Page 99 of Heartless

Swallowing hard, Catherine reached into her purse and pulled out the proposal she and Mary Ann had spent all night writing and revising. ‘You have my word that I won’t tell anyone about Chess or the questionable properties of your hats. On two conditions.’

He massaged the bridge of his nose, but didn’t stop her.

‘One: You must be sure your hats are safe to be worn, and stop selling them immediately if you find evidence to the contrary.’

‘A business with faulty merchandise does not flourish. I don’t require your nagging to tell me this.’

‘Fine. But you might find my second request to be a little more unconventional.’ She took a step closer. ‘I want you to give me a loan.’

He balked. ‘A loan? What – of money?’

‘Yes. Businessman to business . . . woman. I’m starting a business of my own, but I require an investor.’

He laughed, an enormous booming laugh. ‘I cannot wait to hear more.’

She set the folded letter down on Hatta’s desk, pressing it into the wood with the pad of her finger. ‘Enclosed in this letter you’ll find my proposal forSweets and Tarts: The Most Wondrous Bakery in All of Hearts.’

He grunted. ‘How quaint.’

‘You’ve tasted what I can make. Whatever your personal feelings towards me, I ask you to consider this as a businessman. People will come from all over the land to sample the richest cakes, the sweetest pies, the softest bread they’ve ever known.’

He stared at her for a long time, his expression inscrutable. Finally, he said, ‘You plan to open a bakery.’

‘That is correct.’

‘And you want my help.’

‘I want a business loan. It’s all lined out here – payments, interest, everything.’ She felt very smart saying it, and was glad she’d broken down and asked Mary Ann for help in drafting the proposal.

There was another long, long silence, before he said, ‘And tell me, Lady Pinkerton, does a queen have time to run a bakery?’

She bristled and answered, enunciating carefully, ‘I am not a queen.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

The twitch in her eyebrow worsened.

Pressing his own finger into the letter, Hatta pulled it towards him across the desk. But he didn’t open it. ‘I admire your gumption more than I care to admit. You remind me something of myself.’

She bristled.

‘But no, I do not believe this would be a wise business decision, as I do not believe you will be successful in this endeavour.’

It was like being slapped – so strong, so unapologetic the rejection. ‘How can you say that?’

‘The macarons were impressive, but in your haste to blame me for the unfortunate incident at the festival, you have overlooked another possibility. Potentially incriminating evidence that others will not be so quick to dismiss. In fact, I wonder if you are so insistent on finding fault with me becauseyouhave something to hide?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘The Turtle – that poor, darling thing – had, only moments before his transformation, eaten an entire slice of your cake.’

She froze.

Until she’d considered it might be the hat, this had been her fear, though she had hoped no one else would make such a connection. She hated to think he might be right – blaming his hats would mean she could stop questioning if she, herself, was involved.

Because it was only a cake. Only a spiced pumpkin cake.

‘Of five judges,’ Hatta continued, ‘he was the only judge to sample your dessert. Naturally, people are beginning to wonder if it wasn’t your cake that resulted in his unfortunate change.’

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