Everyone nodded, but I could see from their faces that they were thinking the same thing as I was: Maggie was staking her turf. Now that we all knew she was sticking to the classic, what did that mean for the rest of us? Had anyone else made the same decision, and if so, would they really want to come up against Maggie in the competition? Practice definitely made perfect when it came to scones, and she had the monopoly on time. And if we were all deviating and experimenting with flavor combinations, would that mean each one of us would have to do something extra-special to make the grade?

  “I’m sticking to what I know best as well, Maggie,” Florence said. “I had my cousin send me chestnut flour from a deli in my family’s home village to use for my Italian scone recipe.” She laughed. “He had to seal it with several layers of bubble wrap to make sure it didn’t explode along the way.”

  Hamish finished his juice and confessed that he’d had a disastrous week at work. Farm animals had been set loose on the Highlands, near where he lived, causing chaos and leaving him little time for baking practice, let alone looking after his own Shetland ponies. “I’m really worried I haven’t practiced enough,” Hamish said, looking downcast. “I don’t want to be sent home yet.”

  Around us, the pub was filling up with the early dinner crowd. It looked like business was booming. Even though it wasn’t yet dark, someone had lit candles along the windowsills and on the tables. The smells drifting out from the kitchen were delicious. I was about to suggest we order dinner without waiting for the remaining contestants to arrive (clearly my thoughts were with my stomach, not my social life) when a kind of buzz went around the dining room. For a second, voices lowered, and everyone looked at the entrance. In unison, our whole table turned toward the bar. It was the earl and his family––including Lady Ophelia. She was still wearing the dress I’d seen her in earlier but had put her hair up, and the result was positively flawless.

  I felt myself flush as I remembered the last time I’d come face-to-face with Lord and Lady Frome, the way I’d been dismissed as “the help.” Argh. And then I remembered how Lady Frome had frozen when I’d asked her about Valerie, as though even talking about servants in her presence was unacceptable. I lowered my head and hoped that I was too small fry for either of them to remember my face.

  Lord Frome’s voice boomed across the pub as he announced his arrival to Eve at the bar. “And how’s your family…” He paused for a split second.

  “Eve,” she whispered.

  “Eve,” the earl repeated loudly.

  Oh, dear, what a show. Eve thanked the earl for asking and said they were all very well.

  “Good, good,” he replied and then ordered a bottle of champagne. “Is our usual table ready?”

  Usual? Was he trying to make out that they had a preferred table they liked dining at? I’d never seen him in here before, and based on the reactions of everyone else in the dining room, it wasn’t a regular thing. The old faker.

  Eve nodded, and a waitress showed him to a large oak table in a more secluded nook of the pub, the one we usually sat at.

  I turned to look at Florence. She was clearly enraptured, eyes wide, those perfectly glossed lips forming a little “O” of delight. She looked back at me and said, “Oh my goodness. That’s Lady Ophelia Wren. I love her! A humanitarian and a fashion icon. She’s such an inspiration. What on earth is she doing here among us mere mortals?”

  Maggie nodded along, clearly an Ophelia fan, too. I explained that she was Benedict Champney’s friend. I’d met her in the pub earlier.

  “WHAT?!” Florence gawped at me. “You met Lady Ophelia Wren today and that wasn’t the first thing you told us the minute you sat down? Tell me everything,” she demanded.

  I laughed and explained how it had been nothing, really. A chance encounter but that she’d been very nice. Much nicer than her boyfriend, in fact.

  “Wow,” Florence said. “I’m still surprised that the Champneys would choose to dine here though, among the rest of the villagers.”

  Hamish nudged her. “It’s not the medieval times, Florence. Look at this lovely place. He’s not exactly slumming it.”

  Hamish was right, but it was strange to see the Champneys at the pub, especially since Benedict and Ophelia had already eaten lunch here today.

  A waiter who I hadn’t seen before came to take our dinner order. I listened to him recite the specials––grilled cod and lentils with salsa verde sounded delish—and then gave the menu a quick scan. Eventually I settled on oven-roasted sea trout served with a hollandaise sauce and greens.

