Page 70 of The Wallflower Manifesto
Millie looked up at the end, to this woman across from her, who had become something beyond definition to her—not quite a mother or a mentor or a friend, but also all three, all at once. Andbefore she could talk herself out of it, she said, “I wrote it. The manifesto. It was me.”
Lady Bentley froze for a moment, taking in the words, and then, unexpectedly, she smiled.
“Oh, my dear girl,” she said with something like relief. “I wondered if you’d ever tell me that.”
CHAPTER 26
The Cuckoo’s Nest felt louder today, more oppressive. Perhaps it was just in contrast with the morning before, so serene and domestic alongside Millie Yardley until Freddy had come storming in with opinions and concerns and hollandaise sauce.
Still, Freddy seemed almost subdued today, picking at his breakfast with a single tine on the corner of his fork, frowning into the plate like it had just told him something distressing.
“Is he all right?” Cresson asked Abe, not quite softly enough for Freddy not to hear.
“I’m fine,” Freddy had snapped, looking up at the other two men with annoyance. “I’ve just got a long couple of weeks ahead of me.”
“When are you heading to Dover, by the by?” Abe put in, wincing at how hot the coffee was. “Are you waiting for the servant girl to heal?”
“She’s fine,” Freddy answered, glancing up. “She looks a fright, but she’s fine. I haven’t been enjoying the fact that every inn we stop at will assume I did that to her face, however.”
Cresson grimaced in what looked like agreement. “I’d hate that too,” he said.
Freddy shrugged, putting on a pale imitation of his usual flippancy. “Ah, well,” he sighed, spearing a kipper, “everyone I actually know already thinks I’m a scoundrel. What should it matter if some strangers do too?”
“You’re not that kind of scoundrel, Bentley,” Abe replied, frowning.
Freddy hesitated for the briefest moment, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
Then he sighed, loudly and dramatically, as though he wanted everyone to just forget it had been mentioned in the first place. “Speaking of Paula,” he said, pausing to chew the bite of food he’d finally curated, “have you been able to spring that old man she framed, Cresson?”
Cresson made a noise of annoyance. “Soon,” he said unconvincingly.
Abe perked up at this, curious about what he’d missed that night when he was with Millie and these two were with the fugitives. “Did she say she did that?” he pressed, leaning forward. “Did she actually admit to targeting the old man?”
Freddy chuckled while Cresson turned a bit pink at the neck.
“She picked someone old and mostly retired,” Freddy explained, the chuckle seeming to brighten him right away. “But she said he was the worst person she’d ever had to work with, so it didn’tbother her at all if he finally had to suffer a little for being such a miserable curmudgeon.”
“She’s not wrong,” Cresson grumbled. “In her description, I mean. Framing him is another matter.”
“Where are the jewels? Are they going to keep them?” Abe pressed, that delicious investigative buzzing reaching a higher pitch in his chest. “Maybe if I get some of them back, I can still collect the bounty and close the case.”
“You’re not getting anything back,” Freddy said immediately, narrowing his eyes at Abe. “They’ll fence the rest of it once they’re on the Continent. We only have enough liquid coin to get them over the Channel. Forget the bounty.”
This made Cresson laugh. “Forget the bounty?” he repeated, glad he was not the current target of observation. “Have you met our friend Mr. Murphy, Lord Bentley?”
“Well, hold on a minute—” said Abe, cut off by a refrain of, “I told you to call me Freddy.”
“Why should I?” returned Cresson. “Neither of you ever use my Christian name.”
Abe let them dissolve into a bickering match, feeling oddly fond of the whole thing.
Still, being directly told he would never close that case was irking him right in the professional center of his being. Heknewwho did it. He knew everything. And he’d never be able to tell anyone or go back to Bow Street to gloat about it over his old colleagues?
Unbearable.
“You know,” he said in an act of petty retribution, “when I interviewed Mr. Aiden, he was a perfectly pleasant grandfather of a man.”
Cresson turned to him so slowly that Abe wondered if he was about to get stabbed with a fork. But the other man didn’t say a word. His face said it all.
