Page 30 of Heartless

‘Quite . . .’ He, also, hesitated. ‘. . . lonely, if one is to be honest.’ He followed the statement with a smile that kept pace with a grimace, and something in the look tugged at Catherine’s heart. It made her want to pity him, but then, he was the one who was the ever-constant wallflower at the King’s parties, who never so much as deigned to dance and was always the first to remove himself from a conversation.

Still, how much of his ‘aloof-like’ behaviour was snobbery, and how much was shyness? She wondered that she’d never considered it before.

‘Would your maid care to sit?’ the Duke asked before Catherine could think of anything polite to say in return.

Mary Ann had just lowered herself on to the edge of a small sofa when the housekeeper returned, carrying a tray with a steaming teapot and a plate of scones. Her hands were trembling as she poured the tea and her twinkling eyes darted between Catherine and the Duke so often that she spilt, twice. The Duke, frowning around his tusks, thanked her and ushered her away, adding the milk and sugar himself. As he bent over the tray, Cath caught sight of a bandage on his neck, stained dark with dried blood.

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?’

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