Page 19

“Next! Name?” a clerk barked, not looking up.

“Pâtisserie de La Loire, Harley Street,” Pepper said. “For M. Beaumont.”

The clerk’s eyes flicked up at that. Traders along the wharf had learned to respect M. Beaumont: coin on time, neat receipts, no fuss.

“Duval’s place,” he said, grudging recognition under the grumble. “You’re the...”

“The persons who’ve come on the proprietor’s behalf,” Pepper replied. “We’re here for twenty sacks, as usual.”

He pulled a book toward him and ran a finger down a column. “Deliveries are light. Depends what’s left once the large contracts are served.”

“Explain,” Pepper said. “Plainly, if you please.”

Henry shifted beside her. Mr. Kemp folded his arms and said nothing. Men behind them in line edged closer, pretending not to listen.

The clerk sighed as if she were unreasonable. “Flour comes downriver,” he said. “We split each load into lots by quality. The great houses—The Albion, the hotels, the big kitchens—have standing orders. Their carts pay early, they take their share. After that, small houses like yours buy from what remains, at the same rate.”

Pepper kept her voice light. “So the large houses pay the same per sack as we do, but choose first. How very clever of them.”

“They pay for certainty,” the clerk said. “Their trade is…different.”

“Our loaves are eaten, too,” she said. “Our coin is the same weight. Why is our flour always the last to be weighed?”

He glanced past her, looking for an easier task. “Talk to the Board if you don’t like it, ma’am. I follow His Grace’s rule. Coin at noon or no flour moves. That’s Wyndale.”

The Flour Duke again. The newspapers had been delighted with the name; so had Lord Darley and his friends, according to the papers, who liked to clap each other on the back over “sound management” while small shops scrambled.

“And if the flour is poor?” Pepper asked. “Do I tell my customers the Flour Duke prefers their bread dry and their pastries crumbled?”

The clerk’s mouth thinned. “You want your twenty sacks or not?”

Before she could answer, another voice cut across the yard.

“Lot three for The Albion!” A man in a fine coat, richly brushed and quite unsuited to the wharf, approached from the side. “My cart is waiting. I’ll not have my guests eating sweepings because you cannot keep a schedule.”

Darley. She recognized him from Papa’s low, muttered curses and from the way newspapers printed his name with admiration. Lord Darley, owner of one of St. James’s grand hotels, whose guests never saw the work behind their bread.

“Of course, my lord,” the clerk said, straightening. “Lot three, finest grade, as the Board—”

“And the small houses?” Pepper said, before she could swallow it.

Darley turned. His gaze ran over her, then past her, as if to confirm she really was speaking to him in that plain gown.

“The small houses,” he said, “queue like everyone else. If they cannot pay promptly, perhaps they should bake fewer loaves.”

Heat climbed Pepper’s neck. “We pay as promptly as you,” she said. “We simply do not clear half the wharf and call it necessary.”

Henry tensed at her elbow. Mr. Kemp’s big hand tightened on the side of their cart.

Darley’s brows lifted, amused. “And you are?”

“Pepper Duval,” she said. “For M. Beaumont.”

“Ah.” He smiled in the way men did when they believed a puzzle had been solved. “Harley Street. My guests enjoy your little confections. I trust you will keep us supplied.” He turned away without waiting for an answer, already instructing the clerk how many sacks The Albion must have from each barge.

Supplied. As if they were a private oven for his dining room.

“Come on, miss,” the clerk muttered. “Let’s get your flour weighed. Then you can argue with your pen, not my ears.”