her apron and swallowed hard. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had sampled and approved all of the pastries. What else could she want from her?
“Whatever for?” asked Bridget, as she unfolded a clean cotton towel and covered the pastry shells until they were needed.
“Perhaps Rosine is finally being praised,” Marta said with a knowing nudge. “Best baker among us, after all. Professional confectioner par excellence.” She gave Rosine’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Go on, I’ll watch the ovens.”
Rosine nodded, but her stomach knotted as though she’d swallowed a stone.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon never called during peak hours.
At nine in the morning, perhaps—then it was about preparations, special orders, the preferred jams of gentlemen titled and notorious.
But now, while the gambling hall pulsed with wagers and laughter, while the kitchen spun in full motion?
This was something outside of the routine.
She wiped the last trace of flour from her wrist and left the warmth of the kitchen behind as she walked up the servants’ stairs.
A few minutes later, Rosine knocked and entered the office, the velvet door closing softly behind her.
Not even the murmur of the gambling hall and the private card rooms beyond reached her ears—a distant echo, undiscernible voices, and clinking glasses.
Here, silence seemed amplified under low candlelight.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat behind her polished desk, the window behind her darkening into night. A stack of ledgers lay to one side, flickering shadows on their edges. Beside the desk stood Sander—silent, unmoving, a carved sentinel who somehow managed to feel alive with watchfulness.
Sander’s eyes met Rosine’s, and she the weight of his warm but questioning gaze pressed gently into her chest. So he doesn’t know why I’ve been summoned either.
Still, that single glance from him grounded her. Steadied her spine. It told her she wasn’t alone in the world anymore.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon caught their connection and hmphed.
“Rosine,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon began, voice measured, “I called you here because you matter more to the Lyon’s Den’s reputation—and perhaps survival—than you may be aware.”
She leaned forward, candlelight catching the edge of her veil. The scent of cocoa, lavender, and old parchment filled the elegant room.
“There’s talk outside these walls. Auditors.
Nobles are upset with immigrant staff working in my establishment.
If they act, they won’t distinguish Jew from non-Jew, baker from server.
Everyone will suffer. You and me included.
Especially if Nagy ensures Pembroke’s formal support. We must not allow it.”
Rosine’s pulse fluttered like a dragonfly’s wing.
“This isn’t just about buns,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon continued sharply.
“It’s about destroying the livelihoods of every Jew who found refuge here—the kitchen staff, the clerks, the waiters—and mine for sheltering them.
” She nodded in Sander’s direction. “Him included. Even though he hides well that he’s Jewish. ”
Sander inhaled deeply and sucked in his lower lip, but didn’t speak.
“If one of you is targeted, we all are,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon added.
“The Bailiff Nagy with Pembroke’s help is trying to set an example for the Ton with us, and will come to cause whatever damage he can.
If he can show our patrons that he controls the businesses run by or with Jews—or that he can destroy them—who knows how dire the consequences will be if we are the example he sets successfully by ruining the Lyon’s Den. ”
“But are we strong enough to stand rigid?” Rosine asked and instantly regretted such a stupid question. The words tasted braver than she felt.
Her chest tightened, and in the pause that followed, the kitchen of her childhood rose unbidden—the narrow bakery in Strasbourg with its soot-stained beams and sugared windows.
Her father’s hands dusted white with flour, her mother humming over jars of plum preserves.
It had been her home and safe… and then one night, all had changed when the shouts came.
The broken glass. The neighbors who had once bought their bread turned away, pretending not to see when soldiers dragged her father out into the street and beat him till he was bleeding from his head and stopped whimpering.
Her mother had tried to shield her, whispering that if Rosine kept kneading, kept working the dough, she’d not see the world outside.
But she had seen the world outside, and it had left her with only recipes and grief.
That was why her hands never stopped moving now. Why did she build walls out of sugar and yeast scaffolding in the dough? And why the thought of standing “rigid” made her tremble—because rigidity had not saved her parents.
She lifted her chin, forcing the fear down. If she faltered here, it would not just be her bakery lost. It would be all of them.
Sander didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. “I could have fled when I first heard there’d be a raid. But I won’t. I stay because I won’t watch this place—our people—burn.” His voice was quiet but carried weight, like stone on stone. “—and I’m glad Sander ran it up the stairs at once.
That’s why I sent for you, Rosine. You are the mark he means to draw around us.
Mr. Nagy—that bailiff he plays at being—knows my baker is Jewish; he knows you came out of Strasbourg when others did not.
He has sniffed enough to scent a story. What he does not have—yet—is your former name or the thread to your kin.
He knows your trays move a room the way Sander’s boards do; he knows you are essential here.
We’ll keep what is yours until we choose our ground. ”
Not yet. That settled inside her—a resolve she hadn’t realized she needed. She’d been hiding in plain sight, like Sander. And now, like him, she was being called forward.
“You should know, however,” continued Mrs. Dove-Lyon, “this threat puts at risk not only our nightly gains, but the plan I’ve built—my Lyon’s Den, our Lyon’s Den, where merit matters more than blood. This raid could unravel it all.”
That left nowhere to hide. Rosine’s breath tightened. “What can I do to help?”
Her question seemed to please Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who leaned back in her chair like a queen on a throne during a successful audience. “I’m delighted you asked. Sander, do you wish to show her?”
He nodded, which was rewarded with a triumphant smile by Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
“So you’ll bake, Rosine. You’ll do what you do best. And you’ll grow beyond the Lyon’s Den.”
“You want me to… to leave?” The audacity of her own tone startled her, but the word had struck like a shot.
If she left, how would she save for a shop of her own?
Where would she sleep safely? Her dream of independence and her only shelter since she’d run away from Strasbourg would be lost. “Pardon me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but why must I leave if you are pleased with my work?”
“You don’t leave but we expedite your dream to serve this establishment.
I’ve arranged a standing order for your buns,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, unruffled.
“It’s a vote of confidence, not a dismissal.
But I would see you placed where your skill can grow beyond my kitchen, should you choose it. Do you trust me?”
Sander came to Rosine’s shoulder, spoke quietly as if steadying a tray. “This way, a single raid can never extinguish us all.”
The word raid slid cold over her skin. Cinnamon and warm butter suddenly smelled like an alarm. She looked to him. He met her eyes and dipped the smallest nod. He thinks I can do this. He wants me safe. Her throat tightened. I want him safe, too.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s dark gaze softened, though her mouth kept its firm line. “Divide et impera—scatter first, subdue after. It’s the oldest tactic in Whitehall and Bow Street both.” She shifted a lemon slice on the table with one fingertip, neat even now. “We will not be caught in one net.”
Rosine drew a breath and it settled low, where courage lived when it had to.
“It’s the oldest trick—divide and conquer—break the meals into fractions and win the menu.
” Her voice steadied as she said it. She’d used it in the kitchen, breaking a large task up into smaller ones, some for her, others for Marta or Bridget, and they’d managed it.
Sander’s mouth curved, the briefest assent. “Nagy scatters; I coordinate—my pieces defend and move as one.” His glance brushed hers—quick, private. Chess was his language, and she understood.
As one. The word fit in her palm like a tool she’d made herself. Sander and I are one. Heat rose in her cheeks; she kept her chin level.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon inclined her head, satisfied.
“Then we are agreed on the principle. Practically, it means this: you will keep my standing order, but you will also supply a select list of houses. Marta and Bridget will train two girls in your method, so the work still goes forward under your guidance when you will be at your own bakery.”