‘Would you like me to put it with the others, Lady Catherine?’

‘Please. Thank you, Mr Penguin.’ The butler left, taking the flower arrangement down to her mother’s sitting room, where the only person who appreciated the bouquet could admire it.

Breaking the wax seal, Cath unfolded the letter. She kept hoping, with each new delivery, that this would be the letter in which the King would apologize and confess their courtship was not up to expectations and he was forced to end their arrangement.

She should not have allowed such optimism.

At least it wasn’t one of the letters that made her tremble, lifting off the page in Jest’s voice. This one was entirely His Majesty.

To my dearest, darlingest Sweetling –

Your eyes are like ripe green apples sprinkled with cinnamon. Your skin shimmers like buttercream frosting. Your lips are a ripe raspberry. Your hair is dark chocolate melted on the castle drawbridge on a very hot day. You smell better than a loaf of fresh bread in the morning. You are more beautiful than a birthday cake. You are sweeter than vanilla honey vanilla and honey mixed together. With sugar on top.

Yours most ardently, with all my gushingest, ooziest admiration –

The King’s signature and postscripts were in a different penmanship. This had been the case with most of the cards he’d sent. She pictured Jest, quill in hand as the King dictated the letter. Flinching from the overwrought prose, politely biting his tongue.

The King of Hearts

(Not that there are any other kings around. Especially kings that call you their Sweetling. At least, I hope not!)

(Tee-hee-hee!)

P.S. Can I have some more tarts?

Gagging, Cath tumbled on to the bed and slid the letter into the pages of her book, hoping it would be forgotten there ever after, when a second note fell from the envelope’s folds – a piece of white parchment printed with a red heart. It reminded her of the slip of confetti she’d caught in the ballroom, what seemed like ages ago.

Her heart skipped when she turned it over. The note was written in the same flourishing penmanship as the King’s letter.

Dear Lady Pinkerton,

Let us fault His Majesty not for his good intentions, but only for his inability to put such longing into words. For certain your charm would turn even the most articulate of men into bumbling fools. I will beg you to think kindly on our wretched attempts to flatter one whose praises could only be spelled out in the poetry of ocean waves and the song of distant thunder.

Yours,

A most humble Joker

P.S. Can I have some more macarons?

Cath laughed, her cheeks warming. She slipped the note back into the envelope and shut the book, hiding both letters between its pages.

‘You aren’t going to respond to your sovereign?’

She startled, but it was only Cheshire, lounging on the windowsill overhead. She released a slow breath. ‘Must you always sneak up on me like that?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Lady Catherine. I sneak up on everyone like that.’ Lifting a back leg, Cheshire began to clean himself in an inappropriately cat-like manner.

Catherine rolled her eyes and settled into the bed again, shuffling the book pages to try and find her spot. ‘No, I do not intend to respond to my sovereign’s letter. I am trying not to encourage his attentions as much as can be helped.’

‘Has that proved to be an effective technique?’

‘Not terribly, but I am determined.’

‘It seems that so is he. What are you reading?’ His exuberant smile appeared above Catherine’s knee and his striped tail flicked out, lifting the book so he could see the cover. She snarled at him, but he pretended not to notice. ‘Gullible’s Travels? Never heard of it.’

Cath snapped the book shut – the cat barely got his tail out in time. ‘Are you here for a reason, Cheshire?’

‘Why, yes, I would enjoy a cup of tea. I take mine with lots of cream, and no tea. Thank you.’

With another sigh, Cath set down the book and headed to the kitchen. Cheshire was there waiting for her when she arrived and started to purr when she pulled a bottle of cream from the icebox.

‘How is the royal courtship progressing?’

‘This is the extent of it. He sends me gifts, I give them to my mother.’

‘How romantic.’ Cheshire lifted the saucer in both paws and downed the cream in a single swallow.

Catherine leaned against the counter and waited for Cheshire to finish licking his lips. ‘I have no need of romance,’ she said, before adding, quieter, ‘at least, not from the King.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard that you may have other prospects, though I would not have expected you to be thus charmed.’

She stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I had a delightful spot of milk with Haigha yesterday – he’s a Hare, and mad as March, but he did recall a lovely girl in attendance at the Hatter’s most recent tea party, a guest of none other than the court joker. Would you believe she had with her the most delectable macarons he had ever enjoyed? Now, who, pray tell, could he have been referring to?’

For a heartbeat, Cath thought to deny everything, but Cheshire was not the sort worth denying. Gossipmonger though he might be, he was also dedicated to obtaining reliable sources for his rumour mill.

‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

Cheshire dug a claw in between his front teeth, as if worried he might have some cream stuck there. ‘Who would I tell?’

‘Everyone. You would tell everyone, but I’m asking you not to. Please, Cheshire. My parents—’