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“Oh,” Lady Florence said faintly. “Did she?”

“Yes,” he said. “She corrected my method. Firmly.”

His hostess’s eyes went very round, then narrowed in a way that said she had just discovered a new disaster and a new opportunity at once. “Pep—ah—Mademoiselle Duval is…very firm,” she agreed. “On matters of pastry.”

Henry, oblivious to every signal to stop talking, piped up, “Monsieur says she terrifies the sugar into behaving with her opinions on politics and the world.”

“Mrs. Hart,” Lady Florence repeated as she rang the bell, in a manner that meant for the love of everything dear, come in here and say something useful. She called a little more loudly, “Mrs. Hart, if you can spare a moment?”

A woman with neat, upswept hair and spectacles arrived like a small, dignified weather system—a calm face that said ‘I do not suffer fools because I have no time for them.’ Chester recognized the cadence of her voice at once: the same English-French lilt that had directed eggs and cream in the Harley Street kitchen.

Why had this woman been in the back of the Harley Street bakery?

“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying with the exact depth owed a duke and no more. “Mrs. Hart. I assist Lady Florence with the household.”

“And with the…library,” Florence added sweetly. “And certain culinary translations.”

Mrs. Hart’s eyes flickered once—warning, amusement, conspiracy—before smoothing.

“The Pavilion has asked the pâtisserie to provide a tasting tomorrow and I understand the baker’s daughter, Pepper Duval, is going to oversee,” Chester said, deciding bluntness was kinder than dancing around what they all knew. “I wished to confirm that what was requested has arrived, lemons, milk, cream, fresh eggs… so that what was promised will come, and”—he let his gaze rest briefly on Mrs. Hart—“that the same hands who wrote the list will be on the work.”

“And Pepper?” The name slipped out before he could dress it up. “Mademoiselle Duval?”

“A most capable young woman,” Mrs. Hart said at once, letting her eyes slip to a look to Lady Florence that Chester caught. “And presently not in the house.”

“Presently not in the house,” Lady Florence repeated, far too quickly. “Quite so. Nowhere near it.”

Henry opened his mouth. Mrs. Hart’s hand descended lightly on his shoulder; he shut it again.

Chester could not quite stop the smile this time. They were hiding her. From him. Interesting. It was also, oddly, reassuring. They were not careless with her, which confirmed his suspicion: she was talented, intelligent, and valued.

“I see,” he said. “Then I shall have to trust to the list.”

“You may, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hart said. “She…left it herself.” At that, her eyes pressed closed, and she flattened her lips as one does when too much has been said. The little hesitation was worse than a full confession. It told him how much they were not saying.

Intriguing. There was more to Pepper than he’d expected but likely everything he imagined.

“Deliveries?” he prompted, if only to give them something safe to discuss.

“Arrived,” Mrs. Hart answered, slipping seamlessly into the role of quartermaster. “Eggs that do not cry, cream that will stand when spoken to, ice that was not dirt yesterday. The sugar we brought. English sugar is…” She paused. “English.”

“Collections?”

“Two o’clock,” she said. “We require the room warm by half past two. The small brazier you promised, close. We finish there. The rest we carry like eggs on a ship.”

Chester let out a breath he hadn’t meant to keep. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Hart’s brow lifted a notch. Approval, perhaps. Or merely satisfaction that the duke understood how clocks worked when kitchens were involved. “Very good, Your Grace.”

Lady Florence’s fan fluttered like a distress signal. “There, Your Grace. You have spoken to the baker’s household and to his accomplices. We are all, as you see, quite determined.”

“And quite…protective,” Chester said. He meant it as a compliment.

“Some ingredients are too precious to waste,” Mrs. Hart replied.

He could not argue with that.

“You are very kind to indulge my interference,” he said to Lady Florence, because she had earned the courtesy and because it kept him from staring at the stairs where no bonnet appeared. “I will not keep you.”