Page 53

A test. Of breeding, of nerves, of how far I will twist myself to please you.

I heard what you told Darley in the hall last night; you can’t fool me.

Pepper found a smile that did not quite crack. “Perhaps I’ve been choosing with too much care, Your Grace.” Or not enough in your case.

Mother’s fingers bit her sleeve: let me do the talking.

The Dowager’s mouth twitched. “Care is commendable. Delay is not. My son’s time is not his own. Once he is married, he will at least have the comfort of having disappointed only one woman permanently instead of a dozen a season.”

How lovely, to be chosen as the one her son may disappoint permanently. Wyndale was truly his mother’s son. Both were despicable.

“How very selfless,” Mother breathed. “We must think of the future, mustn’t we? It falls to us to see the next generation properly settled, we agreed last night over dinner.”

In other words, we make the matches and pray the poor creatures don’t undo our work. Pah!

Pepper kept her expression polite and her teeth clenched together.

“We are to have a little entertainment,” the Dowager continued. “A private tasting at the Pavilion this afternoon—His Royal Highness has asked Wyndale, in his tiresome capacity as Guardian of the Royal Table, to bring some new French pâtissier down from London. I am told there will be creams. Dreadfully fashionable. If we approve, the prince will most likely not dare object. It will be something to look forward to in a town otherwise awash in weak tea and bland conversation.”

Pepper’s stomach dropped. “We?” she repeated, too sharply.

“Why, yes.” The Dowager took a sip. “Her Royal Highness has asked that I bring ‘ladies of discernment.’” Her eyes flicked to Mother, then to Pepper. “We are thin on the ground there, but we shall do our best.” She spoke to Mother, “Will your sister be in attendance, too?”

Mother’s smile took on that dreadful brightness that meant she believed Providence had smiled directly upon her. “Certainly. Isn’t that delightful, Barbara? We are invited to attend. A private event at the Pavilion. With His Grace.” Perhaps even the prince himself if Pepper was lucky. “Your last chance this season,” she added in a lower tone that was not nearly as private as she thought. “Do try not to limp.”

Understood. Smile, agree, behave—or be sent to Cloverdale, where earnest doctors would fuss over “correcting” what mumps had left in her ankle and pretend that straightening her step somehow mattered more than the children she might never carry. Heat pricked Pepper’s eyes. She swallowed it down before it could rise.

“We shall have to hope the Pavilion floors are sound,” she said.

The Dowager’s lashes lowered, amused. “It is our pastry cook who will be tested, my dear, not the carpenters.”

Not if I can help it, Pepper thought, fighting the urge to put a hand over her apron pocket where Papa’s recipe usually lay. Today she had left it upstairs, as if distance would make her less obvious.

“Four o’clock,” the Dowager said. “Do not be late. My son has a horror of tardiness. It is one of his drearier virtues.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Mother said. “We shall be there.”

Pepper curtsied. Her ankle pinched; she hid the wince and the little flare of anger that came with it.

So, I must smile at Wyndale while he eats the work he almost strangled with ink. And Mother will call it my last chance.

The Dowager rose. “I have exhausted my tolerance for callers before luncheon,” she said. “If I must endure delicate puddings later, I shall need to conserve my strength.” She allowed Mother to usher her to the door and did not look back.

The moment the latch closed, Mother rounded on Pepper.

“Do you understand what I have accomplished?” she demanded in a fierce whisper. “An invitation to a private tasting inside the Pavilion—the Regent himself may be in the next room—his mother and my daughter in the same room, with my daughter’s future in the balance. Do not waste this chance, Barbara. You will dress properly. You will walk properly. You will not mention Wyndale’s politics.”

Wyndale. Again. As if the syllables themselves were a ladder she ought to climb as fast as possible.

Pepper’s chest tightened. Behind her eyes, the corridor and curtain flared back to life:

The Beaumont girl is unsuitable… difficulty with her ankle… heirs are everything… a duchess must not merely decorate a table; she must secure a line.

Neat little phrases, folded as precisely as bank notes. Limp, therefore delicate. Delicate, therefore a risk. Plenty of women might never quicken or might fail in childbed, she knew that—but her mumps and the fever that followed had given the doctors something to circle in red on her body. Never mind hands that could bring dough to life, or a mind that could see the flaw in a flour circular a mile away. All they truly wished to inspect was the hinge of her ankle and the soundness of the rest of her.

And if anyone ever dared whisper the next part—if Dr. Fernando’s careful we cannot be certain hardened into mumps may have left its mark; she may not bear children at all? What then? What would Wyndale and his mother do with a duchess who had failed at the one task they counted her worth for?

Not a life. A sentence. She needed to marry; Mama had made that plain enough. She needed to look pliable, presentable, grateful for crumbs of opportunity, even when they tasted like ashes. But when she tried to conjure a kind husband in her mind—someone who would notice her balance before her limp, who would put her safely against a wall before he thought of himself—it was not some faceless, prosperous stranger who appeared.