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Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh dear.”

“So,” he said, not unkindly, “we have corresponded. Indirectly.”

“Indirectly,” she agreed, recovering. “My niece has opinions. About…well. Most things. I am sure she meant every word.” She straightened her shoulders. “Now, how may we help you this time, Your Grace?”

He had not come here by accident. After the last letter from M. Beaumont of Harley Street, Chester had asked Reed to follow the name through the Pavilion orders and the Brighton lodging lists. The trail had led, neatly enough, to Lady Erica Beaumont’s rented house on Marine Parade and to a delivery book that matched the same bold hand. If this was not the Beaumont who wrote to his Board, someone under this roof knew that writer—and very likely knew the baker’s daughter who watched his flour so closely.

The oddest thing about it was that the recollection of the letters did not anger him. If anything, it sharpened an interest he did not wish examined too closely. A house where a niece wrote that way about flour was very likely the same house that knew what thin-skinned lemons were for. The baker’s daughter, Pepper, must know this niece then; in a house like this, kitchens and drawing rooms clearly shared a spine. Despite his better judgment against falling for a woman of trade from the working class, Chester liked her more and more.

“The Pavilion has asked me to oversee a tasting tomorrow,” Chester said, letting the official language do the opening of doors. “I wished to confirm arrangements with your… baker.” He let the word be useful rather than social. “Is Monsieur in?”

A flicker—calculations behind the eyes, then a smile. “Our cook attends to supper, and Monsieur is not presently—present.” She indicated a chair no one expected him to take. “But I am perfectly equal to hearing what a gentleman requires and relaying it to the proper hands.”

Aha, so she knew the baker’s daughter were those proper hands.

Must. Not. Think. Improper. Thoughts. About. Those. Pretty. Hands.

“I require assurance,” he said, because truth was quicker than charm. “That what was requested has arrived, that what was promised will come. And that”—he hesitated, aware of hope making a fool’s noise under his coat—“that the same hands who wrote the list will be on the work.”

She must have heard the hope and hung a velvet curtain over it, ever mindful of his title. She sees right through me. “The list was accurate,” she said. “The work will be equal to it.”

“I insist on speaking with the baker, please,” he tried again, carefully stupid.

“Certainly,” she returned, so pleasantly he nearly laughed. “I shall ring for the baker instantly.”

Chester tried to ignore that his heart leapt in his chest while his hostess whispered her orders to a maid. In this house, the person who ordered cream and eggs was the one who mattered. Titles were a kind of weather: to be tolerated, not obeyed. He could not decide whether he resented or admired that, so he settled on both because the only thing that mattered was that he’d see her again. Pepper. He imagined her flour-dusted apron, wide-rimmed bonnet, and that ribbon he wanted to—no. Not now. This was not the time.

A movement in the doorway interrupted his thoughts: a freckled young man in a flour-dusted apron, hair as red as it was rebellious, eyes bright with the importance of being summoned. He bobbed something between a bow and a collision.

“Sir?” the boy said to Chester, then, to Florence, “Lady Florence, Mrs. Hart sent me. She says the salamander bites proper and the—” the boy caught the word too late and scrubbed it away—“the book-room is tidy.”

“Wonderful,” Lady Florence said, which conveyed do not elaborate or we all hang. “Henry, this is His Grace. He is inquiring about tomorrow.”

Henry looked Chester up and down with the candid interest of the irreverent young. “Are you the gentleman who likes the top cracked not burned?” he blurted.

Chester’s mouth tilted. She talked about me in the kitchen. “I am the gentleman who likes the top to sing,” he said.

Henry nodded, satisfied. “Pepper says that’s the only right way.”

That earned the young man an exasperated look from Lady Florence and she rolled her eyes.

“Does she?” Chester leaned a back knuckle against one glove to keep his hand from indicating the ceiling like a fool. “And Monsieur? Monsieur…?”

“Duval,” the freckled boy blurted.

“From Harley Street?” Chester asked before Lady Florence could interrupt his investigation. This was more information than he could otherwise get out of her, that was certain.

“Yes, sir.” The boy bobbed something between a bow and a collision. “But Monsieur Duval stayed in London. He coughs too much and isn’t strong enough for the journey. We only brought Pepper and the rest.”

Duval. So that was the pâtissier’s name. He had taken “M. Beaumont” on the ingredient list for the master of the shop—clearly he’d been wrong. Beaumont must be the patron; Duval is the baker. Good to know. And Pepper… Pepper Duval.

“And Mademoiselle Duval,” Chester said, careful to hide his enthusiasm, “his daughter, is she here?”

Henry blinked, seemingly delighted to be in possession of facts a duke wanted.

Lady Florence made a sound that might have been a cough and might have been a suppressed shriek. Her fan appeared in her hand as if conjured. “Why is she of interest to you, Your Grace?”

Good question. Where to begin? Chester’s mouth threatened to smile. “Lady Florence, I was only confirming what I already gathered in London—that your baker’s daughter knows her work.” He let the title rest there, very deliberate. “She advised me over the mille-feuille in London and I was most grateful.”