It was certain to win.

Delighted with her first-rate plan, she drew up a list of ingredients to give to Mrs. Quince to get for her. She would have to use the downstairs kitchen, which would be uncomfortable to say the least. Fraternizing with the servants was not something she relished. Sir Strickland would be incensed if he knew.

“I’ll just have to ensure that the maid cleans it from top to bottom before I set foot in the place,” she muttered, shutting her notebook with a satisfactory thwack.

Now for the next part of her day: preparing for tea with Ambrose.

* * *

—

By four o’clock that afternoon, Lady Gwendoline was looking every part a lady in a tailored lilac dress and waiting at a small, round table for two on the terrace. The steps down to the fountain were surrounded by trimmed lawns and rose beds ready to splay their red and pink splendors to the world. A hawk circled above, while a cool breeze flickered the hanging corners of the starched white tablecloth, giving Lady Gwendoline a tiny shiver.

With her back very upright, she perched rather than sat, as if she were an ornamental bird. The table was laid for afternoon tea: little pastries filled with strawberry jam and fresh cream, freshly made fruit scones with a pot of Mrs. Quince’s sour-yet-sweet rose-hip jelly, and tiny triangular sandwiches filled with cucumber and smoked trout, which they had shipped from Fortnum & Mason along with Sir Strickland’s caviar.

Yet as the minutes ticked by, the chair opposite remained empty.

Lateness was something that Lady Gwendoline held in very poor spirit. She glanced at her silver wristwatch, thinking that if she had a favorite piece of jewelry, this would be it. Beautiful, with its thick chain and clasp, yet functional, with black hands on the white oval face, it was always punctual. Always impeccable.

    “Typical of Ambrose to expect everyone to wait for him,” she muttered.

At that moment, the man himself appeared through the French doors, beaming with his usual fa?ade of bonhomie.

“Isn’t anybody else here yet?” he drawled by way of greeting.

“Who were you expecting, Ambrose darling?” she said casually, as if it were his own mistake, getting up to give him her hand.

They weren’t precisely friends, nor were they enemies. Both were clever enough to navigate social politics by staying on civil terms with as many people as possible. To make friends was to court disaster: Who could predict when one of them might take it into their heads to spread your secrets? But to make enemies would open the door for hostilities.

No, the only safe position was to be neither.

And they both were old experts at it, treading around each other almost comfortably.

Each of them was in possession of an advantage in this negotiation. Lady Gwendoline was well aware that Ambrose was at pains to keep Sir Strickland on his side, which was why he’d both asked her to join the contest and accepted her invitation to tea. Not only was Sir Strickland demonstrably influential in many government matters, but he was friends with the Chairman of the BBC.

Ambrose’s advantage was that he knew, without a doubt, that Lady Gwendoline both wanted to win and had to win. Ambrose knew how competitive she was and how much her reputation depended on her emerging triumphant. An acute man like him would realize exactly why she’d turn her attention to him with the focus of a cobra.

She gave Ambrose her most welcoming smile.

“Now, come and sit down. Tell me all about The Kitchen Front. You know what a big fan I am!” Lady Gwendoline took his arm in hers and walked him around to the vacant seat, where he sat down, feasting his eyes on the treats on the table.

    “I must say,” Ambrose said as she took her seat opposite him, “it’s frightfully good of you to invite me for tea, but I know that you’re doing it to influence me. And you know that I couldn’t possibly be swayed.” He said it gently, like it was a little conspiratorial joke between them.

“Now, Ambrose—”

He put up a hand to stop her. “It is my duty to stand by my own decisions when it comes to judging the competition. You know that Sir Strickland is a jolly good friend of mine, but you must understand that I cannot be seen to favor one person above another.”

She offered him a scone. “Well, if that’s the case, I sincerely hope that you won’t favor my sister, Audrey—I know you and Matthew were good friends.” Her eyes narrowed. “She must have had words with you, buttered you up with her poor-little-widow act.”

He frowned. “It was Matthew who was my friend, not Audrey. And although I commiserate with Audrey’s situation, I cannot give her preference.” He paused in thought. “Has it ever crossed your mind how dreadful this war is for your sister?”

Lady Gwendoline blanched uneasily, but she quickly retaliated, “All the more reason for you to give her an easy win.”

He sighed impatiently. “As I told you, I have to be fair, and that includes Audrey, you, everyone. What would people say if I weren’t completely impartial?” Then he added under his breath, “I’m sure that Miss Zelda Dupont would be a considerable force if she believed me to be favoring one of the competitors.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re afraid of that jumped-up canteen cook, Ambrose?” She let out a bray of mock laughter to emphasize his absurdity.

“Well, not afraid, precisely, but you can see her point, can’t you?” Ambrose said with an anxious little laugh. “Everyone should be given an equal chance.”

Although she hadn’t wanted to lay it down so early in their conversation, she brought out her trump card. “Surely anything is better than losing one’s job at the BBC?”

    Evenly, he broke his scone and then buttered it thickly. “I don’t think Sir Strickland would have me fired should a better cook win, Lady Gwendoline.” Then he added pointedly, “Not only would Miss Dupont cause a big fuss, but it wouldn’t look good.”

“What the Dupont woman chooses to do or not do is not my concern, Ambrose. Look, it’s very simple. You need something—your job. I need something—to win the contest. It’s a fair swap, don’t you think?”

He said nothing. His eyes were flickering over the food, but she knew he was thinking hard. He wouldn’t give in as easily as that.

“What a delightful spread,” he said politely. “It’s rather ironic, don’t you think, that while your job is to instruct the general population about how best to deal with the rations, your household seems to eat just as well as usual.” He picked up a smoked trout sandwich. “Smoked trout paté? Let me guess, black market?”

She tutted him, bringing up a finger to wag in jest. “Buying off the black market is illegal, Ambrose. You know that.” Her eyes remained steady. She knew that a man arrived twice a week with cigars, her husband’s favorite clarets, and a stock of items for the kitchen: tea, jam, sugar. And then there was the fresh produce from the farm, the cream, the butter, the meat…She wasn’t going to admit anything to Ambrose.

“Then, where’s it all coming from?”

“I think you’ll find that smoked trout can be picked up from Fortnum & Mason. We have a few hampers delivered every week.”

“And the cream and the butter?”

“It comes from the estate farm.” She smiled. Everything could be explained so simply.

“Ah, but the estate has to submit its produce and consumption to the Ministry of Food. It’s taken off rations so farmers don’t get more than everyone else.” He raised his eyebrows, as if winning the point.

She shrugged haughtily, mocking him for being so na?ve. “It’s a perk of the job, a little extra milk here, an egg or two there.”

    “A perk of the job?” Ambrose laughed, watching her confusion. “Oh, is your husband immune to rationing rules? Does he think he’s above the rest of us?”

Lady Gwendoline shifted in her seat uncomfortably. One of Sir Strickland’s favorite sayings was “Rules are for fools.” She’d always thought it part of what had made him such a successful businessman.

But was it right? And if his life was lived outside the rules, then what did that mean about her and their life together…

Ambrose was watching her, so she painted on a quick smile. “Not at all,” she said sharply, reaching for a dainty sandwich. “We always stay within the law.” Loyalty was another of Sir Strickland’s keystones: He would look after her, she would look after him. Loyalty was a sign of character and strength, he said. It came from trust. And she trusted him, didn’t she?

Didn’t she?

It was with mixed feelings that she waved Ambrose off. There was no doubt that he had enjoyed the repast, most of which had been valiantly consumed.

“I hope you bear in mind what I said,” Lady Gwendoline told him at the door.