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“Already broke and steady, I am,” he informed her.

She considered that. “I think you still got a bit of the devil in you.”

Mad turned, and in the next moment she found herself whisked off her feet and lifted to sit on the edge of the counter. Surprised by his effortless strength, June couldn’t hold back a lunatic giggle.

Bracing his hands on either side of her, Mad leaned close and murmured, “I wouldn’t buck you off, if that’s your worry.”

A nice bit of flirtiness—one that deserved a reward. She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. Their mouths fastened together, lazy and hot, the sweetness of it crowding every thought out of her head. She was amazed by the way he kissed, not just a pressing together of the lips, but a fullness of teasing, sucking, stroking, as if he were making a proper meal of her.

She reached for him with every part of herself, wrapping her legs around him, hooking him with her heels to bring him closer. Her fingers slid into the rich black satin of his hair.

Mad finished the kiss with a little nip, a tender tug of her upper lip, before drawing back to look at her. “I smell like the dog,” he said.

“It’s an invigoratin’ change. You usually smell like horses.”

He grinned and started to kiss her again, but they were interrupted by a hearty knock at the back door.

“Ice delivery,” June said.

Mad’s eyes glinted with rueful amusement. “Could do with a bit of ice just now.”

He swung her down to the floor, made sure she was steady on her feet, and went to open the door. June hurried to rescue the sugar biscuits before they were overbaked.

She pulled out the baking sheet and saw with satisfaction that the dough was perfectly golden at the edges.

The hearty voice of the iceman, Chisel Carroway, filled the kitchen. “As I always say, this is the finest-smelling kitchen in all of West London.”

Chisel was a cheerful, florid-faced man with arms the size of cannon barrels. He’d earned his nickname from his skill at cleaving a massive block of ice in two with his trusty iron chisel. Now that Chisel was past his sixtieth year his back was tricky; he needed help with his deliveries. He’d taken a liking to Mad, who never complained about carrying fifty-pound ice blocks in from the delivery wagon.

Mad put on a pair of black leather gloves, went to the larder, and emerged with a carrot.

“Grabbin’ a bite, lad?” Chisel asked.

“It’s for Molly,” Mad said as he headed out to the delivery wagon. He’d made friends with Chisel’s big gray draft horse and never forgot to bring out a treat to her before unloading the ice.

The iceman chuckled as he watched from the doorway. “If you talked as sweet to the ladies as you do that horse,” he called after him, “you’d be wed afore the week was out, young Maddock.” He sobered as he turned to June and handed her a penny-bunch bouquet of daisies and forget-me-nots tied with string. “For the servants’ table, with humble respects,” he said gruffly. “It grieved me to hear about Miss Tuppence. A good lady, she was. I’ll miss seeing her face at the door.”

June nodded, so moved by the gesture she couldn’t speak. For an answer, she cut a sugar biscuit along the scored lines and gave it to him.

Chisel ate the confection in a few smacking bites as his attention returned to Mad. “Mind you set the leather pad on your shoulder first,” he called from the threshold. “Use your legs and keep your back straight.” He shook his head with a grin. “Fifty-pound block of ice,” he remarked to June, “and he lifts it like it’s a sugar lump. I’ve a mind to take that lad on, teach him me trade.”

Mad came in with the iron tongs clamping an ice block balanced on his shoulder and headed to the scullery. Chisel went to open the zinc-lined ice chest for him. June was about to roll out more dough at the table when she became aware of a movement in the hallway near the stairs.

It was Reina, who’d slept unusually late that morning, and had missed breakfast. She peeked around the doorjamb in a way that reminded June of all the times they’d played hide-and-seek as girls.

But June’s faint smile vanished as she went out into the hallway and saw the band of deep pink running high across the crests of Reina’s pale cheeks, and the shadows like fingerprints beneath her eyes. She radiated so much nervous energy that it seemed touching her might set off sparks.

The last time Reina had looked this shaken was when she’d found out her father had died and been buried three days earlier. No—she’d also been like this when she was told the Inns of Court had refused to admit her, and she would never be a lawyer.

“June, I . . . I need you to set my thinking straight.”

“About what?”

“Would you . . . could we talk about it outside?”

“You mean go for a walk?”

“Yes, is there time? Do you have to go to market?”