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Pepper’s eyes flew to Lady Florence. For a fraction of a second, Chester could tell, panic flared, naked and real. Then Lady Florence’s fingers brushed the back of her chair—a tiny shove, more encouragement than command, he reckoned.

Pepper rose.

She crossed the few yards to the head of the table and dropped a curtsy.

“Lady Barbara Beaumont,” the steward announced, the very picture of a man convinced this had been the plan all along. Chester’s throat felt oddly tight.

She opened her mouth. The first words that came out were smooth, practiced, entirely Lady Barbara’s: “The establishment has served London families for many years, often in quiet ways. Its owner is honored by the opportunity to present his work here today. I hope… ahem… on his behalf,” she added with a little smile that appeared to be for the room and somehow also for him, “that you will find room at your tables for a little Harley Street sweetness.”

Pepper still avoided her mother’s gaze and straightened. “This first dish,” she said aloud, “is a simple cream, set over gentle steam rather than a fierce oven. It asks for patience instead of force. The flavor is orange-flower and vanilla, meant to be…quiet, rather than cloying.”

Quiet, Chester thought, as the steward lifted the dome. Is that what you think this is?

The ramekins were smaller than the others—neat white cups, the cream inside trembling at the slightest touch of the spoon. The scent rose in a wave as the first one was cracked open: citrus and blossom, the mellow bass note of good vanilla. The vanilla he’d bought for her at the apothecary.

Chester took his spoon with considerably less composure than he’d shown the previous dishes.

The first taste was indeed quiet. It didn’t rush to impress. It settled—silken, delicate, the orange-flower not so much a flavor as an aroma at the back of the palate. The vanilla from the apothecary pressed its warmth to a higher note.

He closed his eyes for a moment. On another day, in another life, he might have sworn.

“Your Grace?” the steward prompted, pen poised.

Chester made himself look away from Pepper and back down at the ramekin in his hand.

“It is very well-balanced,” he said, trying not to say it was one of the best things to ever grace his mouth besides Pepper herself, keeping his tone measured. “The texture is even. The orange-flower essence seems…restrained, which is rare. Delicious.”

He glanced up on that last word. She was the expert, not him.

Pepper’s lips parted. For a heartbeat she looked like she’d forgotten there was a room full of nobility.

The steward nodded, soothed by something that sounded like technical praise. Numbers were written. A clerk murmured to another clerk. The dome descended again.

“Next entry,” the steward announced. “Pastry from Waud in Bond Street—”

Dishes came and went. A pyramid of wafer-thin biscuits, a molded jelly that quivered like a dowager’s sensibilities, a ridiculous spun-sugar temple one of the younger dukes cooed over. Chester did his duty. He tasted it. He commented. He listened to Darley make pointed little jabs about “Wyndale’s latest experiment in pastry politics” and let them slide.

All the while, he kept counting down to the moment he hoped was coming: Harley Street’s own dishes—her crème, her mille-feuille, her fire, her honesty in a ramekin and in layers of pastry that actually used the flour he had spent weeks arguing over.

When Harley Street’s second custard course came, the room already knew to expect something quieter than usual. They had already pronounced the earlier mille-feuille, “excellent, if a trifle indecently buttery”; Chester had barely tasted it, too busy watching her cheeks flush with every compliment.

The light he’d learned to look for in her was gone; in its place sat the cool, polished distance of a girl doing exactly as she’d been taught. It felt, watching her, as though Pepper had stepped back from the edge of herself and left Lady Barbara to finish the performance alone.

“This is a vanilla cream,” Pepper said, voice steady now. “Set over steam, finished with ice. It is meant to remind one that not every dish need shout to be heard.”

A small stir ran around the table; from what he’d picked up listening to her talk of kitchens, custards were notorious for curdling, weeping, or turning grainy at the slightest misjudgment, and the implied promise of one that might be relied upon was bold. This was not some showy sugar temple: this was a quiet dare to every cook in London. It was an odd thing, Chester thought, that his entire day—perhaps his entire life—had been leading to a spoonful of cream. The domes lifted.

Even from his seat he could see they were right. The tops were a thin pane of gold, no darker at the edges than the center; the custard beneath held the finest tremor.

Vanilla and burnt sugar rose in a soft, unmistakable wave.

“Lady Barbara?” the steward said, pleased with this new arrangement. “A word?”

She stood.

Sea-green silk, pearls at her wrist, the faintest drag of her right foot as she stepped into the open. Chester saw her catch the wobble and correct, jaw tightening for a heartbeat before she smoothed it away.

“This,” she said, and her voice was steady but a shade too clear, “is the owner’s favorite dish. He says it tells the truth about the kitchen that makes it. It forgives no haste, no shortcuts. With the first crack of the spoon, you will know whether they have been careful.”