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23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Jethro sat in his office at the warehouse staring out the window, watching the boats going in and out of the harbour.

It was nearly a fortnight since the Framptons’ party, and he was growing exasperated. Cassandra still refused to talk about how that evening had ended. She brushed away every attempt he made to apologise for his coldness as if it meant nothing to her.

When they were in company, she was the perfect wife, smoothing his path into society as she had promised. But once they were at home, the facade dropped, and the bleakness settled in once more. She had withdrawn from him, and spoke only what was necessary.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

Jethro raised his head to see Crowley leaning against the door jamb, a half-smile on his lips.

“Keep your money.”

“I don’t suppose you want me to point out that you never once fell into a dreamy reverie before you married.”

Jethro didn’t need to be reminded. “No.”

“Pleasant thoughts, I hope, though, to judge from your irritation, perhaps not. Would it help to talk?”

Jethro exuded a deep sigh before he could stop himself. Would it be so dreadful to confide in his friend? He was loath to admit he didn’t have his life under control, and the thought of opening up to Crowley made him feel decidedly vulnerable.

But if there was a chance his friend could help him sort things out with his wife, he would take it. He was desperate.

“I’ve upset Cassandra, and I don’t know how to put things right.”

“Ah, I see.”

Jethro doubted it. He’d never seen a couple more in love than Crowley and his wife. “Do you? I can’t imagine you ever having that issue with Meg.”

Crowley laughed heartily, but Jethro was not inclined to join in. It had been a mistake to share his problem, thinking his friend could help him. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, getting his amusement under control, “but to suggest I never upset Meg is so far from the truth, it’s utterly ridiculous. It’s impossible to meet each other’s expectations all the time. I’m always putting my foot in it and having to make it up to her.”

Jethro found it hard to believe. “And how do you do that?”

“Mostly by grovelling. You have apologised, haven’t you?”

“I’ve tried, but she won’t listen.”

Crowley shook his head. “Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good. You must have hurt her deeply. What on earth did you do?”

It wasn’t so much what he’d done as what he’d failed to do, but Jethro had no intention of enlightening Crowley about just how he’d let Cassandra down, and repeated his earlier question. “How do you make it up to Meg?”

“A bouquet of flowers. Her favourite cake from Mr Crook’s bakery. And when I forgot to do something important she’d asked me to do that I knew would upset her, I bought her a brooch to give her when I confessed, so she would forgive me more quickly.”

Jethro’s ears pricked up. Maybe Crowley had something there. What if he bought Cassandra a present to show how sorry he was?

Not flowers or cakes, but something lasting, like a brooch, that would be a constant reminder that he appreciated her. That was it. Jethro would buy Cassandra some jewellery. If it had worked for Crowley, it might work for him. Cassandra couldn’t reject such a gift. At least, he hoped she wouldn’t.

He would go to the jeweller straightaway and buy the most expensive item in the shop. Surely that would show Cassandra how much she meant to him .

“Thanks, Crowley. You’ve given me an idea,” Jethro said, striding out the door.

“Glad to help,” his manager called after him.

It was only a short walk to Baptista’s shop in Bond Street.

“I wish to buy a gift for my wife,” Jethro announced to the jeweller.

“Very good, sir. What did you have in mind?”

Jethro wanted something costly that would prove to Cassandra how much he cared, but he wasn’t going to say that to the man.

“I’m not sure. Please show me what you have?”

Half an hour later, Jethro strode out of the shop holding a box containing a gold necklace set with diamonds and amethysts.

Though still early, he went straight home, eager to give Cassandra his peace offering before dinner. His wife was not in the drawing room, and so he went upstairs, hoping to find her in her room.

He entered his bedchamber and knocked tentatively on the adjoining door. No answer. He knocked again, a little louder, but there was still no answer. He eased the door open and went inside. It was empty.

The room was just as he remembered—the floral bedclothes and curtains decidedly feminine. But it smelled different. It smelled of lavender—like Cassandra.

He hovered awkwardly with the box from Baptista’s in his hand, going over and over in his head what he would say, while he waited for her to return.

His ears pricked up. He could hear a firm step advancing along the corridor—a step that did not belong to Cassandra. It must be the maid coming to prepare her mistress’s clothes for dinner.

Suddenly, the awkwardness of his situation overwhelmed him. How embarrassing it would be if he was found in his wife’s bedroom. Too embarrassing.

He put the box on the dressing table and ran.

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