Chapter 2

“The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.”

Aristotle

The past ten days in Trafford’s company had been excruciating. Together, they had attended several social events, to Aidan’s chagrin, the pursuit of information notwithstanding. Trafford was not the kind of companion he wished to be associated with, but they had been seen in public together the length and breadth of Mayfair, while Aidan had been forced to put up with Trafford’s antics.

Currently, Aidan stood by the corner, observing the home of Mr. Frederick Smythe amid the loud clatter of carriage wheels.

The night sky was adorned with silvery clouds and a large full moon, but his vantage point on the street blocked the view of the magical evening unfolding above.

“How do you plan to get in without an invitation?”

Trafford waved his hand in dismissal, contemplating the arriving guests with a focused gaze. Aidan growled in irritation, wishing for any other conspirator than this dandified fool. Nevertheless, he stepped back to give the other man the space he had requested.

This is for Lily.

The reminder helped quell his resentment of playing batman to the oaf whom Filminster had paired him with. He had attempted to question Lily about Trafford’s involvement, but she had cheerfully chattered about the new books she had ordered for their library, as if she had not faced death and injury less than a fortnight earlier.

“If Brendan trusts Trafford, then so do I” was the only response she had provided. Which must have meant she did not know the fop all that well.

Aidan cracked his knuckles, pacing behind Trafford while he awaited the oaf’s direction.

Suddenly, Trafford broke the silence. “I see my great-aunt, Gertrude, with her husband.” With that, he took off toward the Smythe home, his gold silk tails flapping in his wake. Aidan watched hesitantly before reluctantly following his now-constant companion. Trafford weaved through the line of carriages in the rounded drive, skipping up to an elderly couple who were descending from the carriage in front.

“Aunty!”

A wizened old lady with stooped shoulders in blue silk squinted up at her nephew before clapping her hands in excitement. “Julius, my boy!”

Trafford leaned down, and a trembling hand was extended from beneath an embroidered shawl. She pinched his cheek between arthritic fingers, beaming with pleasure. Behind her was the husband, an equally ancient man in old-fashioned breeches, white stockings, and buckled shoes, which did little to disguise the march of time in that his legs were spindly from insufficient use.

“What are you doing here, boy?”

Aidan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Trafford was anything but a boy. The man clearly had dallied with numerous women of the ton, attired as a coxcomb with far too much allowance to waste on clothing. Only a nearsighted great-aunt could affectionately view him as a boy.

“I was just walking by with my friend.” Trafford gestured in Aidan’s direction, who gritted his teeth. They were on a small but elegant estate near the Thames—private property—which belied the notion that they happened to just be passing by. “Are you attending an event?”

“It is the Smythe ball. Frederick has a daughter he has been attempting to marry off for years. She is a dear girl, but the boys do not like her, I am afraid.”

“That is a pity. I was hoping to catch up, but if you are otherwise occupied …” Trafford trailed off with deliberation, baiting his great-aunt.

“Come with us, Julius! Frederick will be delighted to have such strapping young men in attendance.”

Trafford fell into place, joining arms with his relation and assisting her up the stairs into the lit entrance hall. Aidan puffed out a breath and followed them in reluctantly with the frail husband, fighting the impulse to hold out his own arm to help the aristocrat who doddered up the steps at a snail’s pace.

Soon they stood in the long receiving line, Trafford chattering with his great-aunt while the husband stared sightlessly about as if lost in the recesses of his elderly mind.

From his considerable height, Aidan could see over the heads of most of the nobles. Up ahead, his attention was caught by a statuesque redhead greeting guests next to the host, a tidy man in his fifties similar in height.

The young woman was breathtaking. Worthy of adorning the Elgin Marbles that Parliament had acquired for the British Museum in recent years, salvaged from the Acropolis in Athens. A veritable Greek goddess with Titian red hair, an elegant Grecian nose, and creamy skin. But it was the delightful spray of freckles across her glowing skin that disappeared under the edge of her bodice that made his thoughts turn to lascivious activities.

Aidan had always had a fondness for scarlet tresses, but he had never seen a woman of such magnificence before. Her small, high breasts were artfully draped in the current fashion inspired by the sculptures of the ancient world, her tall figure and slim hips beautifully suited to the flowing ivory silk that made him think of a divine carving come to life to converse with the mere mortals.

The thought of peeling the fabric from her warm skin sent a rush of heat through his veins, a sensation that he was unaccustomed to, but this woman was unique, a daughter of polite society without comparison.

