Page 53 of Atone, Adonis

Chester,

While I would genuinely enjoy demanding that you call me ‘Your Grace’—given that it has been seven entire years since you last saw fit to utter a word in my direction—I shall refrain. I dislike the title immensely, so cousin will have to suffice.

As it happens, the service you rendered me...although, honestly, service?...resulted in my present and exceedingly happy matrimonial state. Thank you for inquiring. Not that I imagine you care overmuch for the answer, but I answered nonetheless. And, I will even repay your dratted service with the information you requested, although I am far from convinced you deserve it.

Andrew’s sister, Esmee, was involved seven years ago with the gentleman in question. (Do you see a theme? I do hope so. I don’t recall you to be myopic but one never knows.)

To the best of my knowledge, that attachment has long since ended. I believe the man was with the newly formed Metropolitan Police for a time, although whether he remains so employed I cannot say. They would know, certainly.

His name is Hughes. I cannot recall his Christian name, but perhaps I never knew it.

Andrew and I are in London from time to time. Do feel free, by the way, to call Andrew ‘Your Grace.’ He quite enjoys the title now that he can do with it what he likes. And my cousin Violet is in town as well. She runs the medical establishment in Bloomsbury devoted to women’s healthcare. Surely you have heard of it? You absolutely must send your wife should she ever be unwell.

And who is your wife? I find I have not heard, which is no great surprise, as I take very little pleasure in Society and avoid it whenever possible. I would like to meet the Countess of Chester though, given the last one was my mother.

Let us meet for tea, Chester, when we are both next in London. I insist.

Yours,

Catherine

Duchess of Barclay

Chapter

19

London

The carriage wheels clattered against the cobblestones as the city unfolded before them in all its grand chaos. London in spring was loud, muddy, and quite crowded. The streets were thick with horses and humanity and Julianna could hardly breathe for the thrill of it. She loved Dorset and Farrow Cottage more than any other place on earth, but the spectacle that was London still made her heart soar.

She told herself she ought not to feel this light, not with Thomas gone to the sanatorium, his every breath still a struggle. But the city was dazzling no matter if she wished it to be or not, and for the first time in a very long time she let herself take what joy was on offer.

She had not been to the capital in years and she’d forgotten how it felt to be in the midst of so many people with the loud voices and brisk movements and energy. The last time she’d visited had been for the debut of her father’s latest composition and Thomas had charmed their way into free toffees from street vendors. That had been ages ago. Lifetimes, it sometimes felt.

Now, she leaned forward in her seat, peering out the window of the carriage at the endless press of tall facades, elegant townhouses, and women adorned in silks and feathers.

Fred lounged opposite her, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, his gloved fingers drumming lightly against his knee.

“What is it?” she asked when she caught him staring.

He raised one shoulder insolently. “It delights me to see you delighted. Can a man not appreciate his wife?”

She felt her cheeks flush. They were married of course. She’d stood next to him and said her vows, the same as he had. But the way he’d said it ‘my wife’ had sounded possessive and pleased. And she found herself enjoying that, almost basking in it.

“Look, Fred!”

She pointed at a man standing upon an upturned crate, wrapped in a navy blue cloak with velvet at the cuffs and collar. He wore multiple medallions around his neck and rings on his fingers, over a pair of white gloves. Above him hung a sign that proclaimed him a Master of the Mind Arts.

“He’s a mesmerist. Declared himself a Professor of Electro-Biology a while back I believe.” Fred stared at the man and then back at her and added, “The women of London are quite enchanted with him. Believe him to be rakishly handsome.”

There was something in the way he said it—a small tinge of hurt in his voice—as if she too might have her head turned by the strange man.

“Well, I may be a hayseed for all that but I have no appetite for such things. Charlatans are not to my taste.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrow. “What is to your taste then, wife?”

She looked at him then, truly looked. “Certainly not showmen who self-proclaim themselves professors.”