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A gentleman caller?

Another suitor, no doubt. Pepper could already feel the conversation before she saw his face: a little teasing about how “delicate” her ankle must be, a boast about a hunter or a curricle, a remark on the weather as if sunshine were a character reference. Other men talked at her instead of to her, measuring her the way horse dealers looked over a mare—height, hips, dowry—while Mother smiled and poured tea. They never asked what she read, or how long a loaf took to prove, or whether she liked anything well enough to miss it. If one more gentleman admired “her mama’s roses” instead of speaking to her as if she had a mind, Pepper thought she might scream.

China tapped. A man answered—young, smooth, the lightest Italian lilt.

Oh, not the handsome doctor again. That was almost worse than a suitor who was easily scared away. Dr. Fernando was most certainly not easily scared. Other women might dream over a jaw like his or swoon over his bright smile and warm eyes; Pepper had learned better than to pin hopes on a man who saw her as a case first. Still, he could look at her foot but not into her mind.

Mrs. Hart’s hand brushed Pepper’s sleeve, a soft restraint. Society believed her to be Mother’s widowed sister-in-law, which neatly explained why she still lived under their roof; a lady of twenty needed a chaperone. In truth, Mrs. Hart had once been Erica’s friend at finishing school, had gone to France with her, had made and lost her own great love there. Years of shared secrets had turned her into something between companion and second mother—and just now, into a warning finger on Pepper’s arm.

They paused at the threshold. Through the gap she saw him: dark hair, fine coat, a profile that would make girls sigh if he were not discussing futures. He sat opposite her mother, who held her teacup like a v[AK8]erdict. Pepper’s boots felt suddenly loud on the carpet. Turn. Back to the kitchen. Instead she stepped in.

“Barbara,” her mother said, bright as cut glass, “Dr. Fernando has been most obliging. He thinks a little more attention would do us good.”

Us? Pepper folded her hands, careful with balance and breath that could betray her thoughts. “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

He rose and bowed as he always did in a refined and pleasant way. “Lady Barbara.” His smile had the kind of polish that made other women preen. It must not work here. “We discussed a place that may interest you—Cloverdale House.”

Pepper’s mouth went dry. “Isn’t that a hospital?”

“A private house for convalescence,” he said gently. “Not a ward. A month, perhaps two, at Cloverdale House. We take patients with old or new injuries—weak limbs after fever, stiff joints, ladies who need quieter stairs than Mayfair provides. Walking exercises, gentle strengthening, warm baths with herbs; the latest ideas. I would be honored to supervise your progress.”

Pepper’s fingers tightened in her skirts. Walking exercises. As if she were nine again. As if she had not ordered her days, so nothing showed but care. Stillness brought the old memory, as it always did: a winter room, a banked fire, careful voices by a door while they thought her asleep. She may not dance again, madam. The rustle of silk. There may be other limits. She had been old enough, later, to understand what those other limits must have meant—not just dances, but cradles; the strain her body might never safely bear—even if no one had ever put plain words to them.

Pepper found the back of her mother’s chair with her fingertips. Steady. Speak. “I have my own exercise and I can walk just fine. A daily constitutional walk suits me.”

Her mother set down her cup. “A constitutional, yes, but one cannot stroll one’s way into a husband.”

“I am not strolling toward a husband,” she managed a mild tone. “In fact, I was just going out now.”

“After we conclude,” her mother said, turning that smile on the doctor—the one she usually reserved for allies. “Doctor, do tell her more, please.”

He obliged, of course. Warm voice, calm hands. He used words like outcome and improvement as if they had never disappointed anyone. Pepper nodded at the proper moments while her attention slid to the mantel clock. Nearly two. Around this hour, the bell at the pâtisserie usually rang hardest; gentlemen on their way from Whitehall liked to stop for something sweet. If she could escape soon, she might be there for the busiest stretch—and if the man in the navy coat chose today to return, it would likely be then. The thought was foolish; he might never come back at all. But if he did…perhaps she could tuck an extra mille-feuille into his parcel.

“…and should you wish a further examination,” Dr. Fernando finished, “Cloverdale has the very best rooms.”

Pepper lifted her chin. “No, thank you.”

Pepper’s fingers tightened on the back of the chair and let the deeper examination of the doctor’s gaze wash over her. Mother would hear not ankles and muscle but prospects and soundness, as if a physician might certify Pepper fit to populate some future husband’s nursery.

“She will think about it,” her mother growled with a toothy smile toward the now standing and even more handsome doctor. Pepper suspected Cloverdale’s rooms looked very well from a mother’s diary; from inside they sounded like a cage.

No, no! Absolutely not. I’m needed at the pâtisserie.

He did not need to leave a card; “Dr. Fernando” had been in their visitors’ book since Pepper had made her [AR9][GS10]debut. But today he set a fresh one on the tea table; his name and the direction of Cloverdale House engraved beneath. Her mother rose to see him out and tucked the card into the little diary where only the most respectable names—and the most serious intentions—lived.

The door closed. The air changed.

“Mother, I am going on a walk.”

Pepper could almost see the scene already: her mother producing that card for some future suitor, repeating only the parts of a report that sounded reassuring and locking every quiet doubt away with her old griefs.

“Yes, walk,” her mother replied, spoon chiming once against porcelain. “A constitutional is all very good, but where are you ever going to arrive in life?”

Pepper pressed her lips. Not to a husband. Aloud, lightly, “Sometimes I visit Aunt Florence.”

“She has already gone on to Brighton,” her mother said, too casual. “She will deliver my trunks on her way to the country. Meanwhile, I am having the rest packed and shall leave on the morrow. Your things are packed as well.”

The room tilted a fraction. Pepper did not move. “To go where?”