Cath twisted around. Peter Peter was clutching her arm, his fingers pressing indentations into her flesh. There were purple-grey circles beneath his eyes and a deep gouge across one cheek, like someone had attacked him with a knife. Though the wound was healing, the sight of it made her stomach flip.

He was wearing muddied coveralls and no mask, as if he had no idea there were expectations around attending a royal masquerade.

‘What’d you do with it?’ he growled again.

‘What are you – release me this instant!’

His grip tightened. ‘Answer me.’

‘I don’t know what you’re – ow! You know, you and your wife could stand to learn some manners when it comes to—’

He yanked her closer and Cath gasped, dwarfed by his hulking shoulders. Then, surprisingly, he did let go. She rubbed her arm, pulse racing.

‘I don’t know what that maid of yours saw or thought she saw,’ he said, his menacing voice barely carrying in the crush of music and laughter, ‘but I won’t let you hurt her. I will see you made into worm food before I allow it. Now tell me what you’ve done with it.’

‘I don’t know—’ She started to shake her head, but stopped. Was this about the pumpkin she’d stolen? The cake she’d made, that his wife had been so desperate to eat? ‘I-I’m sorry,’ she sputtered. ‘I just used it to make a cake, just that one cake. I didn’t think it would do any harm and it was just one little pumpkin, and you seemed . . . so busy, and I only wanted—’

His hand latched around her arm again and she yelped. ‘I already know about that,’ he growled. ‘I was there at the festival. I saw what happened to that Turtle, and now my wife—’ He inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’m not an idiot. The whole kingdom saw you with that sword. Now tell me what you’ve done with it!’

Her heart caught in her throat. ‘Sword? You mean – the Vorpal Sword?’ Her thoughts roiled. ‘What does that have to do with pumpkin cake?’

His eyes flamed and he shook her again. She hissed through her teeth, sure he was leaving bruises. ‘I will ruin you, Lady Pinkerton. Mark my words, if anything happens to her before I can fix this—’

‘That is enough, Sir Peter!’ Cath said, raising her voice when she remembered the role she’d sworn to play this evening. Everyone believed she was to be their future queen – surely she wouldn’t stand to be spoken to in this way by a measly pumpkin farmer. ‘I demand that you release me at—’

‘Pardon my intrusion.’ A voice as warm and soothing as melted chocolate slipped between them.

A shock jolted down Catherine’s spine. She fell silent, her lips hanging open.

‘If the lady’s card isn’t full,’ continued the voice, ‘might I request the honour of this next dance?’

Soft leather brushed against her upper arm. Her gaze fell, watching as a gloved hand pried Peter’s fingers off her, one by one. She was afraid to look up. Afraid to meet the speaker of the voice and find she was wrong.

For he couldn’t be here. Not even his bravado would have brought him here.

It was . . . impossible.

CHAPTER 40

CATH SLOWLY TURNED HER HEAD and dared to peer up at – not a joker. A gentleman.

He wore a fine-cut suit, all in black, with long coat-tails and a satin cravat, a black top hat and a face mask covered in silky raven feathers. Only his eyes defied the darkness of his ensemble. Bright as sunshine, yellow as lemon tarts.

As soon as he’d freed her from Peter’s grasp, he trailed the leather of his palmed glove over her bruised arm, like he wanted to rid her skin of Peter’s grip. Goosebumps followed where he touched.

Peter forced himself between them and Jest’s hand fell away. He was nearly a head shorter than the gigantic farmer, but there wasn’t a hint of intimidation as he met Peter’s glare.

‘The lady and I,’ Peter growled, ‘were having a conversation. So why don’t you mind your own—’

‘That will be all, Sir Peter,’ Cath said, trying to channel her mother’s domineering spirit. She noticed that people were watching them and had probably been watching since the moment Peter had accosted her. He was a sore thumb in their pristine world, after all.

But none of them had stepped forward to interrupt or defend her, no doubt hoping the drama would resolve itself.

‘In fact, my dance card is quite empty,’ she said, louder still, and threaded her arm around Jest’s elbow.

Jest tipped his hat to Peter and before there could be any argument, he was leading her on to the dance floor. Her heartbeat outpaced the music – still livid over Peter’s treatment of her, and afraid that Jest would be recognized at any moment. But mostly she was exhilarated.

He was here. He had come for her.

The fool had come.

She turned to face him. Their hands linked together and a waltz began. Her feet knew the steps, though she barely heard the music.

They were dancing, in front of everyone.

There was no alarm from the crowd. No guards were sent to apprehend him. There were no whispered rumours of his presence.

In this ballroom full of masks, no one would know it was him. It was easy to believe that he was nobility, like any of them. Not an entertainer, or a fool, or a wanted man. He was as refined a gentleman as any guest.

They pressed their palms together and turned in a half circle and Jest took the opportunity to dip his head towards her. ‘You seem surprised, my lady.’