Page 54

It was Chester. The man who listened when she spoke of ledgers. The man who had kissed her behind a curtain as if she were more than breeding stock and a limp.

It must not be Wyndale.

Pepper bit back three separate replies and chose the safest. “Yes, Mama.”

Lady Erica nodded once, satisfied, and swept away to inspect trunks and discuss sleeves—as if the most important part of the afternoon were whether her daughter’s bodice flattered her shoulders, not whether her soul survived the company.

The instant she vanished, Pepper’s shoulders dropped by an inch.

“All right,” she whispered to herself. “Now the important part.”

She limped more with her heart than with her feet back through the house. Away from the parlor with its careful chairs and its talk of dukes and dowagers; past the polished console set out for calling cards; through the swing door to the back, where the air changed.

Flour. Butter. Heat. Copper and cream and honest work. A world that wanted her whole—boots, limp, opinions and all.

The world she understood.

“Today’s the day,” Mrs. Hart said, clasping her hands the moment Pepper stepped into the kitchen. Copper gleamed; the salamander glowed with banked heat; Henry’s eyebrows were already in battle formation. “Time to impress people and make your plan work.”

Flour dusted the air like promise. The ovens crackled. Outside, Brighton could concern itself with promenades and parasols; in here, the world narrowed to sugar, eggs, and whether the caramel would behave.

“My plan,” Pepper echoed, trying to pretend her heart had not spent the night replaying a kiss in the dark. “Yes. That.”

“Which plan, exactly?” Aunt Florence inquired from the doorway, teacup in hand and shawl worn like armor. “Royal Warrant, parental reconciliation, or general world domination?”

“The one involving the Pavilion,” Mrs. Hart said briskly, rescuing Pepper from combustion. “And perhaps, later, the one involving sense.”

Pepper made a face and reached for a mixing bowl. The familiar weight steadied her. “Very well,” she said. “Step one: we impress the Pavilion so thoroughly they never again think of ordering dessert from anyone but Monsieur Duval.”

“Très bien,” Henry said from the stove without turning. “Step one is flawless.”

“Step two,” Pepper went on, “with a Royal Warrant in his pocket, Papa is no longer just the baker they hid in France. He becomes Monsieur Duval of Harley Street, the man officially trusted to supply the Pavilion’s table—someone Grandpapa cannot shrug off as a youthful mistake. Mama could stand beside him without every cousin and countess thinking she had married beneath her. He can stand in the same room as Mama and not feel as if everyone is measuring him and finding him wanting.”

Aunt Florence’s eyes softened. “He has never been wanting to me,” she said.

“Nor to me,” Pepper said quickly. “But she still hears her parents in every silence. If the world bows to him, she might manage to look at him without seeing them.”

“Step three,” Mrs. Hart prompted gently.

“Catch a groom.” Pepper took up the whisk. “Followed by an engagement supper,” she said. “For me. Mama would never refuse such an invitation. Neither would Papa, if he knew. We arrange it under some respectable pretext and…they meet. On purpose. This time.”

“And step four?” Aunt Florence’s voice was quieter now.

Pepper drew the whisk through the cream in careful circles. “Step four is to see whether, in a room full of flowers and cake and people pretending to be pleased, my parents remember how to be happy in the same air.” She swallowed. “It is the only way I can see to join the halves of my life without cutting either one off.”

“And step five?” Aunt Florence persisted, wicked and tender all at once. “You always try to drift past step five.”

Pepper kept her gaze on the bowl. “If I must marry,” she said, very precise, “I will choose a man I do not like too much. It will be simpler when he asks me to give things up. If I liked him, it would hurt more.”

Mrs. Hart’s jaw tightened. Aunt Florence looked as if she very much wished to argue and just as much wished not to frighten Pepper into silence.

Henry, thankfully, chose that moment to clear his throat. “Eggs,” he announced. “If you mean to feed both royalty and your conscience, I’d best start whisking twice the usual number.” He reached for the basket with the solemnity of a man marching to the block. “Say the word, mademoiselle, and I’ll make them behave.”

Brigitte darted away to count again. Pepper let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

It was safer to think of crème than of men with honest eyes and dangerous mouths.

Papa’s recipe lay tucked into her apron pocket, the paper softened at the edges from her fingers. When you find a man worthy of your heart, you will make him this crème. Not today, she told herself firmly. Today it belongs to Papa and the Pavilion. Today is for ovens, not for…mischief behind curtains.