Charlie stopped on the threshold. His face was drawn with a sudden worry. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

“I daresay I should.”

“He’ll probably beat me.”

Julia doubted that. If anything, Jasper would be disappointed. Charlie had broken his trust. It was unfortunate. Their relationship didn’t need any additional strain put on it. “Perhaps he doesn’t need to know,” she said. “You’ve done no real harm, not as far as I can tell.”

Charlie shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you. I’m . . . I’m sorry, I—”

“Go and have your tea, dear,” Julia said again. “Go on.”

He flashed her a rare smile before darting off down the steps. His footfalls faded into the distance.

Julia returned to Jasper’s desk with a sigh. His memoirs. That’s all it was. Pages and pages of reminiscences about the war, written edge to edge in Jasper’s characteristic scrawl.

She gathered them up, trying her best not to read them. Sentence fragments nevertheless caught her eye as she organized the pages. There were mentions of Colonel Dryden and Eloise. References to cannon smoke and a corpse-strewn battlefield in Belgium.

Waterloo.

The single word jumped out at her from the page. That’s what Jasper was describing. Not the Crimean War, but the Napoleonic Wars.

It made no sense. The Battle of Waterloo was nearly fifty years ago, long before Jasper was even born.

She permitted herself to read a little more, her gaze flicking over one paragraph, then another. There weren’t only descriptions of the aftermath of the battle, there was dialogue, too. Romantic dialogue.

Good heavens. These weren’t Jasper’s memoirs at all. This was a novel!

She sank down in his leather chair, continuing to read.

She felt a strange sense of recognition. Something about the narrative structure. The way the sentences flowed together in elegant harmony. It was almost lyrical in its beauty. And the emotions described! They were poignant and heartfelt—and exceedingly familiar.

A slow-dawning realization came over her.

Setting aside the loose pages, she retrieved the full manuscript from the open drawer of the desk. She riffled through it, heart beating swiftly in anticipation of what she might find.

And there it was at last, tucked out of order amid the rest of the papers, a cover sheet written in Jasper’s own hand.

Reunion at Waterloo

by

J. Marshland

The truth crashed through her with an impact that stole her breath.

Good gracious.

Jasper was James Marshland.

The remaining evidence was easy to find. Indeed, it was right there along with the manuscript. Correspondence between Jasper and Mr. Bloxham. References to advances, royalties, and dwindling sales numbers.

Julia didn’t know how long she sat there, reading it and putting it all together.

She was amazed she hadn’t done so before.

In hindsight it was all glaringly obvious, beginning with Jasper’s visit to Bloxham’s Books, where she’d overheard him ask to see Mr. Bloxham, and ending with his questions to her about Marshland’s novels themselves.

She shuddered to remember the things she’d said. The criticisms she’d levied against Marshland. Good Lord. What must Jasper have been thinking?