Chapter 1

“The aim of the wise is not to secure pleasure, but to avoid pain.”

Aristotle

Aidan had not slept for the past two nights. Lily’s encounter with the footman had been a rude awakening in regard to his own behavior. The thought of harm befalling his sister was more than he could bear, which was why he was sitting in Filminster’s study for the third time in as many days.

“I need your help.”

Filminster’s declaration punctuated the tension in the room.

Aidan straightened in his seat, eager to help resolve the danger Lily faced in any way he could. The feeling of helplessness was unbearable, so any action would be an improvement to his state of mind.

Across from him sprawled the fool, Lord Julius Trafford, in his ridiculous attire, while Aidan’s brother-in-law, Filminster, stood at the window with his hands clasped behind his back.

“What has happened? Is Lily safe?” Aidan had been drowning in guilt since he had abandoned his sister—all that had unfurled from that one decision still had Aidan reeling in the aftermath.

“I have discovered the letter that my … father … wrote. I now know what led to his murder on the night of the coronation.”

Lord Trafford picked at his lapel of purple silk, the gold and emerald signet ring on his pinky flashing brightly, before purring in a supercilious tone. “Your father … or your uncle?”

The baron turned from the window to scowl at his clownish friend. “You know of that?”

Trafford merely arched a brown eyebrow in response. Aidan experienced a surge of indignation at being left in the dark, leaning forward. “What is Trafford talking about?”

Filminster sighed. “I suppose the gossip has been circulating, so I might as well speak the truth … The late baron was my uncle who married my mother to save the family from shame. My true father, his older brother, died weeks before the wedding.”

Aidan pulled a face at this unsavory disclosure. “Faugh!”

His brother-in-law chuckled dryly. “Just so.”

“May I read the letter?” Trafford had straightened from his lazing position. His indolent air had evaporated, and Aidan glimpsed for a moment what it was that Filminster appreciated about his arse of a friend.

Filminster pulled a folded page from inside his coat, walking over and handing it to Trafford to read. Aidan watched intently, noting that the other honorary lord, heir to the Earl of Stirling, grew solemn. Trafford whistled through his teeth, looking up to shake his head in disbelief, his affectation of wheat curls bouncing over his cropped brown hair. “This provides a serious motive for murder. This is both wealth and power at stake.”

Aidan held out his hand expectantly, Trafford handing the letter to him without comment. It was covered in splotches of ink which obscured some of the words as if a censor had taken a quill to it, but what he read made his blood run cold.

Sir Robert Peel

London, July 19, 1821

Sir,

It has come - - my attention that the true heir to Lord - - - - - - - - has not been acknowledged.

I was speaking with his lordship before the coronation, and he informed me of his recent bout of ill health. He spoke fondly of his youngest brother, informing - - of his strength, intelligence, and wit at great length. There was no mention of his lordship’s middle brother, Peter, who you may be aware died near twenty years - - -.

Peter and I attended Oxford together, - - - his death was tragic - - - unexp- - - - -. I have thought of him often over the years, which is why I feel the need to pass this information - - - - - -u.

Before departing England, Peter married a wom- - of Catholic descent. She convert- - - - - - - - - were married - - - - - Church of England, before leaving our shores. I maintained correspondence with him until his death. He had written just months before his death to inform me of the birth of his son.

I cannot say for certain where the boy and his mother are - - - - - all these years, but he would be the true heir and I implore you to look into th- - matter. - - - - - - - - - is the true heir to the title of - - - - - and his father’s legacy cannot be ignored.

I understand the trials of being a second son, and I cann- - allow this matter to stand. Whether - - - - terrible injustice is a mistake due to ignorance of the child Peter sired, or a deliberate obfuscation of the facts, I must speak on my friend’s behalf. His son is the true heir and must be found immediately. I will locate our shared correspondence when I return to Somerset and have them forwarded to - - - - - - - - - - -

J. Ridley, Baron of Filminster

Aidan absorbed what he had just read before slowly exhaling, the implications setting in. “Lily is in serious danger if the killer believes his secret might be contained within the walls of Ridley House.”

Trafford snorted. “And the culprit would be correct, considering the letter you are holding.”

“There is insufficient information to reveal his identity!” Aidan’s protest was met with a twist of Trafford’s lips.

