Page 9

Mr. Aldwick's face flushed red. He looked from Adelaide to Julian, then down at the scattered papers on the table. "I beg your pardon, Miss Ashbourne. I spoke out of turn."

"You spoke out of arrogance," Adelaide corrected calmly. "The turn was never yours to claim."

Julian offered another brief, approving glance before dismissing his assistant with a firm gesture. Mr. Aldwick gathered his portfolios with poorly concealed resentment and exited the room, his boots stepping heavily against the hallway floorboards until the heavy door shut behind him.

Adelaide found herself alone with Julian in the quiet library, surrounded by the remnants of his travels. She suddenly felt acutely conscious of her plain dress, her ink-stained fingers, and the stray locks of hair that had slipped from their pins.

"You defended me," she remarked softly.

"You required no defense; I merely removed an impediment." Julian began gathering the remaining sketches with swift efficiency. "He will not return tomorrow. I shall secure someone who recognizes that intellect is not bound by gender."

"That may prove difficult within the time your trustees have allotted."

"Then I shall proceed without an assistant entirely." He straightened, looking across the table at her. "I have managed alone before."

"Have you?" The question slipped out before she could check her tongue. "Managed alone, I mean—truly?"

A flicker of exhaustion passed over his features, eroding his rigid aristocratic reserve. He set the sketches down.

"I have survived," he said quietly. "I am not certain that is the same thing."

Adelaide remained silent as the afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. She thought of his published volumes upstairs, her years of quiet study, and of Thomas, who had once sat in this very room laughing over Latin plant names.

"I ought to return to London," Julian said. "The trustees require my reports, and the collection demands decisions I have postponed for too long."

"Of course."

"However..." He paused, his hands flexing briefly at his sides before settling. When he spoke again, his tone had lost its formal polish, stripped down to stark urgency. "Would you come with me?"

Adelaide held her breath. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come to London and oversee the collection." He took a step closer, near enough that she could discern the small scars marking his left hand and the silver threading his dark hair. "No one else can manage it. No one else understands the work as you do—as we do together."

"Your Grace⁠—"

"Julian," he interrupted sharply. "Call me Julian, as you once did."

She stepped back until the edge of the table pressed against her hip. "That was thirteen years ago. We are no longer children playing in the meadow."

"No. We are adults with a shared purpose and limited time to achieve it." He reached toward her hand, then stopped, dropping his arm to his side. "I need your assistance, Adelaide. Not merely your intellect—though that alone would be wonderful. I need⁠—"

He broke off, turning toward the window to stare out at the darkening garden, his shoulders tense.

"Your carriage awaits," she said softly.

"Yes." He did not turn around. "So it does."

Adelaide gathered her notes, her fingers trembling slightly. The interview was over. The awkwardness of his request would fade into the quiet routine of her days. She would return to her ledgers, her tenants, and her practical duties, while he would return to London and engage some credentialed scholar who would mismanage his brother's legacy without ever understanding its worth.

She reached the doorway when his voice halted her.

"Adelaide."

She turned. He stood in the center of the room holding a small volume bound in worn leather and tied with a faded blue ribbon. He crossed the floor in three swift strides and pressed it into her hands. His warm, callused fingers brushed hers through her gloves.

"Thomas's final field diary," Julian said softly. "Unpublished and incomplete."

Adelaide looked down at the book. The silk ribbon was frayed at the edges—the exact shade of summer skies she remembered from her youth. Thomas's ribbon, tied by Thomas's own hands.