Was this the so-called ape-leader destined for spinsterhood? Were the men of London afflicted with blindness?

Rubbing a hand over his shaven chin, Aidan’s spirits suddenly lifted at the realization that when he reached the end of the receiving line, he would meet the glowing deity gracing this earthly gathering with her presence.

“It is time to go.”

Aidan slowly comprehended that the statement was directed at him. Trafford was peering at him with a questioning look, clearly wondering what had Aidan so riveted but bobbing his head toward a side hall leading away from the receiving line. Disappointment made Aidan’s spirits plummet once more, the recollection of Lily’s situation a painful reminder that an introduction to the beauty at the end of the hall was not in the cards for this evening. For just a brief moment, he had been distracted from his recent troubles, but it was not to be. With a lingering sense of disappointment, he departed with Trafford from the hall of chattering guests.

Soon they stood together in a dimly lit library in silence.

“Do you have any notion how ridiculous you look in this—” Aidan threw his hand out at Trafford’s gold coat.

“Now, now, Little Breeches. There is no need to tell Banbury stories … I am unduly handsome in my brocade, which we both well know.”

Aidan snorted in disgust. It was a farce to be engaged in this investigation with the clownish Trafford, but he had no choice. Filminster’s other relations and close friends, the Earl of Saunton and the Duke of Halmesbury, had both departed for their country estates, which meant Trafford was the only other man Lily’s husband trusted to assist in securing her safety.

Considering Aidan had only recently returned from his Grand Tour, he was hardly in a position to present trusted associates for Filminster to consider for inclusion in their plot to reveal a murderer.

“Did a certain young woman capture your eye out in the hall? You seemed rather bemused.”

Aidan looked away, unwilling to discuss the magic of laying eyes on whom he assumed was the young Miss Smythe. He could hardly obtain an introduction to a debutante when he planned to uncover her father’s involvement in a murder.

“Is Aunty not surprised at our departure? I thought you were to catch up?” His sneer was a thinly veiled shift of subject. Trafford grinned, his lean face lighting up in amusement at Aidan’s obvious ploy.

“Aunty will quite forget she saw me tonight by the time she reaches the head of the line. She and Uncle are quite easily distracted these days, and I saw an opportunity to proceed with our plans.”

It was a relief the other man did not pursue the subject of Miss Smythe. Aidan was still rather taken aback at his visceral reaction, and would like to consider what it meant when he had a moment of privacy. That would be much later tonight once he had completed this dastardly errand. This was not a time for musings, but for action!

“What is the plan?”

“I think I shall wander about and gather information while you search Smythe’s office.”

Aidan wanted to argue. Sneaking through a gentleman’s private places was not his idea of an excellent or honorable pastime, but he could not deny that Trafford was better at soliciting information. Not least because the idiot seemed to know almost the entire ton and their servants, with the exception of marriageable misses. Aidan hated being disingenuous and violating peoples’ trust by searching their homes, but …

This is for Lily! To keep her safe.

His father would have definite opinions about what Aidan had been doing these past two weeks, which was why Lord Moreland had not been informed of their informal enquiry into six heirs. To date, they had managed to rule out only one of the men on the list. The gentleman in question had been holed up in the country with his family after a serious fall, so could not have been the murderous visitor on the night of the coronation.

There were six men to investigate, but Smythe was the man at the top of their list. He was the heir to a baron, which made him a promising suspect because the murdered Baron of Filminster had been seated with other barons the day of his murder.

There were whispers of Smythe selling off assets in the clubs, and Filminster had pointed out that a suspect with some sort of financial difficulty could certainly be driven to a passionate act such as murder if the late baron had threatened his future inheritance.

“I will meet you in the ballroom when I am done.”

Trafford nodded. “Have fun, Little Breeches. You might learn interesting things when you search through a man’s private belongings.”

Aidan frowned, unsure what Trafford was alluding to, but before he could respond, he was left alone, the ostentatious golden tails of the other man’s coat the last thing one could see from the dim interior of the room.

Sighing heavily, Aidan walked over to the door to peek his head out and look about. Where would Smythe’s private study be?

Gwen’s cheekswere hurting from the smile fixed on her face. She had stood by her father’s side and welcomed every single guest into their home. Most of the men had barely acknowledged her, preferring her father’s company. This was not surprising because her father possessed considerable charm, along with an irreverent wit which his companions enjoyed.

The women had been dismissive, smirking behind their fans, except for a few older biddies who had sympathetically asked if anyone was courting her yet.

