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A corner of her mouth answered that. “Then you shall have the mille-feuille.”

“I’ll take anything you give,” he said, and heard the words as she did, too late to catch them.

Her brow tilted, the smallest censure; her eyes narrowed as if testing whether he meant to charm. Heat brushed his neck. He recovered with only truth at hand and his heart—he feared—on his sleeve. “Your recommendation, I meant.”

“Of course.” Her tone smoothed, but the pink on her cheeks rose. She slid open the case. “This is delicious today.” She indicated the layered slice, then added, almost prim, “And—perhaps an apricot tart, if you prefer to keep your coat unspotted.”

He almost smiled. “I prefer to learn.” And perhaps the unspotted coat and apricot tarts would give way to something more exciting.

She wrapped the pastry. Fold, press, tuck. She slid it toward him. He didn’t immediately take it.

“May I know your name?” he asked, careful, quiet. “So I do not keep addressing a mirage of beauty as mademoiselle.”

She hesitated, as if weighing cost against something she couldn’t name. “Some call me Pepper,” she said at last. Nothing more.

Pepper. The name set right. “Chester,” he said, because fairness mattered in small ways where it often failed in large ones. He left Wyndale unsaid; for the space of a few breaths he wanted to be only a Christian name to her, not a title with expectations attached.

“Chester,” she echoed, trying it. He felt the ridiculous pleasure of being a man spoken to, not a title spoken at.

She nudged the parcel forward; his hand met hers on the edge. Too much, he told himself, and drew back.

“What is best besides this?” he asked, safer ground.

“It depends what you want,” she said, level as a promise. “The flour came in sweet and dry this morning; you can taste it in the mille-feuille. It sings when the flour is right and the milk behaves. Some days it doesn’t. Today it does.”

That’s my fault in part. “Who made it?” The question sounded lighter than it felt.

“My father,” she answered at once. “I only sifted the sugar on top.” Too quick.

Loyalty. Or a lie told for the right reason. “Then tell him I’m persuaded,” he said. “I’ll be back for whatever he’s proud of next.”

He drew out a small card case, slid one card halfway free. “If you have a moment, I should like to speak of a larger order. A tasting first, of course.”

Her lashes dipped, thinking. She didn’t take the card; business questions came first. “A larger order for what sort of affair, sir?”

“A somewhat formal affair,” he said, keeping the words bland. “Desserts for a party out of town. I am responsible for that portion of the table.”

“Out of town where?” she asked, trade-interest quickening. “For a private house? Or a hotel?”

“Brighton.” I wish I could just come here and speak to you while buying pastries every day instead.

Her chin lifted a fraction. “Where in Brighton?”

He held her gaze. “The Pavilion.” For business, not pleasure. How do I begin to explain that as Guardian of the Royal Table, I can organize such tastings and events for the royal family?

The coin she’d been turning in her fingers slipped, pinged once on the wood, and spun to a stop. He didn’t reach for it.

Too much? Then say the practical thing.

“With your father’s permission,” he went on, easy, “your kitchen could provide the entire sweet course. Not merely a tasting. A proper display—French, as you do it. There’s a budget for doing it correctly.” And you could be there so I can see you again.

“We can’t transport to Brighton,” she said at once. How very sensible. Guarded.

“Then allow me.” He kept his tone mild and unarguable. “My men will bring hampers by morning—straw, ice, anything you name. We pay on the nail and on account both.” From the back, a man’s voice, rough with patience, broke in French: “Accepte ! Nous avons besoin de l’argent!”

Chester didn’t blink. Understood, you need the money. I hear you. He did not let it show that he understood every word.

He set a folded note beside the card: crisp paper, real weight. “This is the advance.”