Page 63 of Atone, Adonis

Hughes made more notes in his book. “I just have a few more questions for you before I speak with your staff. Who handles your post?”

“Gilbert,” Fred said.

“Who sorts it physically?”

“Gilbert again. Occasionally the footman, if he’s occupied, but it goes through Gilbert.”

“And who knew about London before you left?”

Julianna answered that one. “Only those who packed for us or attended us here. Gilbert. The chef and the maid. The coachman. And the stable hands, I suppose, because the carriage was made ready.”

Hughes nodded. “Who knew you went to Madame Tremaux’s? Today’s edition has an entry about seeing you there.”

“Oh, I—” Julianna paused and looked at Fred. “The coachman. Gilbert, perhaps? The chef would have known we’d dined out.”

Fred nodded.

“Thank you.” Hughes rose. “With your permission, I’ll begin with the staff now. Might I use the study?”

Fred stood as well. “Of course.”

Julianna looked at the Inspector and then back at Fred. “And what should we do?”

“Something unexpected. And don’t inform anyone about it first.”

“What will that tell us?”

“Perhaps nothing. But if it lands in the papers, we might be able to learn something. It’s all a matter of flushing them out now.”

Chapter

21

Julianna’s fingers tightened on The Poisoned Quill until it creased. She’d read it quickly while Fred showed the Inspector to the study and now her lungs felt too small. Bile rose from her stomach to her throat.

She could not quite believe the audacity of it. Nor the viciousness. How they had managed to insinuate that she was both a whore and a collaborator and an innocent victim all at once.

But The Quill wasn’t the only reason she was upset. She had a sinking feeling that she’d just been as terrible to her husband as this stupid scandal rag had been to her. Disregarding what he wanted to keep private. Trying to force his hand, by calling him a coward of all things.

As soon as the Inspector left she sat across from him and caught his gaze.

“Jules—” he began but she held up her hand for him to stop.

“No, Fred. Let me speak first, please. I’d like to say I am sorry. I should not have called you a coward. It was wrong of me. There is something bothering you, obviously, and I hope you’ll tell me when you’re ready. But I won’t force you.”

The image of Fred’s face as he’d said the word sacrosanct was replaying over and over in her mind. It made him look like…well, it made him look like a man in love. With her.

She wasn’t ready to say those words aloud. She was hardly ready to think them. But she knew they were there nonetheless, hovering around the edges of her consciousness. A flower almost ready to bloom.

Fred inhaled sharply and then let that breath out. She saw his shoulders relax and his jaw unclench. The movement made his dimples disappear but it was a loss she could bear for the time being. She preferred the ones that showed themselves when he smiled anyway.

“Thank you, Jules,” he said and she heard the emotion in his voice. It made her want to do ridiculous things like wrap him in some kind of protective cloth to keep him safe. Because he was…sacrosanct…to her too.

She nodded, thinking of Robert Rothchild again and how she’d felt, standing there on the Weymouth road, watching him and his wife. She knew they were different men, he and Fred, but— “Just promise me, please, that whatever it is can’t harm us now.”

“I promise,” he said.

“And that you will tell me, one day, if you can. I truly don’t want to force your words before you are ready but I hate secrets, Fred. Truly.”