Page 55

“Careful,” Mrs. Hart said, plucking the salt cellar from Pepper’s hand and nudging the bowl of grated sugar closer. “Unless you intend to start a fashion for salted crème among the nobility.”

Pepper stared at the salt. “I am…distracted,” she admitted.

“By politics,” Aunt Florence said innocently.

“Always,” Pepper agreed, because “politics” was easier to say aloud than the way he touched me as if I were breakable and still believed I would stand on my own.

A brisk knock sounded at the back door.

Henry frowned. “If that is the grocer again with another excuse, I shall teach him the true meaning of punctuality.” He wiped his hands on his apron and vanished, boots pattering down the passage.

A moment later he reappeared, hair more disordered than usual, holding a folded scrap of paper gingerly between two fingers. “Miss,” he said, looking straight at Pepper, “there’s a boy from the mews. Said this was for you. Said I was to put it in ‘her own hand’ and not anybody else’s.”

Aunt Florence’s brows climbed. Mrs. Hart’s pencil paused mid-column.

“For me?” Pepper wiped her hands on the nearest cloth and crossed to him, heart already doing something unhelpful. Notes did not arrive for Lady Barbara at the back door.

Henry nodded. “He said to say it was urgent, like. About…vanilla bean.”

Vanilla.

Her fingers trembled as she took the paper. The fold was quick, efficient. No seal, just a small, looping C on the outside.

The kitchen faded for a heartbeat. She opened it.

A matter of some urgency, mademoiselle. The apothecary by the shore has just unpacked a crate of vanilla beans so fine he meant to sell them all to one kitchen that has not earned them. I have persuaded him to wait for a proper opinion. I require your verdict. In person.

— C.

Her stomach swooped. C. Vanilla. Evaluation.

She had brought enough of Papa’s own vanilla from Harley Street to see three custards safely to the Pavilion; whatever this was, it was not a crisis of supply. Chester must have found better vanilla—or an injustice to correct.

She glanced at the clock on the mantel. A few minutes past eleven. The tasting was at four but she had to change into another gown after the pastries were delivered. There was cream to temper, sugar to watch, a mother to endure, a duke to despise on principle.

And a man who had kissed her as if he had been waiting his whole life to find a woman who knew how to judge custard…and perhaps him.

“Bad news?” Aunt Florence asked lightly. Too lightly.

Pepper folded the note, then unfolded it again as if the words might change. “Urgent,” she said.

Chester can’t wait.

“Ah,” Aunt Florence said. “Is the flour bill escaping its pen? Has politics come to call at the back door?”

“No.” Pepper swallowed. Her heart was racing now, the way it did when she watched sugar creep to the edge of burning. “Vanilla.”

Mrs. Hart’s brows knit. “Are we short?”

“No,” Pepper said quickly. “This is—next batch. A…mistake at the apothecary. He needs someone to—” She broke off. Lying with detail in front of Mrs. Hart never worked.

Aunt Florence set down her teacup with great deliberation. “Henry,” she said, without taking her eyes off Pepper, “go and see whether the cream has been sufficiently cooled. If it has not, frighten it into punctuality.”

Henry vanished, delighted to be given a terrifying mission.

The moment the door swung shut behind him, Aunt Florence folded her arms. “Now,” she said. “Who is he?”

Pepper’s throat went dry. “I did not say anything about—”