Page 25

“Into the book room,” Aunt Florence sang, as if scholars used salamanders daily. “And close the door behind you.”

Pepper’s boot slid once on the stair; she adjusted, left sure, right measured. The old hitch whispered—only at speed, only when lemons rolled or secrets hurried. A loose tread bit under her heel; she caught the rail, shoulders squared, the basket steady as a sainted relic. She steadied herself and breathed out through her nose. Grace is in the recovery. The basket did not move.

“Pepper,” Mrs. Hart said softly at her shoulder, the kind of glance that warmed a person for an hour, “take the top crate. I’ll make the ice behave.”

They moved like a single thought. In the scullery, Pepper lifted the lid from a shallow copper tray cradled in ice and saw twenty custards smiling back at her—smooth, pale, sound enough to ride so long as no one jostled their pride. Not finished yet; that would happen tomorrow near the Pavilion’s heat. But present. Possible.

“Good,” she whispered, though she had not cooked them here. She felt as if she had been assigned custody of a day.

The front bell pealed, sharp even through the walls. A moment later, footsteps hurried along the passage and a maid’s voice carried down the back stairs: “My lady—company!”

Aunt Florence’s head snapped up as if she could see straight through plaster. “Of course,” she muttered under her breath. “Today of all days.”

She smoothed her skirts with one sweep of her hands and, by the time she reached the drawing room door, her tone was all bright Brighton politeness. “Your Grace! Please, do come in. Forgive my distraction—my niece, Lady Barbara, will bring the library round later; we had some rare items arrive this morning.”

Mrs. Hart leaned in toward Pepper. “Rare items?” she murmured.

“Books,” Aunt Florence said without moving her smile, her voice drifting back toward the scullery.

Another delivery—lemons, thin-skinned, sharp-scented—announced themselves with a sigh. Pepper tucked the basket’s cloth deeper so the color wouldn’t flirt with the hall. The man from the patisserie, Chester, would have liked these, she thought, remembering the way he had listened to instruction and taken a second bite properly, humble as any kitchen boy learning a new trick. The memory brought heat to her throat. Somewhere there was a man important enough to be called Your Grace and she could not stop thinking about how he ate pastry while another man with a pen had signed Wyndale at the bottom of a letter that threatened her father’s trade. It’s only a man. And a spoon.

“Florence?” Mother’s voice floated down the hall—sweetness with spikes that only a big sister could manage. “Why is there a crowd of men at the back door?”

Aunt Florence’s smile did not waver. “Because, dearest, Brighton has no shame whatsoever; it sends its milk in daylight and expects us to enjoy the spectacle.” She swept into view, intercepted the question, and tucked her arm through Mother’s as if volunteering for mischief. “Come—stand just so and you cannot see a thing. Isn’t the Steyne handsome this time of the year? Have you had a chance to visit yet? I’ve secured a perfect view for a promenade if you’re so inclined.”

With these words, Aunt Florence managed to lure Mother into a position with their backs to the crates and wagged her hand behind her back like an excited poodle. Rare luck had it that Mother allowed herself to be steered.

Aunt Florence flashed Pepper the smallest warning—now.

Pepper understood and tried to shuffle the deliveries to the kitchen as quietly as possible because it wasn’t the kitchen that was her secret but what she, specifically, was supposed to do there with Henry and Brigitte’s help.

Behind Mother’s back.

The staff ferried baskets past the parlor arch in a neat rhythm that did not invite comment: linen, books, a hatbox large enough to house a bull, but surely nothing of interest to anyone who believed what the box labels or shapes suggested. A maid pivoted from the corridor and nearly met Pepper nose-to-nose; Pepper tilted the basket into a curtsey that looked like grace and felt like disaster averted. Brigitte’s lists whispered from the pantry—eggs counted; sugar weighed; the fresh cream believed in; the rosebuds laid on oiled paper as if jewels required sugar to tell the truth about them. Mrs. Hart directed with the calm of someone who had learned to win wars with orderly spoons.

“Mrs. Hart,” Pepper breathed, tilting a tray as gently as a secret, “is this mad?”

“Entirely,” Mrs. Hart said, eyes bright. “And exactly right.”

Pepper giggled. As long as Mother didn’t catch them, the excitement could continue.

“Barbara, darling!” A singsong voice came from the parlor. Mother.

Oh no.

Pepper whipped the basket behind her skirts; Mrs. Hart slid a cloth over the copper like a show-magician smothering flame.

“There you are,” Lady Erica trilled from the arch, already half turned to her guests. “Do come greet the—oh! Your Grace.”

“Lady Erica,” the Dowager purred, “Brighton improves even English weather when you are in it.” A woman sailed into view on a tide of sable, silk and certainty.

“Barbara,” Mother spoke through her teeth in the tone that reminded Pepper of the curtsy that ought to be extra deep. “May I present the Dowager Duchess of Wyndale? This is my daughter, Lady Barbara.”

“Wyndale?” Pepper managed when she came up from the curtsy. Ink flashed in her mind—the bold signature at the bottom of the notice that had made her calculate loaves and fear empty shelves. So this was the mother of the man who wrote that. The Flour Duke. I. Loathe. Him.

Aunt Florence materialized, lethal with charm. “When you are here, Your Grace, even the Pavilion domes try to pass themselves off as pearls.”

“Do they?” The Dowager’s gaze skimmed the hall. It caught on a straw hamper. “How enterprising. One sees… deliveries going to the house.”