The Caterpillar grunted. “Your joke was not charming.”
“I wasn’t meaning to be.”
“What did you mean?”
Cath hesitated. “Only that … yes, we would have clootie dumplings?”
The Caterpillar peered at her a long, long moment, before sticking the hookah back into his mouth.
“Right,” she muttered. “Thank you for all of your help.”
Turning, she grabbed Mary Ann’s elbow and dragged her back outside, exiting to the sound of a few sleepy snorts from the bell.
Mary Ann was tying knots into her bonnet strings before they’d gone a dozen steps. “It’s rather a miracle he’s stayed in business this long, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” said Cath, but she was already forgetting about the grumpy old cobbler. “Do you suppose the Duke would entertain the idea of leasing the building to us?”
“It’s difficult to say,” said Mary Ann. “I hope he would make the decision as a businessman should, based on our solid business plan and financial projections.”
Cath shook her head. “No one thinks like that other than you, Mary Ann. I do think the Duke likes me well enough, as much as he likes anyone. But he also knows that I’m a nobleman’s daughter who is supposed to be looking for a husband, not looking into storefronts. He might think it’s a conflict of values to enter into a business arrangement with me.” She cast her eyes upward, finding it too easy to imagine the Duke’s haughty snort.
“Unless we have your father’s permission.”
“Yes. Unless that.”
Nerves twisted in Cath’s stomach, as they did every time she thought of broaching the subject with her parents. That was where the dream and reality refused to mix, as distinct as oil and water. No matter how many times she tried to imagine the conversation with her parents and what she would say to persuade them that her bakery was worth investing in, or at the least, worth giving permission for … they never said yes. Not even in her fantasies.
She was still the daughter of a marquess.
But she could push forward without them for now, for a little while longer still.
“We’ll have our answer soon enough, though.” She popped open the parasol as they headed back toward their carriage. “We’re going to call on the Duke this afternoon.”
* * *
THE MOST NOBLE Pygmalion Warthog, Duke of Tuskany, lived in a fine brick house upon a rolling-hill estate. The roof sported half a dozen chimneys, the drive was lined with apple trees, and the air carried the sweet smell of hay, though Catherine wasn’t sure where it was coming from. She and Mary Ann left the footman to wait in the carriage again while they approached the house. Cath held a calling card; Mary Ann a box of miniature cakes that Cath had been saving in the icebox for just such an occasion.
A housekeeper opened the door.
“Good day,” said Catherine, holding out the card. “Is His Grace at home?”
The housekeeper seemed momentarily baffled, as if the receiving of guests was an uncommon event—and perhaps it was for the Duke. “I—I will have to check,” she stammered, taking the card and leaving them on the doorstep as she disappeared inside.
Minutes later, the housekeeper returned and ushered them into a parlor with a bowl of red apples on a sideboard and an array of cozy, if dated, furniture. Cath took a seat, leaving Mary Ann—in this outing, her dutiful lady’s maid—to stand.
“Would you care for some tea?” asked the housekeeper. Her eyes were shining now, her uncertainty at the front door replaced with an anxious sort of delight. She seemed eager to please what Catherine could assume were very rare guests.
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
The housekeeper bustled off. The door had just closed behind her when a second door opened, admitting the Duke.
He wore a velvet smoking jacket and held Catherine’s calling card in one hoof. He looked at Catherine, then Mary Ann, and his stiff shoulders dropped a tiny bit as if in disappointment.
Catherine stood and curtsied. “Good day, Your Grace.”
“Lady Pinkerton. What a surprise this is.” He gestured for her to sit again and claimed a chair opposite her, folding one leg on top of the other.
“It had been too long since I’d come to call on you. I hope this is a good time.”
“As good as any.” He set her card in a silver bowl beside him. The bowl was similar to the one in the foyer at Rock Turtle Cove Manor, meant for collecting calling cards—except their bowl was often full, while this one had previously been empty. “When Miss Chortle delivered your card, I thought perhaps you might have … er, company with you.”