  The baking chatter continued around me, but I was too distracted to really listen. The earl was making a big show of saying hello to each member of the inn’s staff as they passed by his table, waving at some of the groundskeepers who were drinking pints at the bar. He’d obviously made an effort to “dress down,” but his perfectly pressed red slacks and white shirt––even if the top two buttons were undone––looked stuffy.

  Even Lady Frome was smiling at the staff. It certainly didn’t match the image I’d taken away from my brief forays into Broomewode Hall. I’d been hustled out of there as if I was a door-to-door salesperson, trying to sell cat food to dog owners. That reminded me: I’d have to keep back a bit of fish as a treat for Gateau.

  Florence was watching the new dinner group as though it were a play, which was what it looked like. The earl playing at being a regular guy who ate dinner in the pub, and Lady Frome looking around her as though worried she might catch something if she sat on one of the pub chairs or dared to eat the food. Florence said, “I thought Benedict Champney and Lady Ophelia Wren had split. It was all over the papers.”

  Maggie leaned in closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Well, I read that although Lady Ophelia is titled, she rejects the whole aristocracy malarkey. With all the humanitarian work she does, she promotes the idea that everyone is equal. My guess is”—here her voice dropped another notch—“that the earl is bringing the family in here to show Ophelia that they’re just normal folk.”

  I suspected she was right.

  “It’s probably time we had some wine, right, guys?” I said, realizing no one had ordered a bottle. “I’ll go get us one from the bar.”

  The others thanked me, and I dashed over to see Eve.

  “Sorry I’ve barely had time to say ‘hello,’ but we’ve royalty dining with us tonight,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Once in a blue moon do the earl and Lady Frome come in, and it’s a treat to watch him pretending he’s a regular bloke who knows his people.”

  I leaned in because I enjoyed a gossip as much as anyone. “Maggie thinks he’s trying to show Lady Ophelia that they treat everyone like equals.” I nearly laughed just saying it. As if.

  Eve got down six wine glasses from the rack above her. “I think she’s right. Anti-snob or not, Lady Ophelia is from an excellent family, a real catch, and the earl is dying to get Benedict to marry her.” She looked in the direction of the Champneys, her nose crinkling with delight. “And he is rather making a fool of himself. Look at him talking to poor old Stacey there. She’s been a cook here for years, and he’s never set eyes on the poor lass before, but now he’s talking to her like she’s his long-lost niece.”

  I strained to hear the conversation and managed to catch a snippet of the earl telling the poor woman how best to cook pheasant. Stacey looked mortified.

  I turned back, and we talked about the weather forecast for the weekend while she uncorked the wine. It was going to be a nice weekend, though some rain was threatening for Sunday.

  Eve set the wine and glasses on a tray, apologizing that she didn’t have time to bring them to our table herself, when Benedict and his father came up to the bar.

  Gaagh. One minute later and I would have missed them.

  “Father,” Benedict said, a cheeky look in his eye, “I think you’ve met Poppy Wilkinson. She’s a baker on the show.”

  I stood frozen to the spot. Would he remember my face from the other week, when I’d canvassed at their door? I’d been so anxious to get inside the manor house that I’d pretended to be a movie location scout. What had I been thinking?

  Lord Frome stuck out his hand. I briefly wondered whether he expected me to kiss it and then got ahold of myself and shook the offered palm.

  But there was no need to worry. He showed zero sign of recognition. “How very charming,” he said. “We’ve very supportive of the show, of course. Opening up our home to the cameras is a privilege. It allows us to share our heritage and history with the world.”

  Yeah, right.

  He looked behind me and waved to the table of bakers who were staring at us. Not even pretending to play it cool.

  “In fact, Eve, put that bottle of wine on my tab.”

  I thanked him, and before I could move, Lady Frome and Lady Ophelia joined us at the bar. Just my luck.

  Unlike Lady Frome, Lady Ophelia looked happy to see me. “I’m so pleased you’re here, Poppy. I’m such a fan of the show,” she said. “I tape episodes and take them with me when I go on assignment. Especially if it’s somewhere dangerous, where there’s war or famine. I find the show really helps me to unwind and try to forget the troubling things I’ve witnessed during the day. It’s my happy place.”

