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“Both? I’m not certain.”
He put his drink down. “Tell me.”
“Last Tuesday, I left my husband. Or at least I left the flat. I’m not entirely certain yet.”
His jaw dropped, but then he seemed to remember himself and schooled his expression into one of calm neutrality.
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Would you like to talk about it?” he asked.
She bit her lip and nodded.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Just before my mother died, I found out Hugo has been having an affair. I don’t know how long it’s been going on, but I do know that he is still… involved with this woman.”
He let out a heavy exhale. “I’m sorry, Sylvia.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I confronted him about it the night I left.”
“What did he say?” he asked.
“He told me that I was being dramatic, and that a gentleman never speaks of matters of the heart. He implied that if I had come from his world, I would understand,” she said with a hollow laugh.
“Bastard,” William cursed. “Excuse my language.”
She gave a surprised laugh. “He is a bastard.”
William shook his head. “As though being born into certain circles makes it acceptable to be unfaithful to one’s wife.”
“But that’s just it, William. Hugo seems to think that nothing is the matter at all. It’s simply what is done discreetly among his set.” It was what was done in the set she’d once belonged to.
“Are you telling me that having affairs is just par for the course?” he asked skeptically.
“It sounds silly when you say it like that,” she admitted.
“You deserve more than that, Sylvia.”
“Well, yes. It’s taken me longer to come to that conclusion than I would like to admit, but that’s why I packed my bags. I simply couldn’t believe that after all those years of marriage my husband hardly flinched when I told him I’d found the letters.”
William looked up sharply. “There are letters?”
“Yes. At least half a dozen of them.”
“Do they describe the love affair in any detail? Are there declarations?” he asked.
She shifted in her seat. “They aren’t signed, but she tells him she loves him. She writes about some of the… things they have done together.”
“Sylvia, if you wish to, you could sue Hugo for divorce on the grounds of adultery. Those letters you found would be evidence used in court to help your case,” he said.
“Divorce?”
“If that’s what you want.”
She didn’t know what she wanted. She’d left the flat with no plan except to retreat to the shop and lick her wounds. Divorce… well, that would be an admission that everything she’d built with Hugo was now ash. The flat, her friends, her life. All of it would be gone.
She didn’t know any divorcées socially, not only because there were so few of them in Hugo’s circle but because those who did leave their husbands—or were left—were pushed out to the edges of polite society. Did she really want to join the ranks of those unfortunate women?
“Do you really think I would have a case for divorce?” she asked.
