Chapter 14

“The energy of the mind is the essence of life.”

Aristotle

Aidan grunted in pain, pulling Gwen’s hands down to his chest lest he yell out loud. Her fingers had found the worst of his bruises, digging in so he felt dizzy from the sharp pang.

Thankfully, the ache dropped to a dull throbbing, and the fire of lust rose once more. Aidan ransacked his thoughts on how to make love to Gwen without hurting himself and alerting her to his injuries.

His fingers fumbled with the buttons of her bodice as he tried to recall the illustrations in the Sanskrit book that Trafford had lent him.

Inspiration hit as Aidan finished unbuttoning her gown and pulled it away from her, down her arms. Gwen moaned when he brought his hands back up to cup her breasts, kneading through her stays while he plotted a course to her bed.

He pulled on the tapes of her stays and dropped them over her arms to the ground while Gwen turned her head to nuzzle his neck with soft lips.

His heart pounded with the force of his passions as he ripped at his coat to drop it to the floor. His waistcoat followed quickly.

Seeking her lips, he used one hand to pull her into another searing kiss while using his free hand to unbutton his falls. Once his breeches were hanging loose, he grabbed Gwen by the hand and led her to the bed.

Yanking the coverlet and sheet back, he nudged her to sit before joining her to take his boots and stockings off. Gwen’s arms were tendrils, her hands exploring his body without pause as he struggled with the excess clothing.

He rose and kicked off his breeches and small clothes, before dropping into the bed and hauling Gwen over him. It made his bruised muscles protest to lift her so, but it was over shortly and then she was straddling him with her slick crease pressed against his erection. Aidan grabbed handfuls of her shift and pulled it up, up, up her gyrating body before tossing it away.

And then his Venus was rising above him. In the darkened room, he could yet make out the expanse of pale skin and the bared roundness of her breasts hovering above him in a tempting manner. Reaching up roughened hands, he caressed soft skin. The jutting tips of her nipples erotically pressed into the palms of his hands as he kneaded and plumped.

Gwen moaned loudly, her head dropping back to lift her breasts in his grip, and Aidan was overcome.

Gently, he ran a hand down her undulating belly to search through her nest of curls and find the center of her pleasure, using a fingertip to brush over the little nub at the apex of her crease. Gwen gasped loudly above him, pushing her hips up as Aidan swirled over the pearl that Trafford had emphasized the importance of.

Botheration! Do not think of Trafford!

Aidan’s pleasure was mounting immeasurably as Gwen moved over him. He had to bring her pleasure quickly, as his own peak approached, so he focused his attention. Spreading the honeyed wetness of her excitement over plumped folds, he continued his ministrations with Gwen bucking forward and over him in a frenzy as if riding a mount.

Soon she was keening, chasing her peak until she moaned loudly above him. As she slowly relaxed onto his chest, Aidan guided his cock to the entrance hidden within her moistened cleft and thrust up to bury himself in her wet heat.

Gwen shifted in his arms, moaning as he joined with her and finding his lips to kiss him with fervor. Aidan growled in the back of his throat, her tight channel clasping him firmly as he bucked and thrust to his own completion, dizzy with the pleasure of feeling her lithe body in his arms as his lust reached a crescendo and he spent his seed deep into her writhing body.

His bride collapsed over him, draped across his body in the manner of linen clinging to sweat-soaked skin. Aidan leaned up to kiss her damp cheek. His gratitude that he had found such a woman knew no bounds as he wrapped his arms around her to bury his face in her citrus-scented hair. He prayed he could somehow sort out this muddle with Smythe while holding on to Gwen’s affections, which had become essential to his future happiness.

Aidan made love to her a couple more times throughout the night, all in peculiar positions that she had not been aware of. She had wanted to caress his body, but the ecstasy of their lovemaking had swept all thoughts from her head as Aidan had taught her new ways to bring them both pleasure in the dark.

After the first time, he rose to don his shirt and had lit only one lamp on the far side of the room before collecting their tray of food from the hall. It was barely enough light to see what she was eating, but it had been a romantic interlude only heightened by the deep shadows shrouding the bedroom.

They had finally fallen asleep close to dawn, their arms wrapped around each other as if they were afraid to let each other go.

Gwen fell into a slumber so deep, she did not even dream, nestling into Aidan’s warm embrace and unwilling to release him, even for a second.

