Chapter 2

Chapter Two

T he first sign that something might be amiss with the Graceful Swan was the distinct lack of customers. Victoria was a dedicated follower of the reviews from the Morning Herald and had made it her business to dine at the featured restaurants as close to publication day of the review as possible. After she had attended the establishment, she would pen her own review in her journal. It would sit alongside the one she'd cut and pasted from the newspaper.

Arriving at the restaurant that evening, she and Richard were shown to a small table situated along one side of what should have been a busy restaurant. The Graceful Swan was located just off Oxford Street, in a busy part of central London. By anyone's estimation this place should have been packed with customers. A favorable review in such a major newspaper would normally have had people lining up in the street all begging to secure a table.

But apart from themselves, there were only four other tables occupied by diners. And from the way they casually engaged with the waiters, those other people were regulars of the Graceful Swan . Victoria did a quick tally and came up with ten empty tables.

This does not bode well for a good dining experience.

"I thought the review for this place was quite favorable, so why is there no one here?" asked Richard, surveying the room.

Victoria glanced over at the nearest table of diners and took in the sight of half-eaten plates of food. Her heart instantly sank. Even from this distance, the food didn't look particularly appetizing. None of the other guests were tucking gleefully into their meals; most just picked at their plates. It was apparent that people ate because they were hungry, not because they enjoyed the food.

She turned back to her brother and forced a smile to her lips. "Perhaps people are waiting until later in the week. Come Saturday evening this place could be packed to the gunnels," she replied. The hope in her voice betrayed her worsening fears about the Graceful Swan.

They ordered their meals. By the third bite of her dish, all of Victoria's hopes for an evening of delicious dining had withered away.

Richard had gone with the safe option of roast beef and vegetables. Her brother was always keen for a free meal, but he didn't have much of an adventurous palate. Victoria's baked fish served on creamed cauliflower, with a side plate of fried oysters, looked appealing, but as soon as she had put the first forkful into her mouth, she'd resigned herself to an evening of disappointment.

Where is the flavor? The fish should have an essence of lemon and a hint of asparagus. If this sole ever had a soul, it has long departed.

She met her brother's eyes. "How is your beef?" Perhaps the cook had a better hand with simple fare. Her expectations of dining on delicately handled dishes in a small restaurant might well be too high. The reviewer for the Morning Herald had gone with the roast lamb and sung its praises, he might have been the clever one.

Richard shook his head. "Two words. Bland. Tasteless. Which is odd considering that the scrapings from the roast should have at least provided the base for a rich gravy. Then again, the meat itself is sadly lacking. I'm beginning to wonder if the owner of this place wigged that the guest was a restaurant reviewer and gave him a special dish."

Heresy. In the world of culinary reviews, getting special treatment amounted to nothing short of an act of sacrilege. The only thing that would be worse than receiving a special meal, would be accepting bribes. Victoria had stopped following the reviewer for The Star for that very reason. She had been gutted to discover he had been engaging in such unscrupulous, underhanded maneuvers. Shameless, self-serving food writers had no place in her world.

Victoria set down her fork and sighed. "Every kitchen has an off night. Perhaps the cook was too busy resting on his laurels to capitalize on the chance to shine tonight. Pity." She picked up one of the fried oysters and stuffed it into her mouth. It was delicious.

But it's hard to make a mess of fried oysters. Flour, salt and pepper, and some oil. The oyster stands on its own merits.

She was certain that even she could manage to fry oysters. But since her mother refused to let her anywhere near the kitchen at Mowbray House, Victoria was resigned to a fate of only ever being a singularly excellent cook in her private imagination.

Robert left the Cock Inn on Fleet Street a little before midnight. He was quietly pleased with himself. Another restaurant owner was prepared to buy their spices from him. Along with th e Graceful Swan , he could now count fifteen establishments in central London who had changed from buying their supplies from the East India Company to his enterprise. His review for the Graceful Swan had appeared in today's Morning Herald , and with this latest success, he was starting to feel he was making real inroads against his enemy.

Once his first harvest from his country estate was ready, he would start to mix his own spices in with the ones he had stolen. Over time, his reliance on stealing the East India's goods would taper off, and he could begin to compete purely on quality, service and price.

He kept telling himself that, but at the same time, Robert had to admit he got quite the thrill out of stealing from the East India. His own set of morals might well lean toward the gray, but as far as he was concerned, the East India had none whatsoever. His business rival was fair game.

Sorry George, I am going to keep stealing from those swines as long as I can.

But even the Duke of Spice knew that bringing down the mighty East India Company was going to involve more than just a spot of good old thievery. The only way to ensure that the spice trade became a fair one was to see a bill stripping the East India of more of its power successfully passed through the English parliament. And that could take years. Until such a piece of legislation could muster enough support, Robert would continue with his dirty little enterprise. His one man war.

Oh, speaking of dirty.

A blast of foul wind from the nearby Fleet Ditch had him burying his nose in the sleeve of his coat. The vile reek which filled his senses made his eyes water.

The River Fleet had long ago stopped being a functioning waterway and was now little more than a stench-filled sewer. Robert pulled up the lapels of his greatcoat and did his best to stifle the smell. Hurrying his steps, he broke into a trot and headed further down the Strand.

Not the spice I was looking for.

George was standing hands in pockets on the corner of the Strand and Surry Street. He greeted Robert with a nod. "Evening, Your Grace. I've just finished with the proprietor of the Jamaica Winds . He will take as much pepper as we can supply. And if we can offer them a regular barrel of cumin, he'll take that as well."

Robert broke into a smile. "See, this is all coming together rather nicely. That makes sixteen customers on our list and also calls for a celebratory drink. Come on, let's go grab a pint of ale, then you can head home to your wife and tell her she has absolutely nothing to worry about."

His man of business took a step back. "The drink will have to wait for another time, Your Grace. I'm already in enough trouble for being out this late. If I come home smelling of ale, she'll be in tears. I will see you tomorrow."

As Robert's gaze followed George's hurried steps down Surry Street and toward the River Thames, he wondered what it would be like to have someone waiting for him at home. Someone who loved him so much that she sat up and worried until the moment he set foot through the front door.

He couldn't ever imagine finding a woman who cared that much about him.