Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,29

like a toddler.

“I don’t like that guy,” I said, eyes narrowed.

“Dr. Ward?”

“No,” I said. “The trust fund dick.”

“That’s what I thought about him too,” she replied. “But he seems both spineless and harmless to me.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, unsure.

“What first, partner?” Freya adjusted her pearls. “And we already have much to discuss.”

“That we do,” I agreed. This would have been a lot fucking easier with a gun and a warrant and a badge. Being a special agent for the FBI was harder than I’d ever expected it to be. Not that I’d ever share that with my father or even Freya. Being a private detective, in many ways, seemed just as hard—high stakes but diminished resources.

“We should wander, wait for Thomas and Cora,” I said quietly. She nodded, immediately turning toward the first row of tables, covered in dusty books. Filtering through was the quiet hum of antiques talk and a few sideways glances when people spotted our Julian and Birdie nametags.

“Tell me more about these letters,” I said to Freya, one eye scanning the room for Dahl or other suspicious activity. “Why would criminals give a shit about George Sand and this poet? Or Hollywood directors?”

“Spoken like a true romantic,” she said.

“I don’t think I’ve ever given that false impression.”

“I’m sure your girlfriends love you.” She stopped to pick up a book by Emily Bronte, admiring the back cover.

“Birdie Barnes,” she said to the bookseller. “How lovely to meet you.” The man wore a pork-pie hat and suspenders. He beamed at Freya like she’d told him he’d won the lottery. A golden cage held a dignified-looking parrot at the end of the table. When Freya stuck her finger into the cage, the bird squawked at her.

“I know you,” the man said. Freya and I both went completely still. “I purchased a first edition of Milton’s Paradise Lost from your store a few months ago. See? Surprised you didn’t recognize it.”

There, in a glass case, was a small book with a maroon cover and a golden crest of two lions protecting a shield.

“The gilded edges are as divine as the words inscribed on them,” the man continued. “I have no idea how the two of you came into this gem, but I won’t question it.”

That sentiment was the reason why the Art Theft unit existed.

“Julian and I love seeing these antiques in person,” Freya beamed. “But I also thought we’d once met each other at Reichenbach Falls?”

The man looked puzzled—but delighted. But who wouldn’t be delighted by a smiling Freya?

“I’m sorry, where?” he asked.

She slid her big glasses up her nose. “Never mind. Just someplace I thought I knew you from. Thank you again for showing us our precious Milton.”

The bookseller grasped Freya’s hand, holding it between his own. “I cannot thank you enough.”

We moved along slowly, Freya trailing her fingers along books and maps, bending down to peer at a first edition of The Velveteen Rabbit.

I rapped my knuckles hard on a table as we passed it. “Keep telling me about the letters.”

“George Sand was a rebellious French novelist in the 1830s and ’40s,” she said. “She didn’t conform to societal pressures. She wore men’s clothes and smoked cigars. She loved who she loved. She was even more popular than her contemporary, Victor Hugo. And she had a reputation for writing especially seductive letters. George was obsessed with Alfred de Musset, who was a poet and playwright. At least until she wasn’t.” Freya glanced over at me, sly. “Have you ever written a love letter before?”

I thought about the piece of paper I’d scrawled on the night Freya left Quantico. I’d trashed it, too embarrassed to even read the mangled version of it the next day.

“Never,” I replied.

“Heart of stone, huh?”

“Focused on my career,” I corrected. “And what about you? How many hearts have you broken, Birdie? Leave a string of sobbing computer nerds in your wake?”

She covered her mouth and stifled a snort. “That’s a typical Tuesday for me.”

She was deflecting with humor—her usual M.O. But at Princeton, she’d certainly had boyfriends. Freya always appeared happy and silly with them. Carefree, even.

Not like she was with me—angry and stubborn and viciously competitive.

We stood in front of a table showcasing a first edition of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. She was enchanted. There was no need for her to fake Birdie’s fascination.

“So you don’t have a boyfriend?” I managed. “It’s, uh, best if we know the full extent of each other’s romantic attachments. Could be a