‘I’m pulling my money from Fiona’s business. I don’t want to be a part of it anymore.’
Clemmie studied him carefully. ‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’
‘Yes. I don’t want any association with her. It may cause a rift between the families for a while, but I have to do what I believe is best.’
Clemmie could see the anguish in his eyes as he admitted everything, and appreciated what he was doing to put it right. He’d opened up to her and had been completely honest, owning his wrongs, and for that, she admired him. ‘What about the competition? She’s contacted the officials.’
Oliver shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you stole the recipe. It’s just a coincidence that they’re similar.’
Clemmie glanced towards the table, where the stack of letters and old photographs lay scattered. Her expression shifted. ‘Well,’ she murmured, ‘there’s been a development.’
Oliver followed her gaze. ‘What do you mean?’
Clemmie exhaled, reaching for one of the aged envelopes. ‘Unfortunately, on this occasion, Fiona may be right.’ Shecarefully unfolded a fragile letter, the ink slightly faded but the words still legible.
‘This letter is from the Earl of Aberford to my great-great-grandmother. They wrote to each other during the war, and in one of these letters, he tells her about Chef Étienne’s favourite recipe. He actually gifts it to her, promising it will be a hit for The Café on the Coast.’
Oliver’s eyes widened. ‘The Earl of Aberford? He knew your great-great-grandmother?’
‘It appears so. It’s such a shock and we’ve only found out– literally, just before you rang the doorbell.’
‘You’re saying that your great-great-grandmother and the Earl were friends? That they wrote to each other?’
Clemmie nodded. ‘Yes. And this letter is proof that the recipe came from the Earl himself.’
Oliver let out a low whistle. ‘Wow. I suppose, technically, the recipe does belong to the Royal Family if it came from the royal chef.’
Clemmie pursed her lips. ‘It’s complicated. The Earl was friends with both Chef Étienne and Beatrice, and he willingly gave her the recipe and encouraged her to use it in the café.’
Oliver leaned back, mulling it over. ‘Do you know how they met?’
Clemmie shook her head. ‘I have no idea but there’s more. A lot more.’
Oliver raised both eyebrows.
Chapter Thirty
As soon as Clemmie had shared the revelation, a wave of guilt crashed over her. Should she be sharing this? The letter had made it clear that both the Earl and Beatrice had secrets. If those secrets were to come to light, what then? What if they had the power to shake the monarchy itself? The weight of that possibility settled heavily in the pit of her stomach. But before she could voice her apprehension, Oliver reached for the photograph that was lying on the table.
He narrowed his eyes, his sharp gaze flicking between the picture and the similar photo they had seen on the Royal Yacht of the Earl and Chef Étienne.
‘There’s no mistaking the Earl.’ He turned the photograph over and read the words scrawled on the back in faded ink. ‘Beatrice and Arthur, December 1918.Arthur?’ Oliver repeated, his brows knitted in confusion. He glanced up at Clemmie. ‘This is Henry.’
She hesitated, feeling torn. ‘I’m not sure I should be sharing this,’ she admitted. It was one thing to discover a family secret, it was another to reveal it to someone else. But at the sametime, she knew Oliver had connections, resources that could help them uncover the truth. That’s what she was telling herself to justify this. It wasn’t just reckless curiosity, it was a search for clarity, for answers that had been buried for generations.
‘I just… I don’t know, Oliver. What if we’re opening a door that was meant to stay closed?’ she said, her fingers tightening around the edge of the letter.
Oliver gave her a measured look. ‘What if we’re finally giving history its truth? What is it you know?’
She let out a shaky breath and, with a nod, continued. ‘We’ve just discovered that the man in this photograph, standing beside Chef Étienne on the Royal Yacht, is the same man seen here with Beatrice, my great-great-grandmother. We can only assume that after he ended his engagement, he changed his name to Arthur Rose.’ She swallowed hard, barely believing the words coming from her own mouth. ‘That means… he is more than likely my great-great-grandfather.’
Their eyes locked on each other. Silence stretched between them, thick with implications neither of them had fully processed yet.
Oliver shook his head slowly. ‘No, he can’t be…’
Clemmie gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Twenty minutes ago, I would have agreed and said it was ludicrous, but…’ She trailed off, the reality of it setting in. If this was true, then everything she thought she knew about her family’s past was a lie. The Earl– Arthur– had walked away from royalty, from duty, from everything. Why? What had happened that had driven him to erase his past and start anew under a different name? The only explanation was that after falling in love with Beatrice, he followed his heart.
Oliver’s expression was unreadable as he studied the photograph again. ‘If this is true, then you’re part of a story the world was never meant to know.’
