Aleida clucked her tongue at Louisa. “I know you Americans prize informality, but...”
Louisa raised a wicked grin. “Jerome Irwin.”
Aleida gasped. “You don’t think—”
“Not seriously, but where was he when Hastings was killed?” Louisa’s green eyes glinted. “He wasn’t here for several days, never called in. He claimed he was sick, that his phone was down. Flimsy alibi, if you ask me.”
“Huh.” Kensley narrowed his eyes at the doorway. “JI is an unusual set of initials.”
“Circumstantial evidence,” Hugh said. “Irwin had no love for Uncle Elliott or for Jouveau, but to murder? He’s the dearest of old chaps.”
Aleida gave him a fond wrinkle of her nose. “Too kindhearted to be a detective.”
Guy Gilbert entered the room, spotted Hugh—and froze.
Aleida sucked in her breath. How would Hugh treat the man who had caused him so much difficulty?
“What nerve.” MacLeod all but spat the words at Gil.
Kensley shoved back his chair and stormed over to Gil. “How dare you come here after what you did to Collie? You betrayed a fellow reporter.”
Gil turned ashen and took a staggering step back.
“Now, now,” Hugh said. “Let’s not—”
“You ratted on Collie,” Louisa said. “He told you he’d confess to Fletcher, but you couldn’t wait. Nothing but a schoolyard tattletale.”
“That’s enough.” Hugh stood, his voice low but commanding. “If you won’t welcome Gil, don’t welcome me either.”
All eyes swung to Hugh, and Aleida pressed her hand to her chest. How would he treat Gil? With grace, and she loved him for it.
Hugh jabbed his finger at the table. “I was the one who violated our professional standards, not Gil. Don’t blame the police for catching the thief—blame the thief.”
MacLeod screwed up his face. “You’re no thief.”
“No?” Hugh jutted out his chin. “My carelessness stole my own credibility, as it should. But it also stole Gil’s and Fletcher’s, which isn’t fair or right.”
Louisa flung her hand toward Gil. “He ratted on you.”
“He informed our editor of my infraction.” Hugh grabbed a free chair and pulled it closer. “Gil, please have a seat.”
Aleida’s heart swelled with the goodness of Hugh’s offer. “Yes, Gil. Please join us.”
Still ashen, Gil gripped the doorjamb. “You—”
“I forgive you.” Hugh patted the back of the chair. “And I begyourforgiveness.”
Gil’s gaze darted around the table. The other reporters glanced away, not forgiving, but no longer banishing.
With hesitant steps, Gil circled the table and took the offered chair.
Hugh returned to his seat and raised a mischievous grin. “The communists are having a convention in London next week. What do you think will happen?”
Chins rose, eyes lit up, and banter erupted.
Under the table, Aleida found Hugh’s hand, warm and strong and dear. She gave him a smile full of admiration for his humility, grace, and contrition.
How, in these darkest of days, had love taken hold?