  Wow. I felt so not worthy.

  “Would you mind if I went to say hello to the other bakers?” she asked.

  She was asking my permission to speak to the bakers who were practically drooling just watching us over here. “Lady Ophelia, I’m sure they’d be thrilled to meet you.”

  She held up her hand and shook her head. “Just Ophelia. Please. I’d never use my title at all if it didn’t help with TV ratings. Do you think starving children in war-torn countries care about some archaic patriarchal privilege?”

  I shook my head, thinking this woman should run for prime minister. And Lord Frome, who wrapped himself in his archaic patriarchal privilege like a second skin, said, “Quite right.”

  Lady Frome was standing stiffly next to her husband. She wore a black high-necked top with a complicated-looking broach at the breast. Her body language was guarded, and I could tell she wasn’t enjoying this little expedition to mingle with “the people.” I could tell she’d recognized me, but Lady Frome was too polite (or not interested enough) to let it be known.

  “And has it always been your ambition to make cakes?” she asked me. Ouch. Her tone was so thick with a condescending air, I could have made it into a buttercream.

  I smiled brightly. “It’s a gift that came to me a little later in life. I’m a designer by trade, illustration and graphics.”

  “How wonderful,” Ophelia said. Unlike the Fromes, she seemed genuinely interested in other people. “Not only are you an excellent baker but you’re an artist. I so wish I could draw or even take a decent photo. I do so admire those with an artistic eye.”

  I checked for irony, but her expression was earnest. How could Lady Ophelia be so complimentary when she had such a selfless career, putting herself in harm’s way to help people who needed it most?

  I had a sudden, brilliant idea. If Lady Ophelia really did admire the arts, then maybe this was my way into the rooms of Broomewode Hall. I took a deep breath and tried my luck.

  “Actually, I’ve been hired to sketch Tudor interiors for a home magazine.” I swallowed. It was close to true, and if I did a good job with the gardens, maybe I’d be commissioned to do interiors next. “I’ve heard about what an excellent dining room you have at Broomewode Hall. I don’t suppose you’d agree to let me sketch the room so that I can include it in my piece?”

  I watched the earl squirm, his cheeks flushing slightly. His wife averted her eyes. But I knew that if he really wanted to show Lady Ophelia that the Champneys weren’t snobs, he’d open up his home to a young artist.

  “Of course, of course,” the earl finally said after another few seconds of obvious hesitation. “Whenever you like, Miss Wilkinson. But I don’t suppose you’ll have much time since your baking must come first.” He chuckled a little to himself.

  “Well, you know where the old house is,” Benedict said with a wry grin.

  Yes, I thought to myself, yes, I do know, and now I finally had an invitation to get inside that dining room.

  “Excellent. I’ll take the wine over to the bakers,” Ophelia said.

  Benedict didn’t say anything, but he lifted the heavy tray before she reached it and motioned for her to go ahead.

  I followed them back to the table with a warm glow in my belly. Safe inside my pants pocket was the photograph of Valerie. As soon as I could, I’d take a closer look at the painting of the woman who was wearing my shawl and see if it was an exact match for the one in the photograph. Or was there another explanation for the similarity?

  Thanks to please-don’t-call-me-Lady-I-never-use-my-title Ophelia, I now had a legitimate way inside Broomewode Hall.

  Chapter 7

  The alarm clock jolted me from my dreams. Or should I say nightmares? All night long, I’d been tormented by strange visions of the long-dead viscount in riding gear and his mother in elaborate silk gowns and fine jewels, interspersed with images of horses galloping out of control, people laughing uncontrollably at parties, and the stomach-dropping sensation of falling from a cliff top. I’d woken in the night several times, stuck to the sheets in a cold sweat, and found Gateau watching over me from her position on the second pillow. Thank goodness for that cat. Just one stroke of her fur and I’d fall back to sleep.

  But now I couldn’t believe it was already time to get up. And bake! Today was the third week of The Great British Baking Contest, and if I wanted to win my place in the next round and stay in Broomewode Village, then I had better get myself straight and put my best whisk forward. If the last day or so had taught me anything, it was that everyone thought they could bake the best scone. The competition was going to be tough. Tougher than ever.

