Hugh held his breath. Indeed, what would happen if they knew? Aleida didn’t think less of him for having asthma. Would his friends? Were they true friends if they thought less of him?
He’d kept his secret partly to protect his career, but Fletcher already wanted to fire him. How could the situation worsen?
If he believed God’s approval sufficed, he should act accordingly.
Aleida’s lips curved in a knowing smile, as if she followed his thoughts. Maybe she did.
He stood, as did Aleida, and he directed an apologetic smile around the table. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but I need to leave. I have asthma, and I’m afraid the smoke aggravates my lungs.”
Aleida wove her fingers together with his.
Lou stared up at him. “You have asthma? For heaven’s sake.” She smashed her cigarette in the ashtray.
“I’m sorry, old chap.” MacLeod snuffed out his cigarette too. “I wish I’d known.”
Barn chuckled and pulled the ashtray toward him. “Here I thought I was doing you folks a favor with my gifts from across the pond.”
Waving his hat, Kensley swatted the smoke toward the door.
Words and actions and expressions of concern. Not pity.
“Sit yourselves back down.” Lou tugged on Aleida’s sleeve.
“What do you want to do?” Aleida asked him in a low voice.
He could always leave later if necessary. He squeezed her hand, then held out her chair for her again.
Gil leaned across the corner of the table, his eyes bleary, and he blew smoke right in Hugh’s face.
Hugh coughed and turned his head.
“Guy Gilbert!” Lou reached over the table, snatched the cigarette from Gil’s fingers, and ground it into the ashtray. “Shame on you. Collie forgave you for ratting on him, and this is how you repay him?”
Gil’s face crumpled, and he moaned. “I—I don’t know. I shouldn’t have told Fletcher. I shouldn’t have—” He waved an unsteady hand toward the ashtray.
“Indeed not,” MacLeod said.
Poor old Gil. Hugh patted his back. “That’s quite all right.”
Gil’s gaze swam around and latched on Hugh. “Everyone likes you. No one likes me.”
“That isn’t true. We like you.” Hugh gave a determined look to the others in the room.
They avoided his gaze, not ready to forgive.
“The wireless listeners.” Gil massaged his forehead. “They’re sending letters, clamoring for you, complaining about me. But I can talk as posh as you. I can.”
“Yes, you can.” Hugh patted the man’s back. Gil had mastered the Oxford accent.
“But they know—they know I only pretend to be posh. They hate me for it.” His voice cracked.
Hugh sighed. Gil’s lack of popularity had nothing to do with his class and everything to do with his dry delivery.
Gil swigged beer, then slammed down his empty glass. “All we care about in England is class. Like Jouveau—no one cared that he was missing. Not until they connected his death to the death of an aristocrat. Now they care.”
Hugh grimaced. “I’m afraid that’s all too true.”
“And they arrested the wrong man.”
