Page 17

“For your hotels,” Chester said. “You pay for bulk and certainty. You want first choice of anything that touches the quay.”

Darley didn’t even pretend otherwise. “My guests expect bread that doesn’t surprise them.”

“And the small houses?” Chester asked. “The baker in Bishopsgate who feeds three streets. What do his customers expect? Or do they not count? And the French patisserie on Harley Street with the finest pastries – should they make them out of chalk there perhaps?”

Harcourt cleared his throat. “Smaller shops may have the remainder, Your Grace. They pay less; they cannot expect the same quality flour.”

“They pay less,” Chester said evenly, “because they cannot charge five shillings for a plate with a French name and a sprig of parsley. When you pay more, Darley, it is because you take more. Not because their bread matters less.”

Darley’s smile tightened. “You always had a soft spot for shopkeepers. Very charming in a curate. Less so in a duke. You are not here to be the people’s baker. You are here to keep the market from tearing itself apart.”

“I am trying to do exactly that.” Chester rested his hand on the ledger. “We brought in ‘coin at noon’ to stop men cheating the quay and escaping before the ink dried. You all wanted it. But if your hotels take the best of every lot before noon, small houses pay for our tidy rules with empty counters.”

“Then they must be quicker,” Darley said. “Or firmer with their own customers. Mine pay me in advance. Why should my trade carry theirs?”

Chester thought of the letter burning a line in his pocket. If those born to titles govern only for tables laid beneath chandeliers, they mistake privilege for duty. Whoever M. Beaumont was, she was right.

“This isn’t charity,” he said. “It’s common sense. You like full tables in Pall Mall because somewhere boys are eating bread, not scraping dust. If you starve the streets long enough, even your guests will notice.”

Reed shifted. “What do you suggest, Your Grace?”

Chester turned the ledger and tapped a column. “We keep ‘coin at noon’ for everyone. No credit at dawn, no sacks that vanish on the way. But we set aside a portion of each lot—one-third—for licensed small houses that bring receipts or coin by noon. The rest goes to Darley and the other large contracts as agreed. No private deals that empty the quay before a shop can pay.”

Darley snorted. “You’ll have us trading back and forth over thirds like children over a tart. My clients will howl.”

“Your clients always howl,” Chester said. “They still eat.” His gaze slid to Harcourt and Reed. “Small houses still pay market price. They don’t beg for flour. They buy it. They simply don’t have six months’ profit in a cellar to throw at the docks in one morning.”

Harcourt looked down, lips moving as he did the sums in his head. “One-third reserved. Receipts checked. Coin at noon as agreed. It would keep the figures clean. And no one can accuse us of favoritism if the rules are the same for all licensed shops.”

“And it keeps loaves in more ovens,” Chester said. “We can’t eat ledgers.”

Reed rubbed his jaw. “You’ll take the blame when the hotel men complain?”

“I’m already the Flour Duke in the newspapers,” Chester said dryly. “They can call me a few more names and send me their complaints.” I’ll only continue to respond to the smart ones. Like M. Beaumont’s.

Darley frowned. “Flour Duke.”

Reed’s mouth twitched. “You hadn’t heard? The Times was very taken with a certain reader’s letter. They do enjoy a title for everything.”

Darley’s eyes narrowed. “You let anonymous scribblers steer policy now, Wyndale?”

“I let facts and examples influence policy in the name of the public good,” Chester said. “These particular letters both. I find them more useful than flattery.”

The argument limped on a little longer, but the decision was made. Harcourt and his customers liked neat accounts and their own skins; Darley liked his deliveries too much to stand alone. In the end, they agreed to the third set aside, the noon coin, the printed circulars that would make it all sound inevitable.

Outside, the wind off the Thames cut through his coat. Men shouted; cords strained; a barge bumped against the pier. A clerk hurried past with a clutch of chits, hat sliding down his forehead. Chester scanned the yard from habit, counting sacks, carts, men.

And then he saw a bonnet.

Plain straw, wide-rimmed.

The woman beneath it stood in front of a stack of sacks, one gloved hand resting on coarse canvas, shoulders square. A boy hovered behind her with a folded paper and an inkpot balanced in his palm.

Chester’s pulse jumped.

It was her, the woman from the patisserie.

He moved without thinking, stepping into the shadow between two piles of crates as if he were simply making room for a passing cart. From there, he could see her profile: that soft curve of cheek, the firm mouth that had told him Non over pastry and made him obey.