She awoke to cool sheets. Aidan had left her side yet again. Gwen groaned as Octavia pulled the curtains open and gray light entered the room. Buttercup raised her head to give a curt bark as if she, too, was astonished to be disturbed so rudely.

“What fresh hell is this?”

Octavia giggled. “It’s the afternoon. I decided it was time to wake you up, or you’ll struggle to fall asleep tonight.”

Gwen sat up, clutching a sheet to her bare body. “Afternoon?”

“Indeed. Lord Abbott is committed to siring an heir straightaway, it’d seem.”

Despite her embarrassment, Gwen laughed. She reached out a hand to scratch Buttercup, who tilted her angular head in blissful supplication. “Where is Lord Abbott?”

“He left some time ago. No word when he’ll return, I’m afraid.”

Gwen fell back on her pillow with a heavy sough. “I planned on forging a true connection with him, but he turned my head with sweet words and …” She gestured vaguely to indicate the mattress.

The lady’s maid walked up to tower over her. Gwen suspected Octavia liked to do this because Gwen was so much taller. It was the only time that the woman was in a dominating position. Buttercup rose on her short legs, baring her teeth with a low growl to warn Octavia she was encroaching on her territory.

Octavia ignored Buttercup’s posturing.

“What do you mean, true connection? I thought things were progressing well with your husband.”

“I do not know. His mother told me he has been keeping secrets and I agree. One minute he is all soulful sighs and poetic words, and the next he is a hundred miles away. He does not tell me anything about himself or his day. Where does he go? What does he do? Whom does he spend time with? Why did he not tell me of Lily’s troubles?”

Octavia’s eyes widened. “Lady Filminster? What troubles does she have?”

Gwen recalled Aidan’s warning to keep the details of Lily’s marriage to herself or risk endangering Lord Filminster’s reputation and freedom. She winced.

“I cannot say.”

Octavia swung an open hand up to her forehead, palm up. “For shame, Gwendolyn Abbott! Do you not trust me?”

Gwen grinned. “Not a bit. You are an incorrigible gossip, so I will not share a word about Lady Filminster with you.”

Octavia burst into laughter, her bony shoulders shaking with mirth. “If it’s to remain a secret, I’d rather not bear the burden, then.”

The lady’s maid moved away to collect Gwen’s clothing. She sat up in her bed, staring out the window at the bank of iron-gray clouds until she finally ventured the question.

“How was he? This morning?”

Octavia paused in the open door of the wardrobe, licking her thin lips. “I’d say … distracted.”

Gwen nodded. When Aidan was in her presence, she quite forgot her concerns, just wishing to glory in the glow of burgeoning love. But when he was away, that was when her worries set in. What did she truly know about her new husband?

Aidan had quickly captured her heart, but Gwen could not quite grasp his thoughts or his feelings. He seemed genuinely interested in her, but beyond that, she knew nothing about him.

What burdens did he shoulder, and how could she convince him to confide in her so they could form a true marriage?

Outside, the sky darkened with ever more glowering clouds, and Gwen was startled out of her wits by a great clap of thunder followed by the roar of rain falling from the heavens.

Buttercup whimpered, burying her head under a pillow and shaking in fear. Gwen made a comforting sound, stroking the trembling dog to calm her. “It is just some weather, Buttercup. You will be fine, girl. You will be fine.”

Rain roareddown upon the roof of the hackney.

Aidan yawned widely and carefully kneaded the bruised shoulder he had landed on the day before. It was aching something fierce, and he was pleased with his decision to hire a driver rather than attempt to ride. Grabbing more than three hours of sleep would have been welcome under the circumstances, but he could not afford the time.

He had taken a page from Smythe’s book, having decided that he could follow the Smythe carriage with less fear of being spotted if he was in a hackney that was indistinguishable from the next.

The rain made it more difficult to see, and his driver wore a battered hat and large, black overcoat with the collar raised to defend him from the elements. It further obscured any possibility that Smythe would notice he was being followed.

Aidan stretched his legs out, grimacing at the state of his damp boots, and hoped that Smythe would make a move again this day. He and the driver, Old Fred, had been observing the Smythe mews—he pulled on his fob to check his timepiece—for the better part of two hours.

Occasionally, they would traverse a block or two before taking up a fresh position to prevent rousing the suspicions of servants from the neighborhood. It was a boring and arduous process that made Aidan appreciate the tedious work of runners hired to retrieve stolen goods.

