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“We require a gentleman. To carry boxes.”

“I see.” He gave Rosalind the smallest glance. “I have been courting Lady Rosalind for less than a day, and already the duties are heavier than I was led to expect.”

“You have sorted ivy,” Rosalind said. “Badly, but you survived it.”

“Four lengths in an hour,” Charlotte informed Miss Mayfield and Miss Lennox. “I counted.”

“Then perhaps we ought not trust him with cakes,” Miss Lennox said, and James bowed to her with perfect gravity and promised to disappoint her no more than was necessary.

Augusta lowered her book at last and looked him over. “You came to call upon my niece, I suppose.”

“I did.”

“Then you may call upon her in Berkeley Square. I am going with them, since apparently I am required to prevent my niece from taking charge of the establishment. You may escort us if you like.”

James looked at Rosalind. “I should like.”

The words were perfectly ordinary. They warmed her all the same.

“Then it is settled,” Charlotte declared. “Rosalind, where is your cloak?”

“I know where my cloak is.”

“Excellent. You may fetch one thing for yourself. We make progress.”

* * *

Gunter’s was busy enough that the windows had misted at the corners, and the whole shop smelled of burnt sugar and oranges. The party secured a table by the wall, while Augusta settled herself at another with an old acquaintance she had discovered within, and announced that she could see them all perfectly well and intended to hear nothing.

James took the chair beside Rosalind’s. Charlotte sat opposite with Miss Mayfield and Miss Lennox, and when the waiter came, the whole dispute was laid before him at once — Charlotte said lemon cakes, Miss Lennox said almond in the very same breath, and the man looked between them with the patience of one who had served parties of young ladies before.

Miss Mayfield folded her hands. “You see my difficulty.”

“Bring both,” James suggested.

Three female faces turned toward him, and he looked at Rosalind. “Was that very foolish?”

“Very expensive,” she said.

“Ah. I begin to understand the rules.”

“There are no rules,” Miss Lennox told him. “That is why the matter is serious.”

“What do you like, Lady Rosalind?” Miss Mayfield asked.

Rosalind opened her mouth and stopped.

Nobody had asked what she liked. Not which would travel better, or which would please Cassandra, or which was economical, or which a cook could produce for thirty. Only what she liked, and she sat with the question in her hands and no ready place to put it. Charlotte’s eyes sharpened across the table, but for once she did not rescue the silence.

“The orange biscuits,” Rosalind said at last, looking toward the display. “The thin ones with sugar.”

“Then those too,” Miss Mayfield told the waiter.

“Oh, no. You need not order them on my account.”

“Why not? We are here to discover what to order, and my mother likes orange better than any of us.” Miss Mayfield’s face stayed solemn. “You may have saved the evening.”

“At last,” Charlotte said. “A use for you. We were in danger of simply enjoying your company.”