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“I’ve tried that. He keeps avoiding me by going out the back of the hotel.”

Goodness. That didn’t sound like Guy at all.

“Mr. Whitley is a busy man, and there are a great number of people who wish for some of his time,” she said.

Mr. Earl took a few steps forward, edging closer than was socially acceptable for a stranger. Every instinct told her she should step back, but she forced her feet to stay rooted to the Persian rug.

“I want to speak to him,” growled Mr. Earl.

“That might be the case, but you can hardly expect to do that when he is not here,” she said evenly.

“When does he come home?”

“When his work is done. Again, my husband is a busy man,” she said.

It was at that moment that the door opened and Mama came through, a fashion magazine in her hand. “Oh!” She stopped abruptly, looking from Adele to Mr. Earl and back again. “I did not realize we had company.”

“Mr. Earl is just leaving, Mama,” said Adele.

For a moment, she thought the man would refuse to leave, but then he leaned in and said, “You tell Mr. Whitley if he doesn’t start making his payments again, there will be consequences.”

Payments? The investors she had met never spoke of payments.

Still, Adele drew herself up, squaring off to the hulking man. “I’m certain you can find your own way out, Mr. Earl.”

There was a moment when Adele thought Mr. Earl might insist on staying, but instead he backed away from her, nodding curtly to Mama as he left.

“Who was that horrible man, Adele?” asked Mama as soon as the door shut behind Mr. Earl, just as Adele had known she would.

“I have never met him before in my life.”

“Well, what did he want?” asked Mama.

“To speak with Guy,” she said.

Mama sniffed and sat down, her black skirts billowing out around her. “I’m not certain I entirely approve of some of the company your husband keeps.”

Loath though she was to admit it, if Guy was surrounding himself with men like Mr. Earl, she had to agree with her mother.

chapter forty-one ADELE

That evening, Adele stayed up long after Maggie had helped ready her for bed. She kept a book in her hands as she waited, but she hardly noticed the words. Instead, she sat, waiting and thinking.

The clock had just struck midnight when she heard Guy’s motorcar chug up the drive and park in front of the house. There was a moment’s silence when the engine cut off and then the door slammed.

She continued listening, noting her husband’s progress through the front door and up the stairs. She could not hear any stumbling, a sure sign of inebriation. Instead, his footsteps sounded steady as they crossed the hall, stopping for a moment before she heard his bedroom door opening and then closing.

She imagined the conversation Guy would be having with his valet, Aubrey, as Guy shook off his dinner jacket and pulled his suspenders off his shoulders. He would undo his tie and then his collar. Next Aubrey would help him out of his mother-of-pearl shirt studs that she had given him on the first anniversary of their marriage. Then the valet would slip the gold cuff links that bore Guy’s monogram out of the slits in his double cuffs, freeing Guy to finish undressing and then pull on the navy silk pajamas Aubrey would have left out for him on the end of Guy’s bed and slide his feet into his waiting embroidered slippers.

Aubrey would help Guy into his dressing gown, and then Guy would dismiss him to perform his own ablutions. After a few moments, she fancied she could hear the soft bump of a drawer closing as the valet put away her husband’s things.

Adele waited until she imagined these rituals were complete. Then she pushed back the cream satin counterpane covering her own bed. She slid from between the crisp, ironed sheets before stepping into her own slippers and pulling on her negligee, tying the pale blue satin bow that held the lace collar together at her throat.

She crossed her bedroom to her dressing room and moved toward the door that connected their spaces. His side was dark, lit only by the soft glow coming from her dressing room. She flipped on the brass light switch next to the door and took a few steps, breathing in the bay rum of her husband’s cologne. Then she lifted her hand and knocked gently.

“Adele,” he said when he opened the dressing room door.

A surge of gratitude rose up in her that she smelled nothing more than the expected port on his breath. Intoxication would have made this conversation so much more difficult.