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She lifted her own bun and bit, small and neat. She chewed once, twice, and then—deliberate enough to be seen—winked at Rosine. “Delicious!”

Approval moved through Rosine like heat in winter.

Sander and Mrs. Dove-Lyon trust me. They count on me.

Time to stand up and be seen.

Then Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned again, platter offered. “Do join us, Mr. Nagy.”

“I don’t eat smuggled sugar delivered to Jews,” he said, too loud, each word laid down like a brick. Several gentlemen perked up; a lady’s fan stilled mid-wave.

Rosine’s fingers tightened on the tongs.

“Why not?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked mildly. “Afraid the flour may be contaminated?”

“The sugar…” Nagy sputtered, then shut his mouth.

“And how would you know?” asked Pembroke as he briefly looked up from his chess board.

“Eat the bun, Mr. Nagy,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, with feigned pleasantness sharp as a polished blade, clean but cutting nonetheless.

Pembroke barked agreement. “You brought us here and we ate ours. Very good, I must say. Have a go!” He let out a laugh that made Rosine’s blood curdle.

Pride hates to be cornered. Thus, Nagy reached, bit. Crumbs caught in his mustache; his brow lifted despite himself. “Caramel, melted into custard,” he said, and took a second bite before he remembered to scowl.

“What else did you expect?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon murmured aloud.

Again from behind the curtain, Sander moved next. He must have heard everything, of course. “Board One… queen to h5.” A small ooh from that corner, as if some gentleman had just seen the jaws of a trap.

Yes, my love. I’m fighting alongside you just from a different corner.

“Rosine,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Be so good and let us see why you had to change the menu on short notice.”

Rosine slid the lid from the metal bowl at the end of the display. The scent of caramel and citrus floated up, bright and clean. In the bottom of the bowl was a muck of dull grains.

Nagy wrinkled his nose. “What’s this?”

She kept her voice even. “Sand, sir.”

“Sand?” the Viscount echoed, leaning back and stretching his neck as if he tried to look into the bowl.

Eyes dropped to pastries; some men took reflexive sips of tea, as if checking their mouths for grit.

There won’t be any.

Nagy lifted his chin. “Why is sand on the menu at the Lyon’s Den? Are you betraying your patrons with anything else?”

“We might ask you that,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. The politeness had now left her voice entirely. “Because we don’t spare any expenses to ensure the safety and wellbeing of our guests. Isn’t that so, Lord Pembroke?”

Pembroke hmphed and made a move on his chessboard then back, then moved again.

Nagy changed angles at once. “How much sugar did you burn to make these little nests?”

Rosine met his gaze. He was waiting for her to flinch, she could see it in his expression. She didn’t.

“About four pounds,” she said.

“This display is less than one,” he said, stabbing the air with a finger. Murmurs pricked; he smelled blood. “So—waste, or deceit? Are you charging your patrons for the difference then?”