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What a terrible misstep, Pepper thought. But low on her lists of worries, she didn’t want any eggs to fall and shatter or cream to spoil. She wanted it to impress this Chester more than she cared to admit.

“Books,” Aunt Florence said. “Is there a better place to read than by the seaside?”

Pepper’s laugh lived and died as a footman blundered into view with a box labeled ALMONDS. She dipped him a warning and swept past with the basket.

The Dowager’s gaze returned to Pepper with the faintest tick of interest—and moved on.

Mother drew the Duchess toward the parlor sofa. “You must advise us for the little supper tomorrow. Such a crowd—Russians, a Leinster cousin, two members from Sussex—one doesn’t wish to misstep.”

“One never does—if one keeps one’s suppliers in hand,” the Dowager said. “My son has spent a tiresome fortnight reminding London that order at the docks is a kindness.”

There it was again: docks and kindness and a son whose hand reached into every ledger that touched her ovens. Pepper did not know his face or his Christian name, only the curve of Wyndale on paper and the way her stomach had dropped when she read it.

Heat struck Pepper’s cheeks before she could hide it. “To big houses,” she heard herself say, soft but audible. “For small shops, the fairness is rather lacking.”

Aunt Florence’s fan snapped. She had just criticized Wyndale to Wyndale’s mother, in a house full of secrets and eggs.

Mother’s cough tried and failed to distract. Her smile sharpened. “Barbara, darling. Have you read the paper again and neglected your embroidery?” Mother turned to the Dowager. “You must know that her embroidery is lovely—”

The Dowager only arched a brow. “And you have an opinion on my son’s politics then?”

Son. Wyndale again. Pepper’s mind split the picture without meaning to: a faceless man with a seal who tilted the day against pâtisseries like hers, and another nameless Your Grace who had bought pastry in Harley Street and taken instruction from her mouth. They could not be the same man. The world was not that cruel.

“My daughter is still tired from the journey here,” Mother said, almost sweetly. “And she’s learning to leave such matters to the gentlemen who manage them.”

Pepper dipped. “Of course.” She felt rather than saw Aunt Florence’s fan nudge: go.

“In any event,” Mother pressed on, “we should be honored if you would make a few introductions tomorrow at Lord Darley’s. A small table. Seven o’clock, just as you suggested.”

“Naturally,” the Dowager said. “I always prefer to introduce persons who know how to be introduced.” Her attention flicked hallway-ward again. “Your ‘library’ is very industrious.”

“It is Brighton,” Aunt Florence said. “Even our books promenade.”

From the back passage came the soft betrayal of a clink. Pepper’s heart stopped. Mrs. Hart was faster: she lifted an obliging decanter and let its stopper kiss the glass once, twice. “Forgive me,” she said into the room, perfectly contrite. “The sherry insists on being sociable.”

Laughter fluttered; danger fell back a half step.

“Barbara,” Mother said, the word a leash with silk over it, “fetch the blue bonnet for the Steyne. The Duke of Leinster admires good color sense.”

“At once, Mother,” Pepper said—and ran away while looking obedient, closely followed by her aunt.

In the corridor, Aunt Florence breathed, “Lucky escape.”

But Pepper was already heading to the kitchen and eager to begin baking. “Brigitte—rose petals sugared, not drowned. Henry, light the salamander and keep the vent half-closed. Mrs. Hart, ice to the rim and no clatter.”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” Brigitte sang.

“Tout de suite,” right away, Henry murmured, bending to the coals.

Aunt Florence stuck her head in, cheeks bright with mischief. “I’ll meet the eggs at the lane and send them on a circular until Her Grace departs. Three turns if I must.” She vanished, skirts flashing like a signal flag.

Pepper moved the room into order. Custards nested. Lemons hidden. Copper breathing low heat. “Brigitte, count me twelve perfect tops. Henry, that brazier listens to no one—make it behave.”

From the front: teacups, agreeable laughter—and Mother’s voice, pleased. “We are agreed, then—tomorrow we shall all drive to the Steyne together. But first I promised Her Grace a glimpse of our ‘French miracles’ in the kitchen.”

So they were not leaving by the front door after all. Good for courtesy. Bad for secrets. Almost safe—if she could finish and slip out in time.

A soft thump—Aunt Florence whispering outside: “Not yet, Your Grace—this passage shows the best view of the garden. Walk once more.” The egg-boy’s crate creaked past the window. Mrs. Hart ghosted the door shut with a fingertip, buying a heartbeat more. “Quickly,” she murmured. “Check them and be gone if you can.”