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Mrs. Hart went very still. “Knows…what?” she asked. The calm in her voice was the special kind she used when she was most alarmed.

Pepper stared at the folded note. There was no sense pretending now. “He knows that I am both,” she said. “He knows I work at the pâtisserie. He has seen me as Pepper and as Lady Barbara and…he did not run screaming into the sea.”

Aunt Florence made an approving little sound. “Well, that is promising.”

Mrs. Hart did not look promising. “Your mother’s first mistake,” she said quietly, “was believing that being understood in stolen moments would be enough to protect her from the rest of the world. Twenty years later, we are still living in the wreckage of that belief and you seem to be about to make the same mistake.”

Pepper’s chest squeezed. She thought of Mama, brittle with fear, still held hostage by grandparents long in their graves. Of Papa coughing over bills in a back room. Of Mrs. Hart herself, who had stitched two halves of Pepper’s life together with quiet courage and no recognition from anyone.

“I am not sneaking out to ruin my life,” Pepper said. “I am going to…to buy vanilla.”

Aunt Florence’s mouth twitched. “And perhaps to see whether a spark is worth turning into a fire,” she said. “Some are.”

Mrs. Hart’s gaze sharpened. “Some,” she replied, “burn houses down. It is no small thing, letting a man see both of you. If he is careless with that knowledge—”

“I know.” Pepper’s hand tightened around the note. “But he already knows. That danger has sailed. All I can do now is…discover what sort of man he is.” And if he could not fight for her as fiercely as she fought for her family, better to learn now.

“The wise thing would be for me to chaperone,” Mrs. Hart said.

Oh no, please no!

“She’s only going for vanilla,” Aunt Florence said, which meant as much as don’t take the chance away from her.

Mrs. Hart rubbed the bridge of her nose, the way she did when a headache and a bad decision were approaching in the same carriage. “Then go with your eyes open not just your heart, darling,” she said. “Not like your mother at seventeen, dreaming she could outrun the world. Ask his plans. Ask his intentions. Do not give him anything more than a walk and a civil word until you have answers.”

Aunt Florence lifted her teacup in a tiny toast. “If there is a spark, we must at least see whether it can warm you,” she said. “A life without any fire at all is very dull. And you, my love, are not dull.”

“Nor should you ever be soot,” Mrs. Hart said tartly. “Some fires are not romance; they’re arson.”

Pepper laughed, shaky and half-sick with wanting. “I will be careful,” she promised. “I will ask his title. I will ask…as much as I can in an hour. And then I will come back and finish.”

She crossed to the peg, took down her pelisse, and shrugged into it with trembling fingers that did not feel entirely obedient. The kitchen’s warmth seeped out around her as she fastened the buttons, one by one, like bracing herself.

“Take Henry as far as the main road,” Mrs. Hart said. “No further. The pavement near the shore is uneven—watch your footing. You know how the stones catch.”

“Yes,” Pepper said automatically. Her boots felt suddenly very solid under her, as if they approved of this choice.

At the threshold, Aunt Florence caught her sleeve. “If he cannot be kind to both of you,” she said softly, “Pepper and Lady Barbara, he is not worth either.”

Pepper nodded, throat tight. “If he is worth my heart,” she said, “he will know the crème I made for him.” On the side table, the little copper pan she had watched like a hawk had cooled at last, its surface set to a soft wobble. She crossed to it, slipped a spoon in, and tasted—just once, to be certain it was worthy. Then she picked a small jar from the shelf and coaxed in a ribbon of the silken crème, smoothing the top as carefully as if she were touching fate.

“And if he is not,” Mrs. Hart replied, “you will still have crème. And us. And the pâtisserie. Remember that.”

It was such a sensible answer that Pepper almost cried. But instead, she wrapped a few pastries in paper and took a basket.

She lifted her chin, tucked the note from C into her glove, and stepped out into the bright, salt-tinged air. The town bustled; the sea shone; somewhere near the shore a very foolish, very hopeful gentleman waited in an apothecary with a jar of vanilla.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she called over her shoulder.

“See that you are,” Mrs. Hart said.

“And if he is dreadful,” Aunt Florence added, “I still reserve the right to push him into the sea.”

Pepper managed a smile. With her pelisse buttoned to her throat and her boots steady on the step, she set off toward the beach, her heart and Papa’s recipe for love both beating time in her pocket.

Chapter 20

Pepper saw him before she quite reached the door.