Cambon announced itself gradually.
The open farmland narrowed as they approached, giving way to clusters of old houses and vendors arranging their wares along the roadside. A little further on, the buildings grew more substantial—houses with generous gardens lining the outskirts, then the taller, narrower structures of three storeys or more where the townspeople lived, pressing close together along the main streets. Beyond those, the road opened onto the central square, where the church presided over a busy market: carts from the surrounding villages arranged in loose rows, traders calling out over each other's voices, the smell of produce and horses and fresh bread all mingling in the morning air.
Ryan had not been in a crowded place for some time.
Cambon was a fraction of the size of New—quieter by any measure—and yet he found himself thinking, with some feeling, that silence was preferable.
*Strange.* Not long ago, sitting in the quiet of Blissbury, he'd been thinking about returning to the capital as soon as he reasonably could. Now he was already looking forward to going back.
They left the cart at the nearest inn and set off on foot.
"First, Mr. Kane's and Mr. Wilson's shops," Eloise said. "There are other traders nearby as well, so we can visit them at the same time."
Ryan smiled slightly at the mention of those particular names.
Eloise didn't know it, but after the altercation at Blissbury, Mr. Keynes had written to him. The letter had been carefully worded and thoroughly transparent: he regretted that the unfortunate disturbance had prevented a proper conversation, and wished to convey that should all future orders—including those following the summer ball—be entrusted to his shop, his gratitude would be expressed in appropriately generous terms.
Ryan had recognized the language immediately. He'd heard its equivalent from army suppliers who offered to smooth over certain irregularities in exchange for continued contracts.
He was curious to see how Mr. Keynes would receive them now.
---
"Good morning, Mr. Keynes."
"Ah—Miss Eloise? I hadn't expected—and Sergeant Thornton as well—"
Mr. Keynes, whose initial expression had been somewhere between unwelcoming and resigned, underwent a rapid transformation the moment Ryan stepped through the door behind Eloise. He wiped his hands on his apron and came forward with considerably more energy than he'd started with.
"You came *together?*"
"We did. I'm here to check on the orders, and to introduce Sergeant Thornton to everyone before the ball. How are the preparations coming along?"
"Excellently. Everything is perfectly in order."
He kept glancing sideways at Ryan as he spoke.
He had expected, after sending that letter, that Ryan would either summon him privately or come alone—some quiet arrangement, understood between the two of them. He had not anticipated Eloise. And from the way things appeared, she still retained every bit of her practical authority over Blissbury's affairs.
While Eloise went through the orders, Ryan stood nearby and said nothing.
This proved more unsettling than anything he might have said. Some visible self-interest would have been manageable—a knowing look, a remark that signaled he'd received the letter and understood its implications. Instead Ryan simply stood there, silent and faintly smiling, and Mr. Keynes found his mouth going dry.
*That letter may have been a mistake.*
It had seemed so reasonable at the time. After that scene at Blissbury, anyone could see he'd fallen under suspicion—and he had, in fact, been the one to tear the corner from the order. Not for nothing, either. Wilson had been encroaching steadily on his trade since establishing a new supplier last year: better variety, comparable quality, and—worst of all—the Cambon residents had noticed. They were visiting Wilson's shop more and more frequently.
*A Blissbury contract would change everything.* The estate ordered only the finest cuts, and the summer ball order alone exceeded two months of ordinary revenue.
Mr. Severton had refused a similar arrangement once—flatly, without negotiation, which had been maddening, though they'd continued working together because the quality had warranted it. But if things kept on as they were, next year's orders would go to Wilson anyway.
*That was the reasoning. It had seemed sound.*
Mr. Keynes looked at Ryan, standing quietly behind Eloise, checking through the figures alongside her, and arrived at a conclusion.
He was probably not getting the order.
---
Mr. Wilson's shop was another matter entirely.
It was busy—genuinely busy, with customers moving through at a steady pace. The counter was clean, the workers presentable, and the air carried none of the sourness that had lingered at Keynes's. Mr. Wilson spotted them the moment they came through the door and ushered them into the back sitting room with practiced hospitality.
Behind them, voices rippled through the shop floor.
*Isn't that Miss Severton? And who's the gentleman with her?*
Eloise sighed quietly.
"It appears I won't need to go out of my way to make introductions."
She could already feel the ripple of it spreading—and she knew precisely what would follow. The women of Feltham had retreated from Blissbury, but they had not surrendered their interest in Sergeant Thornton. He remained, by general consensus, the most eligible prospect in the area. The fact that he would eventually return to the capital was considered by many not a drawback but an attraction—*married and moved to the capital* was not an unhappy ending by anyone's reckoning.
And here she was, presenting him to Cambon.
*My friends from Feltham are never going to forgive me for this.*
Mr. Wilson spread the order list before them and walked through each item with efficient precision—what would be ready, in what quantities, by which dates. He managed it all with the ease of someone who had spent decades making merchants feel they were being generously accommodated.
As he spoke, he poured tea.
The aroma reached Eloise before the cup did—something sweet and floral and entirely unfamiliar. She watched as the dried bud, no larger than a fingernail, slowly unfurled in the hot water into something that looked almost too deliberate to be natural.
"How beautiful."
She couldn't quite look away from it.
"Isn't it?" Mr. Wilson was clearly pleased by her reaction. "I came across it in New and bought every last piece they had. Apparently there's been nothing left since—not until the next ship comes in. Which is, of course, why prices in the capital have been climbing. You never quite know when the next shipment will arrive." He let that settle for a moment, then added, with the smooth timing of a man who had done this before: "Something this rare would suit Blissbury beautifully, I think. For the banquet before the summer ball—what do you say?"
Eloise smiled, caught between wanting to agree and knowing she couldn't.
The tea was lovely. The guests would adore it. But the price of something considered rare even in New would be considerable, and more to the point, it wasn't her decision to make. However Sergeant Thornton might describe her role, her concern for Blissbury began and ended with the summer ball. Her father would return eventually, and she had no intention of making purchases that exceeded her actual authority.
The scent curled up from the cup, warm and floral, and she sat with it.
*It would be wonderful for the guests, though...*
"Good. Add it to the next order—and I'll take everything you currently have in stock."
Eloise and Mr. Wilson both looked up.
Mr. Wilson recovered first. "Thank you—I'll go and get it tallied immediately." He was on his feet and out of the room before the surprise had quite finished settling.
"Sergeant Thornton." Eloise turned to him. "You don't know the price, you don't know how much he has left, and Blissbury's cellar is already well-stocked with tea. The budget—"
"Don't concern yourself with the budget. I'll pay for it myself. Blissbury's guests are welcome to it, of course, but the expense is mine."
She had no ready answer for that.
"Did you like it so much?"
"The aroma and the taste are both good, yes. But..." He glanced at her, and a smile crossed his face before he seemed to intend it. "Mostly I wanted to see your expression."
"Ryan, what on *earth*—"
Outside the window, at that precise moment, two gentlemen passing in the street stopped short at the sight of a laughing Ryan Wilgrave—and stared at each other with undisguised disbelief.