“Company?” She listed her head. “Oh—my mother generally pays her own calls these days, but I’ve no doubt she’ll be calling on you soon.”
His flat nose twitched. “Your mother. Yes. How are the Marquess and Marchioness?”
“Quite well, thank you. And how is”—she hesitated—“your estate?”
“Quite…” He, also, hesitated. “… lonely, if one is to be honest.” He followed the statement with a smile that kept pace with a grimace, and something in the look tugged at Catherine’s heart. It made her want to pity him, but then, he was the one who was the ever-constant wallflower at the King’s parties, who never so much as deigned to dance and was always the first to remove himself from a conversation.
Still, how much of his “aloof-like” behavior was snobbery, and how much was shyness? She wondered that she’d never considered it before.
“Would your maid care to sit?” the Duke asked before Catherine could think of anything polite to say in return.
Mary Ann had just lowered herself onto the edge of a small sofa when the housekeeper returned, carrying a tray with a steaming teapot and a plate of scones. Her hands were trembling as she poured the tea and her twinkling eyes darted between Catherine and the Duke so often that she spilled, twice. The Duke, frowning around his tusks, thanked her and ushered her away, adding the milk and sugar himself. As he bent over the tray, Cath caught sight of a bandage on his neck, stained dark with dried blood.
She gasped. “Are you injured, Your Grace?”
He glanced up at her, then dipped his head in embarrassment. “Just a scratch, I assure you. A war wound from the King’s ball.”
“Oh! Is that from the Jabberwock?”
“It is. Would you care for a cup?” This he offered to Mary Ann, who gratefully accepted.
“I’m sorry you were hurt,” said Catherine.
“And I,” he said, “am glad it was me and not one of the more delicate guests.” He grinned cheekily and Cath couldn’t help but return the look, though she wasn’t sure she understood it.
Though her curiosity lingered, she didn’t want to pry for more information on such a traumatic experience, so Catherine spent a moment searching for some other topic of conversation. “I worry that our visit is causing your housekeeper too much trouble. She seemed a bit shaken.”
“No, no, not at all.” The Duke handed her a cup and saucer. “We don’t entertain much here, and … er, I think she might have you mistaken for someone else.” His pinkish cheeks turned a darker shade and he looked away. “Would you care for a scone?”
“Thank you.” Catherine set the treat on her saucer. Her curiosity was piqued now. She wondered who the housekeeper had been expecting, or hoping for, but it was no business of hers and, besides, she had not come for idle chitchat—even if she was beginning to feel that such a motive would not have been unwelcome.
Her cup clinked against the saucer. “Mary Ann and I stopped in to Mr. Caterpillar’s shop earlier today,” she began. “I was surprised to hear that he’s moving to a different storefront soon. The cobbler seems like such a permanent fixture of the neighborhood.”
“Ah yes. You may be aware that Mr. Caterpillar is a tenant of mine? I will be sad to see him go.”
“Do you have plans on what to do with the storefront once he’s gone?”
“Not yet, no.” The
Duke cleared his throat. “This seems like a dull turn of conversation for young ladies. Perhaps you’d prefer to talk of other things, like … erm.” He stared into his tea.
“Hair ribbons?” Cath suggested.
The Duke grimaced. “I’m not very educated on that topic, I’m afraid.”
“Neither am I.” Cath picked up the little triangle scone. “I am rather educated on baked treats, though. Do you know that baking is a hobby of mine?” She put the scone to her mouth.
“I do, Lady Pinkerton. I had the pleasure of tasting your strawberry—”
Catherine jerked forward, coughing. A chunk of scone landed in her cup with a splatter.
The scone had been wooden-dry and tasted like a mouthful of black pepper.
“What”—she stammered—“is in those—s-sco-achoo!” The sneeze racked her entire body and was followed by three more in quick succession. Tea spilled over the rim of her cup.
