Heartless(26)

“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.”