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Christine was planning on serving the lemon-almond cake—the successor to the orange version from last week—at their evening meal one night soon, but Simon had brought so many lemons that she’d suggested whipping up a lemon pound cake to serve the ladies when they arrived.

“We shall have to rely on your cooking instinct as to how much juice to add,” Simon said.

“Not just, or primarily, juice,” Christine said, producing a rasp. “’Tis the grated flesh that will impart the most flavor, without upsetting the proportions of the ingredients.”

“I would’ve had no idea,” Simon said, genuinely fascinated as she began rubbing the fruit against the rasp.

After demonstrating, she handed Simon the tool. He wasn’t as fast or as accurate as she was, but she was a patient teacher, instructing him not to go so deep as to grate the bitter pith. It reminded him of childhood afternoons spent in the kitchen at Galecroft. Simon generally looked back on his youth at home—as opposed to school, where he had Archie and Effie—with antipathy. It was a sort of reverse nostalgia. But his sessions with Christine were reminding him that there had been some happy times, too.

He missed Galecroft, sometimes.

“What is happening in here?”

Simon looked up to find Archie regarding them with a bemused expression. Simon and Christine no doubt made for a puzzling picture, a cook and a peer of the realm, both wearing aprons, hunched together over a workbench.

“I have discovered a renewed interest in baking, and Christine here tolerates my presence.”

He flattered himself that now, a week into their stay, she did more than merely tolerate him. Initially, she’d remained suspicious, but he’d cracked her, with his honest enthusiasm and genuine desire to learn.

“You have a renewed interest in baking?” Archie echoed.

“Yes.” Simon gazed mildly at Archie, daring him to say more.

“Meaning you at some point in the past also had an interest in baking?”

“Yes.”

Archie shook his head. “Well, I was only popping in to remind the kitchen that my wife does not eat meat. And to say that …” Archie looked uncomfortable. Simon knew why.

“It’s all right, you can trust Christine. And she likes a good challenge.” He turned to the cook. “The countess does not eat meat, but she is in a … state where proper nourishment is important.”

“She is in a state where she can’t keep much of anything down, if I’m being perfectly honest,” Archie said.

Christine smiled, which made Simon chuckle. He’d been days into his acquaintance with Christine before he got a smile.

“Do not worry, my lord. I understand perfectly, and I know just what to feed her.”

“See?” Simon said.

“Yes, well, thank you. What are you making?”

“Lemon pound cake,” Simon said, as if making lemon pound cake was a perfectly usual thing for him to be doing at seven in the morning while on holiday.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

Simon said to Christine, “Don’t you just hate when people interrupt your work?”

Archie posted a groom to watch for the arrival of the ladies that afternoon, and the boys passed the time playing cards. When the groom sent word that the coach—Archie had sent it back to fetch the ladies—had appeared at the end of the drive, they went outside to meet it. Archie was doing a marginally better job than Effie of concealing his excitement over the arrival of his wife—whereas he was pacing in front of the house, Effie was positively vibrating. Simon knew Archie’s tells, though, and he observed that his friend was both excited and anxious. It made sense, given Clementine’s condition.

Effie’s wife, Julianna, was the first out of the coach, taking her husband’s hand and rolling her eyes affectionately as he launched into a speech about a regional magazine he’d purchased on one of their trips into town.

Julianna was followed by Archie’s wife, Clementine, and her sister, Olive Morgan. Archie helped them down one at a time, and embraced each in turn. Clementine had been at Archie’s country estate while he’d been in London with his mother, and Olive lived with her father, so the three of them hadn’t seen one another for a while. Olive was talking animatedly, and Archie was nodding as if he were listening, but he was quite openly staring at Clementine’s belly, which did not look any different from usual. Though Simon, not having spent any time looking at Clementine’s belly, had to admit that he was not an authority on the matter.

“Mother,” Archie called as his mother poked her head out of the coach window. “Hold up, I shall assist.” He began extricating himself from the ladies, but Simon waved him off and went to help the dowager.

Something was happening in the coach. The dowager had retreated inside. Simon peered in, and there she was. Miss Brown. She appeared uncharacteristically disheveled, no doubt from the journey. She was not wearing a hat. Her dark hair was arranged in a chignon of sorts, but several locks had come loose from their moorings. It made for … quite the picture. He cleared his throat.

She shot him a beleaguered smile. “Her ladyship has had a long journey. I think I ought to get out first, then we can both help her down.”