Page 92 of Atone, Adonis

Fred’s hands clenched at his sides. “So you ruined us.”

“No, boy. You did that yourself.”

He closed his eyes and then opened them again. “I was only a child,” he said, returning again and again to the subject he couldn’t let go. He wanted answers even though he knew he wasn’t going to get them. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from bothering the wound.

“You were old enough to make your own choices. You cannot deny the consequences now.”

A sharp intake of breath sounded nearby and Harold stepped forward. The young man from Rotten Row who reminded Fred so much of himself.

Fred had not seen him there—waiting, he supposed, in that same dark alcove for this same, terrible woman. Drawn by her favor and then diminished by it, just as he had been. Because to be an object, to be a thing owned, was always diminishing.

An understanding, Fred thought, that seemed to be dawning on Harold. His face had gone pale and his jaw was clenched so tightly it hollowed out his cheeks. Fred heard the roar of the crowd as if they were standing right behind him, just as Harold said, “I had just turned sixteen when you told me I was exquisite. That I was beautiful.”

The Baroness turned, surprised. “My dear boy—”

“Were you collecting me as well? To keep as your precious plaything?”

It was then that Fred noticed the murmuring he heard in the air wasn’t a figment of his imagination. He turned and found the doorway to the antechamber had at some point been opened and the crowd had gathered by it, rapt faces listening. All eyes on the Baroness.

“I thought they might want more spectacle,” his wife whispered in his ear. “It is fitting, don’t you think, to try her in the court of public opinion?”

“You’re a genius, Jules.”

They’d planned to confront the Baroness in front of the Inspector but his wife was right—there was no harsher tribunal than one’s own peers and no verdict that might slice her deeper than their cut direct.

In front of them, the Baroness laughed out a short, incredulous sound. “Really, Harry. That’s enough. You’re becoming overwrought. This doesn’t concern you.”

“On the contrary,” Harold said. “I think that it does. What you’ve done here is”—the young man shook his head. “The printing of all those awful articles. All of it. It’s monstrous. You’re monstrous.”

“Don’t be dull. You’re too lovely for it.”

Harold, Fred saw, had been holding a flute of champagne in his hands during the entire conversation. It was the movement of it that caught Fred’s attention now, as Harold flung the contents squarely into the Baroness’s face.

He could only stare as the emerald-green of her gown darkened and her carefully arranged hair plastered in wet strands to her cheek. The ballroom behind him gasped.

“Lady Hawthorne,” the Baroness shrieked.

But when she looked around, her long-time abettor had decidedly turned the other cheek. Lady Hawthorne was standing, mouth open in mock incredulity with the rest of the crowd. She lifted no finger to help.

“Baroness,” Lady Hawthorne said, “I am shocked to hear these allegations made against you. You were behind all those terrible articles?”

“She was,” Fred said, even though he was shaking his head at Lady Hawthorne’s performance of innocence. “She just admitted it.”

Of course Lady Hawthorne had known—the sole reason she’d invited him and Jules here was to make them fodder for more gossip, more salacious articles. But public opinion could be as mercurial as the weather. Just as easily swinging against you as in any other direction, no matter what had been planned. And now it was barreling down on the Baroness.

“You can’t prove a thing,” she hissed.

At which point Inspector Hughes also showed himself, and said, “Actually, Baroness, a great many things can be proven given your statements here today.”

It was all as Fred and Julianna had devised. But Jules had been right to open that door. Fred glanced at the crowd craning their necks to hear every word. Losing her readers would put The Quill out of business but being publicly outed would put the Baroness out of Society.

“You there.” The Baroness snapped her attention to the footman by the door. “Come and assist me. This young”—she sneered at Harold—“villain has molested me.”

“Don’t bother,” Harold said loudly, “I can show myself out.”

“Please don’t,” Inspector Hughes said, “until I’ve taken your statement. The Baroness here has said a great deal that is incriminating and I’d like to have your official corroboration before you leave.”

The Baroness stared at him, fury and calculation warring in her eyes. “And you are?”