“There is enough. An elderly lord, suffering from a recent bout of ill health, with a younger brother named Peter who died some twenty years ago, and an even younger brother set to inherit his title. Who has likely killed the baron to conceal the knowledge of the true heir in order to secure his inheritance? It drastically reduces the number of suspects.”

“Precisely,” Filminster responded. “Lily and I spent last evening and this morning comparing a recent copy of Debrett’s to a copy from thirty years ago to compile a list of peers. The runner, Briggs, is investigating what happened to each of the Peters to learn the circumstances of their deaths. Thus far, we have a list of six heirs who might fit the description, which is why I need your help.”

Aidan was brought back to the declaration that started this conversation. Filminster needed his assistance to secure Lily’s safety. “What do you need?”

Filminster cleared his throat, twisting the toe of his boot on the bright Aubusson rug adorning his study floor while his dark chestnut curls fell forward over his face. “It is much to ask …”

Trafford smirked. “That has not stopped you before.”

“This is different, Julius. My bride is in danger.” Filminster inhaled deeply before continuing. “If anything happened to Lily, I would never forgive myself.”

Nor would I.

Aidan could simply not imagine how he would ever recover from putting Lily at risk. If harm befell her, his guilt would consume him and there would be nothing in his dark future to console his soul. This was a matter of life and death.

With that realization, Aidan reached a decision. It was time to stop resisting this new relationship with his sister’s husband. They needed to band together for Lily. His sweet, young sister deserved their cooperation and protection. Rising to his feet, he interrupted the tête-à-tête between Filminster and Trafford.

“Whatever you need, I will do it.”

Filminster’s brandy eyes flickered to Aidan, and he nodded. “Thank you … Aidan.”

Trafford heaved a heavy sigh. “I am in. What is next?”

Returning to the window, Filminster leaned against the sill. “I need your help to investigate these six men. Lily and I are still considered scandalous for our supposed tryst on the night of the coronation. Although the scandal is abating now that we have wed, it is difficult to be discreet when all eyes are upon us. You two gentlemen, as single young bucks around Town, will be welcomed into the homes of polite society with high hopes you might make a match with their daughters or nieces. That access will allow you to search for information that might shed light on their involvement.”

Aidan rubbed a hand over his face. In the normal course of things, he would never agree to such unethical behavior. Gaining access under false pretenses was not the behavior of a man of character.

But this is for Lily.

He accepted the truth of it. A man of character would take steps to correct his mistakes, regardless of what he might be required to do. It was a matter of restoring his honor, and if he needed to dirty his hands for the greater good, then so be it.

“Where is the list?”

Frederick Smythe wasthe most irritating of men, Gwen decided, resisting the urge to clench her fists.

“We cannot afford it, Papa! I am five and twenty! On the shelf! A spinster! Pray tell, what is the point of spending money on yet another ball when none of the young men wish to dance with me?”

Her father’s lips curled into his customary grin, the one that dissolved the resistance of family and friends. Gwen steeled herself not to be affected by his charm. “It is not the time to give up, Gwendolyn. It is only a matter of time before you meet a gentleman who appreciates your wit and grace.”

Gwen could not help herself—she snorted. “Grace?” Twisting her face, she sang the refrain from her youth. “Gwen, Gwen, the Spotted Giraffe!”

Her father’s grin faded. “I curse myself to this day for sending you to that school. Those harpies destroyed your confidence, but I see a great beauty when I gaze upon you, Gwendolyn. Your mother stole my very heart from my chest the moment I beheld her. And once she quoted Homer to me in Ancient Greek …” Her father raised a hand to his chest, his eyes gazing into the past with an expression of adoration and awe. He cleared his throat, returning to the present. “I shall never forget a moment of our time together.”

Gwen felt tears prickling. Lifting a hand, she dabbed at her eyes, giving a discreet sniff. “Mama was majestic.”

“As are you, daughter.”

She shook her head, rejecting the notion that she was the beauty that her mother had been. “I am a ginger!”

“A Titian red.”

“And spotted!”

“Delightfully freckled.”

“Mama was an elegant auburn, Papa. I am a gangly, spotted ginger!”

Her father shook his head in denial. “You are glorious and your mother would agree.”

Gwen fell silent, biting her lower lip. She wished her mother were here with them now to settle their argument. “Mama did not like to waste money.”

