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The apothecary on the corner above the shore had a narrow wooden front and small panes of wavy glass that made the world inside look like it was seen through water. Through those uneven squares, she caught him in pieces: the line of his shoulder, the dark sweep of his hair, the familiar navy of his coat.
He stood at the counter, hat off, head bent toward the apothecary, who was displaying a little tray with reverence. Chester picked up one of the slender brown pods, rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers, then shook his head with a small, private smile—as if nothing in Brighton weighed on him more than the quality of a vanilla pod.
He looked as if he had not a care in the world—no mother measuring his steps, no limp to hide, no bakery’s future balanced on a single afternoon—and the sheer unfairness of that pricked at her, even as something in his easy smile pulled at her like the smell of fresh bread.
Pepper’s feet wanted to turn her around and march straight back to the house. It would have been the prudent thing to do. But the heart doesn’t always want prudent.
Her mind said no but her fingers curled around the latch and pushed anyway, because whatever else was uncertain, the part of her that had fallen for him behind a curtain had already chosen.
The bell above the door gave a sharp, startled sound like a dusty sneeze.
Both men looked up.
Chester straightened at once, as if yanked upright by an invisible string. Whatever easy patience he’d worn a heartbeat before sharpened into attention, focused entirely on her.
The apothecary’s gaze went from Chester to her and back again. Something in his face—interest, amusement, a quick spark of understanding—softened into a smile.
Yes, she thought, her pulse tripping. He reacted like that for me.
“Ah!” the apothecary said briskly, seizing the moment. “Another connoisseur. I was just telling this gentleman these are the finest vanilla pods in Brighton.”
The apothecary smelled like spirits, herbs, and something sharper that Pepper couldn’t quite place.
Chester’s gaze caught hers. Whatever he seemed to have been about to say vanished. He straightened, and the smile that built on his face wasn’t the polite, practiced curl she’d seen in drawing rooms. It was startled and unguarded. He was entirely pleased to see her.
Her misbehaving chest thundered again, just as it had the previous night behind the curtain.
“Or perhaps,” he said, “we should ask the true authority.”
Pepper’s fingers tightened on the basket on her arm. Inside, hastily wrapped and tied with string, a few sugared choux and one slim slice of lemon tart rustled like accomplices.
“I am hardly—” She cleared her throat. “May I?” she asked the apothecary, nodding at the tray.
He offered it. The nearest pod looked respectable enough, but when she bent close, the scent was faint and tired. She took it between finger and thumb and pressed. The skin resisted. Too dry.
“These have seen better days,” she said. She picked up another. “And these are cut short. Less flavor for the same coin. Do you have any that have not been insulted by travel and time, Mr…?”
“Evans, my lady,” he said, looking as though she’d suggested his children were ill-bred.
“Mr. Evans,” she amended, gentler. “If this is all you have, I will make do. But I would prefer not to lie when I call them fine.”
Chester’s mouth tilted. “You see? A true authority.”
Evans wavered. Pride and profit fought a brief war on his face. With a put-upon sigh he ducked beneath the counter and produced a narrow tin.
“These,” he said grudgingly, “I keep for special customers.”
He opened the lid. The scent rushed out—dark and warm, sweet and almost smoky.
Pepper’s lungs tightened in pure, greedy delight.
“Yes,” she said simply. “Those.”
“How many?” Chester asked.
She thought of Papa’s recipe, of the little army of waiting ramekins. “Half a dozen, if Mr. Evans can bear the loss.”
Evans named a price that made her stomach pinch.