“I apologize!” the Duke said, passing a handkerchief to Mary Ann who handed it to Catherine, but the sneezing seemed to have stopped. “I should have warned you.”
Cath rubbed at her nose with the handkerchief—the tip was still tingling, but the raw-pepper taste in her mouth was beginning to dissolve. “Warned me?” she said, her voice squeaky from her pinched nose. “Why—Your Grace, I think your cook is trying to kill us.”
He rubbed his hooves together, his small ears flat against his head. “Oh no, Lady Pinkerton, I assure you that isn’t it. It’s just my cook. She’s fond of pepper.”
Cath accepted the new, hastily prepared cup of tea that Mary Ann handed to her and was glad to wash away as much of the peppered taste as she could. She coughed again. “Lord Warthog, your cook does know that there are other ingredients, doesn’t she? And that pepper is not generally found in scones at all?”
He shrugged helplessly. “I tried to change her ways, but, well, you get used to it after a while. Sort of dulls your ability to taste much of anything.”
She took another swig of tea. “That’s terrible. Why haven’t you fired her?”
The Duke’s eyes widened. “Fire her? For being a terrible cook? What cruelty.”
“But … she’s a cook.”
“Yes. And cook she does.” He squirmed. “Just not well.”
Catherine cleared her throat again. “I see. Well. Thank you for your hospitality, at least.” She set the new teacup on the table beside the horrid scone.
The Duke shrank, any sign of confidence that he’d had at the start of this visit dissolving. “Are you leaving so soon?” He sounded miserable at the prospect.
“It was not my intention,” said Catherine. “If it isn’t too forward of me, I actually had meant to ask a … a favor of you.”
His small eyes got smaller. “What sort of favor?”
“Nothing untoward, I assure you. But as I said before, I’m fond of baking. Really baking.” She eyed the scones with distaste. “I like to think I’m quite good at it, and I never use pepper at all, I assure you.” She smiled in an attempt to lighten what had become an awkward conversation. She nodded to Mary Ann, who stood and handed the box to the Duke. “These are some miniature cakes I made. They’re for you to keep. I hope you’ll enjoy them.” She hesitated. “In fact, I hope your senses aren’t so dulled that you can still taste them.”
“I … that’s very kind, Lady Pinkerton,” said the Duke, opening the box and eyeing the cakes, not with gratitude, but suspicion. “But what are these for?”
“That’s precisely my reason for calling. I’ve been thinking how Hearts could use a nice quality bakery and I thought, well, why shouldn’t I open one? Which led me to thinking of the storefront Mr. Caterpillar is vacating and if you might be interested in leasing the storefront to me?” She kept her tone light and confident, but when she had finished, the Duke’s expression had darkened. She brightened her own smile to compensate. “What do you think?”
“I see,” he said, shutting the lid on the box and setting it on the table beside him. “So this is not a social call, after all.” He sighed, and the sound was devastating. Cath felt Mary Ann flinch beside her.
“That isn’t so,” Cath stammered. “I’ve been meaning to call on you for weeks and just—”
“It’s all right, Lady Pinkerton. You needn’t go on. I understand that I’m not much for popularity and your calling cards are doubtlessly wanted elsewhere.”
Her chest tightened. “I’m sorry to have offended you.”
He waved away her apology and, after a moment, sat straighter in his chair. His expression shifted into that cold exterior she knew from countless balls. His voice, when he spoke, carried a stiffness that had been missing before. “Is the Marquess aware of your plans?”
She thought to lie, but saw no point in it. “No, not yet.”
He rubbed at his hanging jowl. “I have great respect for your father. I would not wish to insult him by being party to a business venture he does not approve of.”
“I understand. I intend to speak with him about it soon, but thought it might be beneficial to have a storefront first. To better convey my plans to him.”
