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Mother—alone now—pressed two fingers to her temple in that elegant way that meant headache and explanations. “How,” she asked in a voice like cool teacups, “was I to explain to the Dowager Duchess that my library smells like custard all the way in the hall?”

Because it’s the kitchen?

Pepper didn’t dare say.

Aunt Florence reappeared behind her, unrepentant. “Tell her it is a French edition. One must warm the bindings.”

Mother groaned as she always did when a jest wasn’t funny at all.

Mrs. Hart did not smile. “Dr. Fernando advises heat retained at the point of steaming,” she said gravely. “For ankles.”

“Do stop saying steaming,” Mother murmured, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And tell me at once why there are so many pots in my alleged library.”

Aunt Florence: “Digestive regimen.”

Mrs. Hart: “Medicinal broth.”

Pepper—because lies only tangle when left to do so: “For the morning callers.”

Mother stared at all three of them and then at the brazier as if it had personally offended the Beaumont name. “If Her Grace had turned back for a glove—”

A footman materialized at the corridor’s end, blanching. “My lady—Her Grace’s coachman says the Dowager has mislaid a glove and wonders—”

Aunt Florence’s smile snapped away like a pistol shot. “I shall find the glove.” She sailed past him toward the front. “Keep the library door discreet.”

Mother’s mouth betrayed the tiniest, unwilling tremor toward a laugh. She strangled it efficiently. “Very well. I have returned with a headache and a vow: no more surprises. If Her Grace smells sugar again, I shall blame the neighbors’ buns and we shall move house in the night.”

“Understood, Mother,” Pepper said, curtsying as if the word were a promise.

Silence swelled; carriage wheels thumped; the front latch took the Dowager back to the street. Mother slipped through the crack again, eyes bright with alarm and victory both.

“I have rescued my guest,” she whispered. “Now rescue me. Put whatever this is to bed. And for my sake, do not let my house smell like a pudding ripe to feed all of Almack’s.”

The door clicked as Mother withdrew.

Pepper, Mrs. Hart, and Aunt Florence looked at one another—and moved, all at once, like thieves in daylight.

At first Pepper stood very still, the recipe warm against her apron, and let the tremor leave her fingers before she touched anything that might break. The risk of being caught had been a whisper this morning; now it spoke in her bones. This was more than slipping the leash of polite society and hiding in a kitchen. Only widows and wives were permitted to trade; a debutante who baked in secret was not merely odd—she was ruining courting a crowd.

How silly, some would say. How stupid, others would mark it down: a lady kneading dough was crumbling her prospects to naught.

But the stakes were a family that might yet knit itself together. If they succeeded tomorrow—if the Pavilion chose their sweets—Papa might earn a Royal Warrant. Then he might bear to speak with Mother. Then perhaps she could be both—Lady Barbara at a table and Pepper in a kitchen—without splitting herself to manage it. If there was any chance of reuniting her parents, it had to be under the right circumstances.

And perhaps under the pretext of a wedding.

Except there was that pest of a conscience, tapping at the back of her throat. Mother would learn she’d lied about her walks for years. Mrs. Hart had helped her lie, which added to the betrayal. Aunt Florence had, with a fan and a flourish, helped her lie as well. What would it do to Mother if the truth arrived like a scald—that everyone she trusted had lied to her?

It would come out; lies always did. The question was how. Would the truth be her savior or her doom?

I may not be elegant enough to break a gentleman’s heart, she told herself, but I will not break Mother’s.

Decision moved in and steadied her. She slipped off her flour-dusted apron, tucked a scarf about her throat, and found Aunt Florence at the back door, marshaling a boy with a basket of eggs as if he were a regiment.

“Walk with me?” Pepper asked. “Just a little.”

Aunt Florence cocked a brow. “What am I covering up this time, my love?”

“Not a brazier,” Pepper said. “A plan.” She didn’t merely need to be Pepper in the kitchen and Lady Barbara outside it, she had to find a way to be both in reality as much as in her heart.