“You are not a waste of money. The right man will recognize your worth and value. We will join forces with another family and grow our resources for your future and for Gareth.”

Gwen smiled at the mention of her younger brother. Having him home for the summer had revealed how quickly he was growing up, and it had been a poignant moment to wave him goodbye when he had returned to Eton to continue his studies. “Gareth’s grasp of Latin and Greek is impressive. Mama would be delighted.”

“As you will be one day when you have children of your own.”

Longing rose in Gwen’s chest, which she squashed down ruthlessly. If the past few years had taught her anything, it was that no man would ever wed her. Nay, she was to be a spinster. Her only hope of progeny was to adopt a foundling to dote on. A child to whom she could pass on the love of learning as her mother had done with her and Gareth.

Since recent events had brought the knowledge of the tentative nature of life, and the need to pursue one’s dreams while one had the opportunity to do so, Gwen had evaluated what was important to her. She planned to seek a foundling to adopt once her father admitted defeat—his plans for her grand union were just dreams. Frederick Smythe was tilting at windmills if he thought an honorable gentleman would ever take notice of Gwen, Gwen, the Spotted Giraffe.

The few men who had displayed interest were not to be considered. It was not Mr. Spalding’s thinning hair or receding chin that ruled him out, but the many times he misattributed Socrates that had ensured she would never marry him. The thought of being irritated by his lack of intelligence for the rest of her days was too much to bear.

Mr. Rutledge had been pleasant, if a bit on the older side, but he conversed exclusively about fox hunting, which Gwen abhorred, and hounds, which was acceptable but monotonous.

Gwen wanted what her parents had shared, a meeting of the minds and hearts. If hearts were out of the question, she minimally required an intelligent husband to father her children, or she would be better without.

“No wedding, no children.”

Her tone was sharp. Frederick Smythe was a dreamer, and she could not allow herself to be tempted into taking up a lance to joust the sails of a wind machine, convincing herself that there be giants.

Her father turned a sympathetic blue gaze to her, no taller than Gwen herself, who stood at five feet nine inches. “You are lovely, Gwendolyn. The right man will appreciate you and provide you with the security you deserve while you will provide him with a worthy and challenging partnership.”

Gwen looked down at the toes of her slippers peeking out from under her gown, her shoulders heaving with a heartfelt sigh. She wanted to believe her father, she really did. But hard-won experience proved he was deluded about her and her shortcomings. Mama had been a great beauty, and an excellent scholar. Gwen had inherited one of those traits, and it was not one that could be viewed in the reflection of a looking glass.

“Papa, we cannot waste money on such extravagances.”

Her father strolled over to his desk, a man dapper for his years. He was filled with a youthful energy, a reflection of his strong interests. The sharp cut of his charcoal coat and trousers, along with his pristine white linen, spoke to his fastidious nature, but he had an easy manner which made him well-liked by most people. He managed their finances well, but as the third son of a baron, they were not a wealthy family and could not afford the lavish ball he held each year in her honor even as the men of the ton continued to ignore her presence.

This brought to mind the women who tittered behind their fans, giggling at her unfashionable appearance.

Gwen sighed, wondering how to explain to her idealistic father that she was a poor investment. How her mother had managed to be a graceful beauty despite her scarlet locks remained a mystery to her only daughter.

Mama was unique. Special.

And Gwen was merely an oddity.

A fact that Frederick Smythe refused to accept.

“Please, Papa. The money can be used for Oxford when Gareth is ready. It has been seven years, and I am still a wallflower. What could possibly happen this year that would be different from any other year?”

Her father cocked his head, his lips quirking into his characteristic grin. “This year you could encounter the right man. The one who recognizes the perfection of my only daughter and falls at her feet, defeated by her magnificence.”

Gwen burst into laughter despite her resolve to steel herself against her father’s whimsies. She finally found the breath to respond.

“You are incorrigible, Papa.”

Blue eyes twinkled in the afternoon light. “Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiae fuit … There is no great genius without a touch of madness.”

Gwen shook her head. “Aristotle will not sweeten my temper, old man.”

“Ah, but we both know that is a lie.”

She bit her lip to prevent a smile, unable to argue with her father’s claim. It appeared there would be no dissuading him. The ball would proceed as stated over breakfast, and her visit to his study had not achieved a damned thing.