He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck from side to side, and lamented that he had not brought a book to read while he waited inside the dim interior of the aging carriage. The thin squabs were flattened with the imprint of thousands of buttocks, and the upholstery had been mended dozens of times. The neat repairs spoke to the fastidious nature of Old Fred.

He did not envy the aging man—sitting out on his box seat while the heavens poured water down in buckets. Even now, Aidan followed a trail of rainwater slipping down the interior of the aged carriage windows. He was grateful the driver had been persuaded to aid him for the day.

There was a knock on the window, and Aidan felt the pull of the carriage. Peering out the window, he saw the Smythe carriage exiting the mews. This was it!

Old Fred followed at a snail’s pace, drawing to a stop at the corner to wait. The front door of the Smythe home opened and Aidan’s father-in-law exited. At least, Aidan assumed it was Smythe, given the general size and gait of the cloak-covered gentleman running forward to climb the steps into the carriage interior while a figure dutifully held the door ajar. The steps were raised, the door was shut, and the servant climbed aboard.

Aidan’s heart hammered in anticipation. He was prepared to see this to the end, having spent the morning catching hackneys until he had discovered Old Fred.

Today, there would be no reckless riders to cause him to be tossed from his mount.

He had instructed Old Fred to stay close when they reached the more congested streets. Aidan could not afford to lose Smythe again.

His only consolation on this dreary day was that Lily was in residence at the much larger townhouse of the duke, who had more footmen than Filminster in addition to the brawny guards that Halmesbury had hired to protect his guests.

Nevertheless, this investigation needed to progress before someone else was hurt … or worse.

Old Fred nudged his horses forward, and soon they were following Smythe. Both carriages moved slowly as the wheels churned up mud from the puddled streets. Smythe was determined to reach his destination if he chose to brave such hard weather.

They trundled down empty streets, the citizens of London dissuaded from venturing out. When they reached the Strand, the traffic picked up. Riders were not to be seen, but carriages clogged the road as they moved tentatively through the downpour.

The journey to the London Docks took considerably more time than the day before. Pedestrians stood shivering beneath shop awnings and, on one corner, a wagon was mired in the slopping mud. Other drivers yelled impatiently from their perches, while the teams of men and horses toiled to unstick it, but Aidan only had eyes for Smythe’s carriage.

Old Fred did an exemplary job of keeping it in sight, and Aidan felt proud of finding the man to assist him. It seemed that this would work!

Aidan caught sight of the London Docks down the street just as their quarry stopped to pull into an alley. Old Fred dutifully drew to a stop half a block away, and Aidan quickly pulled his hat down over his ears and raised the collar of the great overcoat he had borrowed from one of his father’s grooms.

Opening the door, Aidan dropped to the ground, his riding boots squelching in inches of mud. Running forward with his hand holding his hat to his head to defend himself from the rain, Aidan reached the alleyway and carefully peered around the corner to see Smythe disappearing into a doorway.

Aidan studied the distance to where the carriage stood, then ran back down the block to the street parallel to the alley and found that the building was a tavern. He strode through the front entryway.

Inside it was dark, barely any daylight to shine in from the street and a few flickering oil lamps on the walls. Aidan carefully navigated through a maze of scarred tables and chairs, searching for Smythe. Dock workers in colorful linens, jerkins, and hardy boots sat in groups while sailors dressed in their merchant blues drank and talked loudly among themselves.

With great relief, Aidan spotted Smythe at a corner table. He was seated across from a rough man dressed in the style of a dock worker. He had the shoulders of someone who was accustomed to lifting great burdens of weight, and several days’ growth of black beard on his unshaven cheeks.

Aidan quickly located a free table nearby and took a seat, careful to keep his hat down low and tugging his collar up to ensure it obscured his face.

He could not make out what they were talking about, but Smythe was leaning forward with an intense expression. He was knocking his hand down on the table as if his temper were piqued. The other man raised his hands in a gesture that implied he did not have an answer to what Smythe had said.

Aidan’s heart hammered loudly in his chest. There was no doubt that Smythe was up to no good. No gentleman met with dock workers and, as if to confirm his thoughts, Smythe reached into his coat and pulled out a small purse.

He placed it on the table and pushed it forward to the unknown conspirator. A hand covered in coarse black hair reached out to take it, and the rough chap swept his gaze about the tavern before peering inside. He nodded, putting the purse away in an inner pocket.

