It was the first sign of manners he’d shown, and it was about as believable as the Duke of Tuskany claiming he could fly.
Sir Peter grabbed his wife by the elbow and pulled her away. Cath wasn’t sad to see them go.
CHAPTER 6
CATHERINE ALLOWED HERSELF A HUFF. Sir Peter’s presence, combined with the strangling corset, had nearly suffocated her. ‘A right pleasure indeed.’
‘He’s a sore thumb, isn’t he?’
She turned and spotted a silver tray floating in the air above the table, overflowing with golden-crusted hand pies, neatly crimped on one edge.
‘Ah, hello again, Cheshire,’ said Catherine, filled with relief that she might have one encounter this evening that didn’t leave her weary and vexed. Though with Cheshire, it could go either way. ‘Are you supposed to be here?’
‘Not likely.’
The cat appeared with the tray resting on his tummy, his striped tail like a lounging chair beneath him. His head came last – ears, whiskers, nose, and finally his enormous toothy grin.
‘You look absurd,’ Cheshire drawled, taking a pastry between two sharp claws and popping it into his gigantic mouth. A cloud of savoury steam erupted from between his teeth, smelling of sweet squash.
‘The dress was my mother’s idea,’ said Catherine. Placing a hand on her abdomen, she took in the largest breath she was capable of. She was beginning to feel light-headed. ‘Are those pumpkin pasties, by chance? Lady Peter was asking after them. They smell delicious.’
‘They are. I would offer you one, but I don’t want to.’
‘That’s not polite at all. And unless you have an invitation, you might want to put them down and disappear again before someone sees you.’
Cheshire grunted, unconcerned. ‘I just thought you might like to know . . .’ He yawned exaggeratedly. ‘. . . that the Knave is stealing your tarts.’
‘What?’ Cath spun around, casting her glance around the feasting table, but Jack was nowhere in sight. She frowned.
When she turned back, Cheshire’s humongous cheeks were bulging with the entire tray’s worth of pasties.
Cath rolled her eyes and waited for him to chew and swallow, which he made quick work of with his enormous teeth.
Cheshire burped, then dug a nail into the space beside his front molar. ‘Oh, please,’ he said, inspecting the nail and finding a bit of pumpkin filling stuck to it. ‘You don’t think those tarts would have lasted this far into the evening, do you?’
She spotted the familiar tray, then, near the edge of the feasting table. All that remained of her lemon tarts were a few crumbs, a drift of icing sugar outlining three empty circles, and a smear of sunshine yellow.
It was as bittersweet as dark chocolate, that empty tray. Catherine was always pleased when her desserts were enjoyed, but, in this case, after the dream and the lemon tree . . . she would have liked to try at least a tiny bite for herself.
She sighed, disappointed.
‘Did you try them, Cheshire?’
The cat tsked at her. ‘I had an entire tart, my dear. Irresistible as it was.’
Cath shook her head. ‘You would have made a better pig.’
‘How vulgar.’ He twisted in the air, rolling over like a log on the ocean, and vanished along with the now-empty dish.
‘And what do you have against pigs?’ Cath said to the empty space. ‘Baby piglets are almost as cute as kittens, if you ask me.’
‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.’
She swivelled around again. The cat had reappeared on the other side of the table. Or, his head and one paw had, which he began to lick.
‘Though I’m sure Lord Warthog would appreciate the sentiment,’ he added.
‘Do you know if His Majesty had a chance to try the tarts?’
‘Oh yes. I saw him sneaking a slice – and then a second, and then a third – while you and Mary Ann were chatting about the pumpkin eater.’ The rest of his body materialized as he talked. ‘Shame on you, to gossip so.’
She lifted an eyebrow. Cheshire was an expert gossip. It was part of the reason why she enjoyed talking to him, though it also made her nervous. Catherine did not want his gossip-milling to ever turn on her. ‘Does that make you the pot or the kettle?’
‘Still a cat, my dear, and not even an unlucky one.’
‘Actually . . .’ Catherine cocked her head. ‘You may not be a black cat, and yet your pedigree is something changed. You’re looking rather orange of a sudden.’
Cheshire curled his tail, newly oranged, in front of his crossed eyes. ‘So I am. Is orange my colour?’
‘It looks fine, but doesn’t match the night’s colour scheme. What a pair we must make.’
‘I imagine it was the pumpkin pasties. A shame they weren’t fish.’
‘You want to turn fish-coloured?’
‘Rainbow trout, maybe. You should consider adding fish to your baking next time too. I’d love a tuna tart.’
‘Tuna tartare?’
‘Why, you’ll make a stuffed bird laugh if you go on like that.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘By-the-bye, have you heard the rumours?’
‘Rumours . . .’ She searched her memory. ‘You mean, about Mr Caterpillar moving to a smaller storefront?’
Cheshire’s head spun upside down. ‘How slow you are tonight. I was speaking of the rumours surrounding the new court joker.’