“Annabelle,” Gray tutted. “How often have we discussed the importance of geographic integrity in honey?” Annabelle might know her durum wheat, but he was the one who knew high-end dining and was ready to flatter Mrs. Sharpe’s zeal for entertaining. “I always love sampling local honey, whether it is from tupelo trees in Florida or clover blossoms in the Midwest. I’ll never forget the honey gathered from orange blossoms along the Mediterranean coasts. It was like sunlight spun with sugar.”

“Yes!” Mrs. Sharpe declared. “The terroir of a product is so rarely appreciated. You have a true connoisseur’s palate.”

“Terr-what?” Annabelle asked.

“Terroir,” he said. “Tare-WAHR,” he repeated at her blank look, savoring the heft and roll of the French word. “It’s how the unique elements in soil and climate affect the flavor of an agricultural product. It’s why the grapes from the south of France produce the finest wine in the world. It is why olives from the hills of Tuscany are so pure, they made emperors fight to keep them. Why an oyster harvested in the Hudson River will taste different than one from the Chesapeake Bay.”

“And why the wheat from Kansas is the best in the world,” Annabelle said bluntly.

“Precisely!” Mrs. Sharpe said. “My goodness, aren’t the two of you a pair! At first blush it seems you don’t like each other, but heavens . . . I think you’re actually playing games with each other. Am I right?”

“Indeed you are!” he said heartily, for under no circumstances would the animosity between him and Annabelle interfere with his mission today. “I began courting Miss Larkin shortly after our first meeting. It has been a courtship filled with twists and surprises. Constantly peppered with spice.”

“No more ups and downs than in any other loving relationship,” Annabelle said. “He’s only banished me from his sight once!”

“Twice, counting the incident on the Pelican, darling.”

She smiled tightly. “How could I forget when you keep reminding me?”

Mrs. Sharpe watched the interplay in fascination, then gave a playful swat to his arm. “I can’t imagine a gentleman not being able to spot this treasure from the Department of Agriculture.”

He slanted Annabelle a knowing look. “I confess that I’ve tried to wiggle off the hook a time or two. . . .”

“I always reel him back in,” Annabelle told Mrs. Sharpe with a confidential wink.

“You just keep reeling,” Mrs. Sharpe said. “And give him a firm talking-to about those food purity laws. We need men from the food industry on our side.” She sent him a sugary smile with only a hint of barbed wire. “And trust me, once I’ve got them on board, there will be no wriggling off the hook, sir.”

His eyes widened. Mrs. Sharpe was a combination of Fannie Farmer and General Sherman. Anyone who underestimated her was likely to have his head handed to him on a Wedgwood china plate.