A tavern maid came up, interrupting Aidan’s surveillance. He ordered an ale to get rid of her, relieved when she walked away quickly to serve another who had hollered out.

The meeting continued for a while, and Aidan wished he could overhear what they were discussing, but the tavern was engaged in a roaring trade because of the heavy rain, and Aidan could barely hear himself think in the chaos. He nursed his drink and observed what he could, waiting for the next development.

Fumbling about in his overcoat to find the pocket of his waistcoat, Aidan checked the time and realized he had been observing them for near an hour.

There was no more to learn from the position where he sat. He wondered if he should wait it out and follow Smythe to the next destination. When he looked back up, it was to find that his father-in-law had finally risen to his feet, gesturing.

Aidan tossed a coin onto the table and quickly made his way out of the tavern. Swiveling his head around, he managed to pick out the figure of Old Fred bent over his reins. The rain had eased, but the day was still gray and dreary. Racing over to the hackney, the mud sucking at his boots, Aidan yanked the door open and embarked, knocking on the front glass.

Old Fred drove the carriage to the alleyway, where they waited on the main road. Then, slowly, the hackney entered the alley to follow Smythe’s carriage out onto the opposite street.

Within three blocks, the Smythe carriage pulled into another alleyway. As before, Aidan assessed the position of the back door Smythe entered. Running out onto the parallel street again, Aidan found the corresponding door.

He hesitated, perplexed, before entering yet another dock tavern. This tavern was more shadowed than before, with no maids and only a man behind the bar serving to a thin crowd of brooding men.

Aidan hunched his shoulders down to appear shorter and ensure his figure was not recognizable. With fewer men patronizing the establishment, it would be easier for Smythe to spot him if he was not careful.

The table and chairs close to Smythe and his new cohort were not occupied, but Aidan did not dare approach lest he be spotted.

As before, Smythe gestured adamantly and leaned in to talk with yet another beefy dock worker. This one appeared to have not bathed in a week, nor any of the other patrons. Aidan breathed through his mouth to avoid the sour odor hanging about like an evil omen.

At the bar, a drunken argument broke out between two slovenly men, slurring as they gesticulated wildly. The sullen proprietor behind the bar came out, grabbing both men by the scruff of their collars to escort them out crudely. Aidan shook his head in amazement that he was sitting in such a place. He still could not overhear anything from the table where he sat, so instead he observed and seethed.

Smythe was a blackguard deeply involved in sinister schemes. There was no other explanation for why he would be visiting such blighted spots to converse with a criminal element.

Were these the ruffians who had attempted to break in to Ridley House? Had one of these men scared the wits out of his little sister? What gave Smythe the right to behave this way?

It was becoming more and more obvious that his father-in-law had visited the late Baron of Filminster on the night of the coronation and bludgeoned Brendan’s uncle to death before running away into the night like a pathetic coward.

Aidan needed to find the evidence to end this farce.

Which means I will be forced to hurt Gwen when she learns of her father’s perfidy.

This reminder of what lay ahead was unwelcome, so Aidan forced his attention back to the present.

After thirty minutes, Smythe took his leave and Aidan left the tavern to rejoin Old Fred. Once again, they trailed the Smythe carriage down the alleyway and onto the opposite street.

It was with some disappointment that Aidan realized they had turned and were headed back east.

Smythe must have completed his errands for the day, or the weather had dissuaded him from further activities, because they were headed back to the Smythe home across London.

If only Aidan could have caught him in the act of something. Frustration sizzled through his veins as he rubbed his hands up and down over his breeches and thought about how to bring this to a resolution. It was obvious that Smythe was guilty, as Aidan had thought from the beginning. But how to prove it?

It was excruciating to be this close to discovering the truth, yet not know what to do to finish it and prove what he knew in his gut. He thought about the day Lily had been attacked, the marks on her neck from when the villainous footman had held her by the throat. He thought about how his little sister could have been killed.

And the more he thought, the more he seethed that Smythe could behave like an ordinary gentleman to his face, all charming grins and polite talk, while behind the mask was a cold-blooded murderer. He had hosted Filminster and Lily in his home, along with their family, and pretended to be a friendly face and a new relation, yet hurried about Town daily to plot his dastardly conspiracies.

It was up to Aidan to stop him.