“This is silly.” Cilla frowned as she stirred sugar into her tea. “Surely babysitting the brothers isn’t your job.”

“That’s what it feels like,” I said. “That, and doing internet deep dives on Georgina. I read an amazing rumor that she had an affair with Elvis Presley, but no one could prove it.”

“And why would she have wanted them to? All those jumpsuits.” Bea shuddered, then bit into Gaz’s confection and gagged. “What have I just put in my mouth?”

Gaz scurried back out, clearly only having pretended to leave. “A surprise savory curry petit four! My greatest strength, wrapped up into a dessert package.”

“Who on earth would want a savory curry petit four?” Bea squawked.

Gaz looked offended. “People willing to have their worldview expanded.”

“Like, say, the judges on Ready, Set, Bake,” Cilla said, shooting me a glance that said, He’d best not quit his day job.

I nibbled at one. “You know, that’s actually good,” I said. “Once you aren’t expecting it to be sweet, it’s less shocking when it tastes like a samosa.”

Gaz looked pleased. “Wait until you taste tomorrow’s batch,” he said. “Pork-pie flavor!”

“You are an affront to my sweet tooth,” Bea called after his retreating figure, and he turned to blow a kiss along with an exceedingly rude gesture.

“How’s the new gig?” I asked, turning to Cilla.

“Planning this Dutch state visit is giving even my gray hairs gray hairs. We’ve crammed a year’s worth of logistics into half that time,” she said. “Spoiler: You’ll get to wear a tiara again.”

“If Eleanor lets me go. If I fail at this assignment, she might put me on house arrest.” I glanced at Bea. “And how about you, what’s going on at your…job?”

My voice trailed up in a telltale way that Bea did not miss. She drummed her nails on the table and leveled me with a glare. “What do you think a person with my job might have going on?” she asked.

I looked to Cilla for help. “Lots of…typing,” she offered.

“And conference calls,” I said. “Many, many calls.”

“You’ve described every office job in the world,” Bea said. “Be more specific.”

“Er. Making…lists,” Cilla offered.

“Checking them twice,” I added.

Bea set her lips in a thin line. “So you think I’m Father Christmas.”

“But with horses that you teach to do cute walks,” I said.

Bea slammed her hand on the table. The petits fours jumped. “You two have no idea what I do for a living,” she said. “Nor the finer points of dressage. I knew Bex was a lost cause, but I expected better from you, Cilla.”

“My aunt once married a man she thought was a landscape architect, but it turns out he worked for MI5,” Cilla said. “Might you be doing something like that?”