Lady Rosalind placed a hand on Clemmie’s arm, her touch reassuring. ‘I’m sure there’s some explanation.’
‘But I think as there’s some doubt about the origin of the recipe, it needs to be brought to the attention of theadjudicators of the competition… because that’s grounds for disqualification,’ Fiona said sharply. ‘Wouldn’t that be a scandal for your little café on the coast? You’ll be returning home a cheat, not a hero.’
‘That’s ridiculous. As I said, the recipe has been in my family for generations?—’
‘Then prove it,’ came the reply. ‘The competition organisers may have been happy with a signed declaration via email confirming the recipe was original to your family, but given there was no actual fact-checking you should provide proof in order to clear your name. Otherwise, who’s to say you or someone from your family didn’t merely lift it from an old book or overhear it in someone else’s kitchen? Without proof, it’s just a nice story, and nice stories don’t hold up in competitions.’
Lady Rosalind straightened. ‘There must be something,’ she said, though a flicker of doubt passed over her face. ‘Beatrice must have left a record somewhere.’
Clemmie swallowed hard. She had the tattered recipe in the journal written in her grandmother’s hand, but was that enough? Was there a way to prove it belonged to Beatrice first?
Clemmie stared at Fiona before Oliver gently took her hand. He tried to lead her away but Clemmie pulled her hand back. She stiffened and looked Fiona right in the eyes. ‘My great-great-grandmother created that recipe herself, and I will not stand here and let you question her integrity– or mine. It’s an original recipe, and I can back that up with evidence. Handwritten notes, dated journals and even her original cookbook, with her own annotations in the margins. If you want to take it to the adjudicators, be my guest. But don’t for a second think I’ll let you rewrite my family’s legacy to suit your narrative.’
The words hung in the air like a challenge.
As Clemmie turned and walked away, she could feel herself shaking with anger. Her pulse pounded as she and Oliver wovethrough the crowd, the laughter and clinking glasses around them a stark contrast to the unease that was swirling in the pit of her stomach. She stole a glance over her shoulder, her mind racing. The torte. Fiona. Lady Rosalind. The Royal Family.
‘It can’t be the same recipe. It just can’t,’ she said. ‘It was written in my great-great-grandmother’s own hand.’
‘It’ll be similar, that’s all and don’t let Fiona get to you, she’s just a sore loser.’
But Clemmie hesitated, a thread of unease suddenly winding through her. Before the advent of modern technology, most recipes were copied down by hand and then passed from one person to another. But did that mean there was a chance that Beatrice had simply written it out from a book, or borrowed it from a friend? The thought made her feel uneasy. No. It wasn’t possible. The recipe was her great-great-grandmother’s. It had to be.
Clemmie’s gaze snapped back to Fiona. She was on the phone now, her expression unreadable.
‘She’s calling someone. What if it’s about the competition?’ A chill crept up Clemmie’s spine.
‘Forget her and just enjoy this moment,’Oliver urged, but his words barely registered.
A sinking feeling settled deep in Clemmie’s stomach.
Something wasn’t right.
A scandal was brewing and she was about to be caught right in the middle of it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Clemmie stared at the delicate slice of torte on her porcelain plate. Beside her, Oliver had already taken a bite, his face melting into a look of pure bliss.
‘Oh, this is divine,’ he murmured, his voice muffled by the mouthful. ‘You’ve got to try it.’
Clemmie picked up her fork, hesitating for a moment. She broke the torte’s glossy surface, the fork gliding effortlessly through its velvety layers. As the first bite melted on her tongue, she let out a quiet gasp.
‘This is nearly as good as mine,’ she joked.
Before she could savour another bite, a tall man in a pristine white chef’s coat approached them. His appearance was impeccable, silver hair neatly combed back, a perfectly trimmed moustache, and an air of authority softened by the faintest twinkle in his eye. He stopped a few feet from them, hands clasped behind his back, and offered a polite smile.
‘I believe you are Clemmie Rose, winner of the baking competition, I trust you are enjoying your torte?’ His voice was smooth and polished.
Clemmie and Oliver exchanged a glance before nodding enthusiastically.
The chef’s smile widened. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Chef Laurent de Vauclaire, the head pastry chef here at the palace.’
Clemmie’s eyes grew even wider.
‘I had the honour of organising my kitchen to bake your creation today,’ he said with a small bow. ‘I would love to show you, as the creator of this recipe, where the magic happens.’ He gestured towards the palace.
Clemmie’s heart leaped. ‘You mean the royal kitchen?’
