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Sander slumped. She knew all along?

“On conditions, while this weather holds.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave them both a look that was soft like a pleased mother’s even though her words were harsher. “You will keep the House’s propriety on the stairs and in the halls. You will not announce an engagement until I tell you that it’s time and the Commons question has cooled and the Customs hold has been lifted.”

Sander’s throat worked.

Rosine’s shoulder brushed his sleeve, the smallest yes. “Thank you, madam,” she said.

“Good,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Let them see Jews who work, pay, and give. Let them see a house that keeps its women safe and its accounts clean. We will not let a clerk or a cane decide what we are.”

Sander nodded once. He had never loved her more than in that moment when she said ‘we’ and meant everyone under her roof.

“Your tasks,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon went on, already distributing pieces. “Sander: you and Titan will walk the routes—service stair to kitchen, kitchen to gaming floor, gaming floor to the mews—every change of hour until the inspection ends. Produce copies of contracts for the clerk, and have our solicitor present when he arrives. You will also sit the boards tonight and tomorrow. If Pembroke comes, you will take him first and you will be excellent.” Her mouth tilted. “Beat him kindly so he feels strong enough to withstand Nagy but not stronger then the Lyon’s Den.”

“Understood, madam.”

“Rosine: you will be magnificent. Lay your trays so even Bow Street remembers his manners. Cardamom and lemon for the gentlemen; something warm and plain but sweet. And make sure the exhibition table looks like London at its best: order, skill, merit.”

Rosine’s eyes were bright and fierce; Sander wanted to kiss the look off her mouth and did not move. “Yes,” she said. “I can do that.”

“One more thing,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, softer. She took Rosine’s hand and set it in Sander’s, then covered both with her own. “My house keeps many customs; tonight we keep yours. Mazal tov.” Congratulations. The words meant more than Sander could say and hit him harder than he’d expected. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had congratulated them in Hebrew.

She released them and lifted her quill. “Off with you—boards to set, ovens to warm. We’ll answer Mr. Nagy’s paper with light and show Parliament what value looks like.”

They stepped out into the landing together. The door clicked behind them; the House’s hum took them up. For a beat they didn’t move—close enough that the breath between them felt shared.

“Leave to court,” Rosine said, as if tasting it.

“With conditions,” he answered, and something like gratitude bloomed under his ribs—gratitude that conditions existed, that a woman with a violet knew how to throw a punch with paper.

She slid her hand along the line of his sleeve, a touch no corridor would remark, and let her fingers fall. “We’ll be seen in the kitchen and on the boards,” she said. “That’s enough for now.”

He almost said it wasn’t, that he wanted a ring and a sign and a life that started at once. He swallowed it and chose the square they’d named. “I’ll meet you after the first tray goes up,” he said. “We’ll walk the routes once more—together.”

“Together,” she said.

Titan’s two-finger salute met them at the stairs. Sander touched his breastbone in answer and turned toward the gaming floor. He had names to speak, boards to set, a clerk to meet with papers in order and cool temper. And a woman to keep safe—not by making her small, but by standing where she needed him while she made London hungry.

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.