And he had filed it under staff friction because that was the folder his fiancée had spent six weeks building for him.

“I’m going to be sick,” he said.

“Sir—”

“Don’t.” He held up a hand.

“Don’t make it easier.

Please.”

Rosamund waited a moment, then went on, because there was more and she had clearly decided that if this was going to be said, it was going to be said today, all of it.

“After that I understood I couldn’t go to you directly again without it looking like exactly what she’d told you it was.