  I dragged my sleepy self out of bed and into the shower, grateful that I’d already laid out my clothes for filming last night.

  When I got out, Gateau was belly-up on the bed, lounging in a spot of sunshine. I stroked her soft fur and asked her to wish me luck today. She stared at me quizzically and then rolled onto her side so that I could scratch behind her ears.

  I dressed quickly in my new cornflower-blue silk blouse and knee-length denim skirt. I paired the look with the shell hoops that Gina had lent me and finished it off with white running shoes. Maybe not the most stylish but good for standing on my feet all day and rushing from oven to fridge to work table. I appraised myself in the mirror, turning from side to side. Not bad, not bad. Now it was up to Gina to do her own kind of magic with hair and makeup.

  I gave Gateau a final stroke, grabbed my tote bag of ingredients and bounded down the stairs for breakfast. I was going to need a big plate of food to get me through the day. Not to mention coffee.

  Downstairs, breakfast was in full swing, and I spotted Euan, Amara, and Daniel, who all must have arrived late last night. I gave them a quick wave and then went to inspect the buffet. Not that I would ever admit to it in public, but the breakfast buffet was one of my favorite parts of being on the show. I heaped some fried mushrooms onto two slices of granary toast, added an egg, a local Somerset pork sausage and then a spoon of baked beans for good measure. A cup of steaming black coffee and an OJ, and then I could take on the day.

  I slipped into a seat next to Hamish, and he asked me if I was nervous. I was. It was strange how that sinking feeling, like the morning of going back to school after the summer holidays, wasn’t dissipating. If anything, the pressure was building, and it seemed that Hamish felt the same way.

  “I expected to be voted out on the first show,” Hamish confessed. “I really didn’t think I had what it takes.” He shook his head sadly. “It feels like blind luck that I’m still here.”

  I was surprised to hear Hamish second-guess his talents again. He was a wonderful baker and had lovely presentation skills. Plus, his experience as a police officer meant he had a great demeanor on-screen: confident but not showy, friendly but not a stuck-up, and he was excellent at explaining his process. I told him as much and he looked happier. He leaned closer, “And you’re like that girl a bloke feels like he can talk to and the women all treat you like their best friend. The viewers will love you.”

  I knew he meant it as a compliment, but I was so the girl next door. I was the one men could talk to about women like Florence, who was the one every man wanted to be with.

  Maggie and Gaurav joined us, but it appeared that I was the only one whose appetite didn’t suffer with nerves. Maggie picked at a sliced grapefruit and toast, and Gaurav barely got his scrambled eggs down. As usual, Florence was last to breakfast, making an entrance in an emerald-green A-line skirt and ruffled white top. She grabbed a couple of banana and bran muffins from the basket, and then we walked to the grounds, the now familiar tent a luminous shade of white in the sunshine.

  It was a chillier morning than yesterday but still lovely. Birds were tweeting, and the scent of hyacinths filled the air. Florence chattered inanely about her chestnut flour, pausing only to take bites of both her muffins, which she clutched in either hand. The chatting and the eating was a nervous habit I was used to by now, and I let the conversation wash over me as we drew nearer to the competition tent. My ears pricked up as I heard Gaurav tell Maggie he was making orange-chocolate-chip scones. What a unique combo.

  As usual on the first morning of filming, the tent was buzzing with activity. The cameramen were setting up, the sound guy, Robbie, was testing mics. I dashed over to Gina, and we hugged. When I drew back, she was studying my face with a frown.

  “I see someone didn’t get any rest last night.”

  Trust Gina to get straight to the point. She ordered me to hop into the makeup chair.

  “I did, but I had nightmares.” I closed my eyes as Gina began to slap moisturizer onto my face. I told her about my horrible dreams about the viscount and his mother and all about my visit with Eileen. It felt so good to be able to talk freely about searching for my family. And Gina knew better than anyone else in the world what my new discoveries really meant to me. She was so excited for me, and I promised to show her the photograph after we’d finished the morning’s bake. The stroke of a soft bronzer brush on my cheeks was soothing.