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The Dowager made a sound halfway between disbelief and disdain. “This,” she said to Lady Erica, “is what it has come to? Children from a bakehouse. And I thought we might be friends.” This meant as much as I hoped your daughter would be better for my son. Argh!

Lady Erica’s smile showed teeth. “And I,” she said sweetly, “for once was hoping not for your friendship.”

Lady Florence gave a delighted little choke.

Mrs. Hart, recovering her wits, darted forward to gently redirect Margy and Bess toward a corner rugs and a basket of hastily-found toys. “Come along, my dears,” she murmured. “Let us see how quietly we can play.”

Chester barely heard any of it. Pepper’s gaze had found him.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

He saw it all in the space of a heartbeat—the way her eyes flared, the way color rose under her skin, the way her fingers tightened in her skirts as if to keep from reaching. The hope she tried to smother. The hurt she did not bother to hide.

Then Monsieur Duval cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, eyeing Chester with no sign of being impressed by title or tailors. “You are Wyndale.”

It was not a question. He said it the way a man might name an ingredient that had caused trouble in a recipe and now lay on his table to account for itself.

He stepped forward, hand extended.

Chester felt his mother stiffen beside him at the breach of order: a baker offering his hand first to a duke. No bow. No deference. Just a man, standing upright in his own right.

Good, Chester thought. That is exactly how it ought to be because I want something from him. His daughter. This was not the sort of transaction that resulted in business but a sincere request that would hopefully result in family.

He shifted Anna carefully to his left arm and took Monsieur Duval’s hand in his right, closing his fingers around the other man’s with deliberate respect.

“Chester Stockton, Duke of Wyndale,” he said. “Thank you for your welcome, Monsieur Duval.”

“I did not expect a duke to request an audience with a baker,” Monsieur Duval said seemingly suppressing a cough while something like wry amusement warmed his tone. “Normally you send footmen and seals. You do not come in person—with babies. But I’m grateful to offer my thanks for the Royal Warrant. I understand it was your patronage that helped achieve this honor.” He coughed again.

Chester glanced down at Anna, who chose that moment to squeak and grab at his cravat. “The pleasure was mine,” he agreed. “I am not here in the ordinary way.”

He lifted his head. Pepper’s parents were watching him; Lady Florence’s eyes glittered; Mrs. Hart had her hands on Margy’s shoulders as if ready to shield them all if necessary. The Dowager’s fan snapped open with a crack.

“Then why?” Monsieur Duval asked.

Chester let out the breath he’d been holding for three days.

“Because,” he said, letting his voice carry to everyone and yet speaking, privately, to Pepper, “I have been hoping for something no amount of flour can weigh against. Your daughter’s hand.”

The words fell into the room and seemed, for a moment, to still even the children.

Pepper’s throat moved as she swallowed. Her fingers, where they rested against her gown, curled into her palm.

The Dowager made a pained sound and sank down beside Lady Florence, fanning herself as if overcome by someone else’s impropriety. “Chester,” she said sharply. “This is—”

“Precisely what we asked you here to discuss,” Lady Erica cut in. “Nothing is decided. Nothing will be decided without Barbara.” She drew herself up as if facing down an entire ball. “But the least everyone can do is have the decency to let the young man make his case.”

Young man. Chester almost smiled. It had been some time since anyone had called him that without irony because he was usually just Wyndale, the duke, or the Chair of the Board. Here, he was a young man, Chester. He sighed as if relief could wash away the burden resting on his shoulders. The last time, he suspected, had been when he’d smuggled flour to Reed’s family all those years ago.

Margy tugged on his sleeve. “Is that her?” she whispered, trying and failing to be quiet. “The one?”

Heat climbed his neck. “Yes,” he said gently.

“She’s so beautiful,” Margy breathed, staring at Pepper as if she had stepped out of the stories the nurse told.

His heart did something both foolish and painful. “I agree,” he said.