Mary Ann leaned forward. “This request is contingent upon a rental agreement that puts fair market value upon the storefront and a full inspection of the property—”
Cath pinched Mary Ann’s leg, silencing her, but the Duke was nodding. Almost, but not quite, smiling at her interruption.
“But of course,” he said. “That is smart business.” He tossed a peppery scone into his mouth. A crumb stuck to his lower lip. He wouldn’t look at Catherine and he had nearly finished his tea before he spoke again. “I will keep you under consideration for the storefront, once Mr. Caterpillar has moved out.”
Cath’s entire body lifted. “Oh, thank—”
“But I, too, have a favor to ask, Lady Pinkerton.”
Her gratitude caught in her throat, right beside the still-scratching pepper. She swallowed it back down and hoped something mighty that he was about to ask for a lifetime supply of fresh-baked, pepper-free scones.
“Of course,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
The veil of his confidence once again slipped and, if he hadn’t been so very pig-like, Catherine would have thought he looked rather sheepish. “You are friends with…” His tusks bobbed as he gulped. “… Lady Mearle, are you not?”
She stared at him. Friends was not the most accurate depiction of her relationship with Margaret Mearle, but—“Yes. Yes, she and I are quite good friends.”
“Do you think it might be possible for you to, er, if it isn’t asking too much, might you … put in a fond word for me?”
She cocked her head to the side. “With … Lady Mearle?”
“Indeed. You see, I…” He flushed, and his lips turned into a brief, awkward smile. “I rather fancy her.”
Catherine blinked. “Lady Margaret Mearle?”
The Duke might have seen the disbelief on her face, but he was too busy gazing at the wall. “I know. It’s absurd of me to think I might be worthy of such a dear creature, or that she could ever share my feelings. But it’s just … she’s the jammiest bit of jam, isn’t she? So very clever. And righteous. And so very, very…” He swooned. “Pink.”
He dared to glance at her.
Catherine snapped her mouth shut and tried to look sympathetic.
Appeased, he looked away again. “But I can’t even bring myself to speak to her. I can’t imagine what she thinks of me.”
Gnawing at the inside of her cheek, Cath thought of all the snide comments Margaret had made about the Duke over the years, mostly regarding how stuck-up and arrogant he was. Traits that she, too, had seen in him, but no longer seemed fair.
It was difficult to imagine. She could not recall Lord Warthog, the perpetual bachelor, ever showing favor to a lady, just as she could not recall any man showing interest in the intolerable, unattractive Margaret Mearle.
Yet—here it was. Pudding and pie, right before her eyes.
CHAPTER 10
THE DAYS LEADING UP to the tea party were agony. Catherine was filled with dread at what would happen when she saw the King again. Her mother was anxious too, though they were hoping for very different results from the meeting.
It felt like trickery of the worst sort to be making a batch of macarons with the intention of capturing the King’s heart when Cath had no interest in capturing it at all. Nevertheless, she was glad for an excuse to spend a day in the kitchen, where she didn’t have to worry about being ordered to go practice some useless skill, like embroidery.
Oh, if only, if only the King were fickle. If only he’d been so embarrassed by her disappearance that he wouldn’t dare attempt it again or, at the least, he would have the sense to propose in private this time.
Although that thought, too, made her shudder.
Despite her growing trepidation, as the tea party approached, Cath also started to become fidgety with impatience. She tried to deny it, even to herself, but she was looking forward to the afternoon. Not for the King, or the lawn games, and not even for the mini cakes and sandwiches.
She was anticipating another encounter with the court joker.
Having had no more sightings in her dreams, she was longing to see him again, fantasizing over every potential facet of their next encounter. She wanted to witness another buoyant smile, to be the source of his easy laughter, to feel the brush of his fingers on the nape of her neck.
She paused, lifting the pastry bag away from the baking sheet, where fifteen piped disks of batter were waiting to be baked into almond meringue cookies. Her skin had a new flush to it that wasn’t from the oven, and her hands had begun to tremble—unacceptable for such a delicate task.
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