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 neighbourhood.’

‘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 favour of you.’

His small eyes got smaller. ‘What sort of favour?’

‘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?’