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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.”

***

T HE M OST N OBLE 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.”