Cath resisted the urge to pat him on the head and offer him a biscuit for a job well done. ‘You were splendid, Your Majesty.’

Beaming, the King turned to watch Jest take his shot. Cath glared at Jest’s hedgehog, willing it to go off course.

‘What were you and Jest talking about, anyhow?’ asked the King.

‘Oh. Uh – you, Your Majesty. And your phenomenal croquet—’

There was a kathunk as Jest sent his hedgehog rolling towards wide-open grass . . . at least it was wide open until all three of the absent Clubs raced over and threw themselves into arches just in time for the hedgehog to roll beneath them.

‘– skills,’ Cath finished, glowering.

The King sighed, looking equally deflated. ‘Well, it does seem that I’m outmatched.’

After three continuous swings, Jest had got his hedgehog nearly to the end of the course. One more half-decent play would hand him the win, for sure. He drifted leisurely towards his hedgehog, swinging the flamingo back and forth like a pendulum.

‘Well done, Jest,’ called the King.

‘Thank you muchly, Your Majesty.’

Clenching her teeth, Cath hauled her flamingo towards her own hedgehog, a bout of stubborn determination burning through her limbs. Never had she considered herself a competitive person, but this – this was different.

This felt oddly personal.

After just one meeting, the Joker had infiltrated her dreams and overtaken her every waking thought. She’d even worked him into her bakery fantasy, though she would never admit that to anyone, especially now that she knew Jest would just as soon see her married to the King.

He was naught but a flirtatious louse, and she’d fallen deeper with every rakish smile. What a fine joke she must have made for his amusement.

How dare he?

She took up her place beside her hedgehog and surveyed the course. The hedgehog and flamingo both watched her, waiting, as she looked from the arched cards – a few of which had fallen flat in exhaustion while they waited – to the rover hoop, the final goal. To all the opposing hedgehogs scattered haphazardly around the course, their players chasing after them or screaming at their uncooperative flamingos.

To Jest, strolling across the grass.

She narrowed her eyes and widened her stance, lowering the flamingo’s head to the ground. The hedgehog rolled up.

‘If you fail me,’ she whispered to the flamingo, ‘I will wrap your neck around a tree trunk and tie it in a pretty pink bow and leave you there until one of the gardeners finds you.’

The flamingo cautiously curled its neck to look at her from upside down. ‘Ah like purty pink bows.’

She gave an annoyed shake and it straightened out again.

She pulled the flamingo back, pinned her eye to the hedgehog –

and swung

hard.

It was a picture-perfect croquet, knocking into Jest’s hedgehog moments before he swung for it. Startled, Jest leaped back, and his hedgehog rolled right beneath his feet and bounded and bounced wildly off course.

He blinked up, meeting Cath’s gaze across the lawn.

She grinned at him, pleased at Jest’s flabbergasted expression, and gave her flamingo a twirl. She’d all but handed the win to the King.

‘Well, dash it all,’ she said, feigning innocence.

Pleased, she strolled off the court and stuck her flamingo’s feet into the soft dirt before heading towards the tables. With that excellent play, she felt she’d earned some cake and a nice cup of tea.

CHAPTER 14

‘WHY IS THERE so much pepper in this soup?’ the Marchioness complained, pushing back her bowl. ‘It’s hardly edible.’

‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ said Abigail, whisking the offensive dish away. ‘It was a new recipe – I believe the Duke of Tuskany gave it to us, a speciality of his own cook’s making.’

The Marchioness wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s a miracle he hasn’t starved.’ She straightened the napkin in her lap while Catherine and her father sipped at their own soups without complaint.

Though, Catherine could admit, it was awfully peppery, and starting to burn her throat.

‘So, Catherine?’ her mother said. ‘How did you find the tea party?’

Cath froze, her soup spoon lifted halfway to her mouth. She met her mother’s anxious, hopeful grin with a nervous, innocent one of her own. ‘I found it to be rather like the last tea party, and the one before that,’ she lied, and choked down another spoonful. ‘Would you pass the salt, please?’

Mary Ann stepped forward to bring the salt to her so her parents wouldn’t have to reach over the tureens and gravy boats.

‘Perhaps so, but did you speak with His Majesty?’

‘Oh. Um. Why, yes, I did. He and I took a turn around the gardens.’ She paused to ensure nothing she was about to relate would be condemning. ‘We crossed paths with the new court joker and he entertained us with a beautiful melody on his flute.’

Silence. The grandfather clock that stood against the wall raised an arm to scratch beneath his grey moustache. Catherine glanced at him and wondered if the pepper was getting to the furniture.

‘And?’ her mother pressed.

‘Oh, he’s very talented.’ Cath leaned forward over her bowl. ‘Perhaps too talented, if you ask me. One might find it unnatural. To play the flute and the mandolin, and to know card tricks and magic tricks and riddles, and I hear tell he’s even an adept juggler. It’s enough to make the rest of us feel unaccomplished, and I don’t think he needs to flaunt it all quite so much as he has, and after only two gatherings! Plus, there’s something peculiar about that hat of his, don’t you think? Something not quite . . .’ She traced an invisible outline of the three-pointed hat with her spoon into the air. ‘. . . spatially accurate. I find it uncanny.’ She looked at her unimpressed mother and her confused father and realized she’d been rambling. She jammed the soup spoon into her mouth.