The latter was worse, in her opinion. Protracted conversations about her lack of success, while she attempted to shift the subject, had made the muscles in her face strain from the enforced platitudes and cheerful expressions under the onslaught of judgment.

How she wished she could be more ordinary. Her general appearance caught the attention of others, and exposed her to pity and ridicule, or disinterest. Gwen had once dreamed of making a match, despite her physical shortcomings, but it had only taken a Season or two to realize this was not to be. How she had wished her mother had still been here to offer her guidance, but by the time she was a young lady entering society, they had already lost their extraordinary light and Gwen had had to fend for herself. Soon she had learned how to shield herself from judgment so that she no longer paid any attention.

It still hurts.

Gwen skirted the ballroom and admitted the truth. After all these years, she remained disappointed that she had never found her match. Her parents had been deeply in love, and when her mother had become ill, her father had vowed to take care of Gwen and Gareth. They had spent their final time together in the privacy of their home, focusing all their attentions on enjoying Mama’s last days together, and she had left this earth after securing a promise from each of them to attend each other.

Papa, Gwen, and Gareth had taken pains to remain a close family. It was their way of honoring Mama’s wishes. Gareth wrote to them every week from Eton, her and Papa reading his letters together, and Gwen writing their mutual responses and news. Her mother would be pleased with their efforts.

If only Gwen could have made a match, she could have babes of her own who would continue their family legacy, but it was not to be. If her mother were here to speak with, Gwen would ask for her advice as a woman navigating the ton, but after seven unsuccessful Seasons, it was clear that she would never marry.

It would be easier to not think about the disappointment of unfulfilled yearnings if her father would stop dragging her onto the marriage market each year. He refused to accept that Gwen was undesirable to the men of the beau monde.

Gwen watched the dancers twirling on the floor, a flurry of colorful skirts and the dark hues of the men, and reflected on the irony that she barely danced at her own balls. A few of her father’s friends would politely fill in her dance card, but she would be fortunate to fill even half of her dances.

Sighing, she looked down at the card tied to her wrist. She had three free dances, which in her estimation was sufficient time to take some air on the terrace, thus removing herself from prying eyes.

Decision made, Gwen began to weave her way through the guests chattering on the perimeter of the floor, heading toward the French doors on the other end.

“Miss Smythe!”

Gwen wished to ignore the call and keep moving to the doors, but her innate sense of honesty would not allow it. She paused and turned, finding Lady Gertrude Hays peering up at her. The old lady was a cheerful woman who was well-meaning but garrulous. Her heart sank.

“Are you enjoying your evening, Lady Hays?”

The woman bobbed her head, her hair as white as snow and gathered in a coiffure twenty years out of date. A blue plume hung at an alarming angle from a hideous turban, nearly catching her in the creases of her eye. Gwen smiled, gently reaching out to straighten the feather before Lady Hays put her eye out.

“My great-nephew is here. I would like to introduce him to you, if I may.” She peered around the ballroom, her eyes so clouded with age that she squinted to see. After a few moments, she turned back to Gwen. “I am afraid I cannot see him. Have you met him? Lord Julius Trafford? He is a dear boy.”

Gwen shook her head. Lord Trafford’s reputation preceded him, though. Why on earth would he be attending their ball, she wondered in surprise. Perhaps there was a guest who had captured his attentions. “I have not had the pleasure, my lady.”

“I shall locate him.”

With great relief, Gwen watched Lady Hays walk away. This was her chance to make her escape. Grabbing hold of her ivory skirts to raise them off the floor, Gwen strode toward the terrace doors despite the inappropriate speed. The other guests were occupied, and they did not appreciate her as it was. Why worry what they might think of her racing through the room, if they paid her any mind at all?

Stepping around their guests, she finally reached the other end of the ballroom. Anticipating a respite from her duties, she reached out her hand to grasp the handle and, sweeping the door open, she exited the room and swung the door closed behind her.

Several guests were milling outside, leaning against the stone balustrade that overlooked the garden. Gwen moved away, walking around the corner and gasping in astonishment when she beheld a full moon. Puffy clouds were lit with its silver light while the star-studded heavens gazed down from their lofty heights. It was a beautiful night, and her bruised ego was forgotten as she took in the magic of the nocturnal tapestry.

It was an occasion of such romance, it took her breath away, and she wished that she had a young gentleman at her side to share the view with.

Gwen sighed, the loveliness of the moment melancholy with her unfulfilled desires. Every young woman should be able to share an evening like this with a lover at least once, she reflected. Alas, it was not to be.