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“Please, sit.” They had arranged to have breakfast served at eight, and it was only half seven. “I want for nothing except an audience with the cook.”

The cook did not look pleased to see him. In his experience, cooks did not appreciate having their territory invaded by interlopers. One needed to mount a charm offensive. Charm wasn’t something Simon was overendowed with, but he was willing to give it a go.

“It’s the heat, isn’t it?” he asked, nodding at her pastry. “It melts the butter in the dough.”

She looked bewildered, which he supposed was an improvement over dour.

“It’s hot outside, and even hotter in here. I believe you are attempting to laminate some dough, so working quickly is important, and here I am mucking things up.”

She remained bewildered, but if he wasn’t mistaken, some curiosity was creeping in. He pressed on.

“I have always had an interest in baking. The cook at Galecroft, my family’s estate, was kind to me.” He wondered how much to say. Well, why not go with the truth? In his experience, cooks appreciated directness, and brevity. “And I was a boy in need of kindness. She used to let me help make ginger biscuits, which were an especial favorite of mine.” Baking had soothed Simon as a child. He ought to take it up again. Baking was predictable. Scientific, even. You followed the instructions, and you got a cake, say. If the cake fell, there was only one reason why: You forgot the leavening agent. If you tried to make a puff pastry in hot weather like this, which it seemed this woman was doing, you needed to start with very cold butter.

And not be interrupted by noblemen seeking the indulgence of whims.

“I’ve come with an offering. I don’t know if it will be welcome or no, so feel free to rebuff me.” He produced the bag of lemons from behind his back, and watched her eyes widen. “One of the ladies coming next week is particularly fond of lemons, and I wondered if I might prevail upon you to make a posset, or biscuits, or what have you. Anything lemony, really. You will know better than I.”

She eyed the bag of fruit, and her resistance softened. “Where did you get this many lemons?”

“I would like to say I grew them. I have tried, in my orangery, but I’ve not had luck. I’ve three lemon trees but no lemons. I imported these.”

“This is enough lemons to make many a confection. I make a very good orange cake with almonds. I believe the recipe could be adapted to feature lemons. I could start with that.”

“That sounds delightful. But next week, yes, when the ladies arrive?” He set the bag on the workbench near her.

“You don’t want to do a test? I haven’t had much occasion to bake here in years. Not since his lordship and the late earl used to come on their visits, and they weren’t asking for cakes.”

Simon let loose the final volley of his charm offensive. “I trust you.”

She smiled earnestly. “I have some oranges. I shall conduct a test run with them, and if successful, we can do a lemon version next week.”

“Splendid. Please let me know what I can do to assist.”

“It’s better during the day,” Effie said that afternoon as the three gentlemen gathered around the pool. He dipped a toe in. “Still excruciating, mind you, but better.”

“The key is to think about something else,” Archie said, staring at the sky.

“I think the key is to pretend that there is an innocent child, or animal, at the bottom of the pool in need of rescuing,” Simon said.

“Goodness, Simon!” Effie exclaimed. “How uncharacteristically dramatic of you.”

Simon shrugged and demonstrated, lowering himself into the pool in one smooth movement. He wasn’t really thinking of a creature in need of rescue so much as he was concentrating on the bottom of the pool and pretending that at it lay the key to compelling inspections for the gaols act. But he couldn’t say that without breaking the “no talking about Parliament” rule.

The others joined him, and there was a flurry of exceedingly unmanly shrieking, which devolved into a fit of laughter, the latter of which Simon couldn’t help but join. It was so ridiculous to be here, but also so wonderful.

“I have to say, I can’t quite imagine the ladies submerging themselves thusly,” Simon said once they’d stilled and were submitting to the bone-chilling water.

“I think perhaps ladies have hardier constitutions than we appreciate,” Effie said. “For example, they go through a terrible lot of pain in childbirth.”

“How much pain do you think is involved in childbirth, exactly?” Archie asked, his shoulders hunched up around his ears, as if that were going to make him warmer.

“Oh quite a lot,” Effie said. “Julianna told me her sister said … Hold up.” He looked at Simon, and Simon knew instantly what he was thinking. “Archie. Is Clementine expecting?”

Archie’s answer was a grin that appeared equal parts gleeful and terrified.

“Huzzah!” Effie shouted, and Simon found himself slightly overcome. Archie was going to make such a good father. And Clementine a mother. He met Archie’s gaze as Effie continued carrying on. He pressed his hand to his heart and endeavored to communicate without words, the joy he felt for his friend. He hoped he was not communicating any of the sadness the announcement induced, over his brother and Frances’s losses.

Archie must have gotten the correct message, for he nodded and mouthed, “Thank you.”