Page 96

“An unfair comparison. Curry and conversation should be evaluated independently.”

“The curry was perfect. The conversation was overseasoned.”

He gave her an owlish look, which wanted spectacles for maximal effect. But since she’d asked about them, he hadn’t returned his customary pair to his nose.

“Finley is an excellent playwright,” he said. “I think you’d like his latest. It’s a farce. I’d invite you, but it doesn’t open until midsummer.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed to her own ears.

“You’ll be in your village by then.” Alan rolled a shoulder. He’d swapped his frock coat for a morning coat that hugged his broad shoulders. “Baking tarts.”

“Not to the exclusion of all else,” she responded automatically, and blushed. He’d think she was angling for that invitation.

His eyes had begun to glitter. “Bakers work long hours.”

She frowned. Was he going to explain baking to her? Like Jack had tried to do? Baking is hot, hard work. Have you thought of that? Why, yes, she had. She’d thought of everything.

“I’m going to buy Mr. Craddock’s bakery,” she said. “It’s old and small. The parish has a newer, bigger bakery, and everyone in the village buys bread and biscuits there. Mr. Craddock sells buns and rolls and cakes, nicer things in small quantities. I’m going to specialize even more. Uncommon sweets for important occasions.”

“A cake shaped like a dragon for St. George’s Day?” He laughed. “Dear God, you baked Rouget the Bastille.” He shook his head admiringly. “I imagine, with your combination of skills, you could sculpt Michelangelo’s David out of marzipan.”

“Probably.” She was blushing more fiercely now. She didn’t have to lie anymore, and a tremulous joy trickled out from her heart. “I’ll bake uncommon sweets for everyday occasions too. Those I’ll have ready, for anyone who comes in. And I’ll make pastries to order, for all the squires. And the Cricket Club. And the Beowulf Society.”

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. She’d guessed at frequency and size of orders, totted up prices, subtracted costs.

“I’ll work long hours,” she said. “But I’ll decide when and how many.” She hesitated, trying to smooth the doubting lilt from her voice. “And if people like what I bake, they’ll be willing to pay a little more for it.”

“They will.” The brightness in his eyes seemed to fill her with light.

He crossed his legs. His trousers were different too, not his usual style. They were gray and fit him snugly. “Where is your village? How far from London?”

“Middling far.” Her core went cold, sucking the blush from her cheeks. She dug her shoulder blades into the soft leather of the seat.

“You’ve never told me the name.”

Her heart stood still. And started again at a chirp.

Alan looked down, adjusted the lapels of his coat, and stroked between Fritz’s ears.

“Jack found him,” she said softly, and Alan looked up, his expression neutral. Did he wonder at the change of topic?

“In a menagerie,” she continued. “Half-frozen, pecked at by peacocks. We nursed him back to health together.”

“You’re a brave little chap.” Alan scratched Fritz’s head.

“So,” he said, after the pause had drawn out. “Jack is a parfait gentil knight.” His voice was wry.

“He can be.” Nina’s heart had stopped sending out those little ripples of joy. “He saved Fritz from the jaws of death. Not only Fritz. Kittens. Once, near the village, he even rescued a baby hedgehog. We took her with us to London. She slept in my chest of drawers and lived to a ripe old age.”

“This hedgehog . . .”

“Nettie,” she supplied.

“Nettie.” Alan sounded increasingly skeptical. “Was she wounded as well? Pecked by feral peafowl?”

“Not wounded. Abandoned.”

“Ah.” His eyes probed hers. “How did he know? Her mother might have been out hunting. Or it might have been time for her to leave the nest.”