“Your lordship.” I rose, bobbing just enough of a curtsy for respect while keeping my voice firm. “I do apologize most humbly, but I am the cousin of Maestro Marco Santini, and he has left his kitchens in my trust. He is most particular about those he allows near his fires and ovens.”

“They aren’t his fires and ovens, they’re mine.” The Duke of Gandia caressed the hilt of the rapier at his waist, grinning. “And so are you, my pretty.”

Apparently he hadn’t noticed that I wasn’t pretty at all. I suppose anything female is pretty to a boy of sixteen, even something long and plain as a stalk of asparagus and wrapped in a cinnamon-stained apron.

“I work for Madonna Adriana, your lordship,” I corrected, eyes down, “and with respect, these kitchens are hers.”

“Who do you think pays for it? She lets me do what I like, Adriana does. My father, my sister, my brothers—the old bitch knows who keeps her bread buttered.” He moved into the kitchen with a swagger. Or as much of a swagger as he could manage in such fashionably pointed shoes. “So, are you Maestro Santini’s whore?”

I felt my cheeks heat, but kept my gaze on the floor. “I am his cousin. Recently orphaned—”

“Cousin and whore, then.” The Duke of Gandia waved a careless hand, looking me up and down. “I’ve never had a kitchen whore before. What’s the difference from the ordinary kind?” He leaned close and took a sniff, his downy cheek pressing against mine. “You smell better, that’s certain.”

I jerked my head away, edging around to put the table between us. “Your lordship—”

“Come on, then!” He grinned, grabbing me around the waist. “Let’s baste you with honey and give you a good hard spin on my spit.”

As if I’d never heard that before. Santa Marta, I asked my patron saint silently, or at least her hand, did the apostles of our Lord hang about your kitchen asking if you wanted a spin on their spit?

“Pardon me, your lordship,” I said brightly. “Just let me put away my recipes here; Maestro Santini will flay me if I leave them out—”

“Recipes, eh?” He grabbed a page, squinting at it upside down. “Looks like rubbish, all that coded stuff. Is it spells and magic? Did Maestro Santini find himself a whore, a cook, and a witch all in one? Maybe you can cast a spell for me. Get that pretty blond piece Giulia Farnese wet for me instead of His Eminence my father; she’s too ripe for an old man . . .”

“No magic here!” I trilled a little laugh. “Just a recipe for bull’s testicles. Does your lordship know how to cook testicles?”

“Testicles?” His grip loosened a little on my waist. “Er—”