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His mother was already turning, drawn by any hint of incident the way other women were drawn by diamonds. Chester had the absurd thought that at least the ratafia hadn’t spilled; then both ladies were upon them in a flurry of silk and concern.

“Oh, dear,” his mother exclaimed. “Is everything quite all right? From across the room it appeared as though Lady Barbara was swooning.”

Lady Barbara?

Chester loosened his grip because there were only so many rules he could break in ten seconds. “Nothing happened to the desserts,” he said smoothly, stepping half a pace back. “I was merely…inspecting the offerings with more honesty than they’re accustomed to.”

The Dowager’s gaze moved from his hand to Pepper’s face to the side table. She took in the sadly respectable buns and the sulking pudding, then let one eyebrow rise.

“If our desserts cause swooning,” she said dryly, “we must dismiss the cook. I do not tolerate fainting on any side of a table.”

“It was my fault, Your Grace,” Pepper said quickly, stepping between his mother and the sideboard. The smile she produced looked as brittle as spun sugar. “I lost my footing and very nearly my manners. Please do not blame the cook. We are strangers in this house; the kitchen is not.”

She kept her gaze trained just over the Dowager’s shoulder, as if sheer will might keep her from glancing at Chester, who had just called her Pepper.

“I am Lady Barbara,” she added more for herself than anyone else, steadying her voice, “and I am quite recovered. No one need dismiss a servant over my clumsiness or my opinions.”

Chester felt his brows climb before he could stop them. Adorable, he thought, and something sharper than that—admirable. Of course, she would fling herself between a duchess and a kitchen she did not even know. He admired her indeed so much he almost forgot to ask how she could be Lady Barbara and Pepper; he was only grateful he’d found her again.

“Fatigue is for people with fewer obligations,” the Dowager replied. She turned that assessing look on Barbara as if she were testing glassware for cracks. “Still, if you must fall, my dear, do choose a softer landing next time than my son’s arm. He already has a great many expectations resting on it.”

“Your Grace.” Lady Erica dipped in something like a curtsy, despite the lack of space. “Barbara, darling—His Grace.” The little pause smoothed over the title; everyone present knew which duke owned the house. Pepper’s attention, caught on that His Grace, skated over the name itself; the introduction was a blur of violins, silk, and her own thudding pulse.

His mother stepped in with the efficiency of a general claiming ground. “Chester,” she said, “Lady Erica Beaumont and her daughter, Lady Barbara. We spoke of them at luncheon.” The emphasis on spoke said what she’d hinted at: marriage material.

Lady Barbara. Beaumont. The complaint letter. Pepper Duval?

Chester managed a bow that felt oddly like stepping off a cliff. “Lady Florence. Lady Barbara.” His voice sounded almost normal. “I had not realized we had such distinguished guests from London tonight. I should have found you sooner.” I have so many questions.

Barbara—Pepper—curtsied. The motion was a shade careful; he could see the effort in the set of her shoulders, the way her right foot lagged half a heartbeat behind the left. He wondered how many times she had practiced that until no one would notice her boots.

A lady of such repute that Mother would want him to consider her marriage material.

The same one who sent him letters about his flour bill.

And the one impersonating Pepper.

Or was Pepper impersonating her?

Chester knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t going to pass on the chance to solve the mystery that was this beautiful young woman—and her mille-feuille.

“I am honored, Your Grace,” she said. Her tone was correct; her eyes were not. They sparked between him and the Dowager and the pastries as if calculating three different dangers at once and finding none of them particularly inviting.

Before any of them could make the next mistake, a voice called from the doorway: “Your Grace—His Lordship, Leinster’s cousin has arrived. The steward begs a word.”

His mother scented fresh rank like a hound scenting a fox. “We must greet Lord Leinster’s party,” she said briskly. “Lady Erica, you must stand with me. You have the only sensible conversation in Brighton,” she spoke as if they’d been co-conspirators in the matchmaking schemes for a while.

“Excuse us for a moment, please,” Chester said, and didn’t wait for his mother’s protest. He was the highest-ranking person here and there were times when this came in useful—such as when he wanted to investigate the mystery of Pepper.

The Dowager’s fan snapped open. “Come, Lady Erica. We will rescue the evening. My son can be trusted not to drop a lady as long as there are witnesses.”

“Of course,” Lady Erica said, though her fingers brushed her daughter’s sleeve in a quick, warning squeeze. Did her mouth behave?

The two older women let themselves be swept away on the incoming tide of guests. A knot of gentlemen closed around Leinster’s cousin at the door; the sound of greetings and compliments swelled, then settled. For a moment, the current left a pocket of relative quiet around the sideboard.

Pepper eased her arm free. Chester let her go, reluctantly, his palm cooling too quickly without her.

They stood side by side, facing the unfortunate pudding like co-conspirators staring down a third accomplice who had disappointed them.