Chapter 6

“We make war that we may live in peace.”

Aristotle

Aidan entered the club and made his way through a bank of tables and chairs to join Filminster and Trafford in the farthest corner. Several gentlemen stopped mid-conversation to follow him with their eyes. Whispers dogged his heels as he reached the other side in relief, noting that the location had been chosen by his fellow conspirators because it was too far for anyone to overhear their discussion.

Dropping into a plump armchair, Aidan breathed deeply. Being the subject of gossip was a new experience for him. Thus far, he had always stayed out of trouble, following his conscience to live an honorable life. He hoped Gwen was not suffering too sharply as a result of their tryst two nights earlier.

Across from him, Trafford scowled before leaning forward to thrust a news sheet across the table between them. Aidan glanced down, reading about the chaos he had created when he was found with Gwen’s lithe body pressed against his, the impression of her soft breasts against his chest still heating his blood at the briefest recollection of it. He liked that she was taller than most women. It had been easy to lean down and claim her lips with his.

“Have you lost your mind, Little Breeches?”

Trafford’s idle air was not in evidence this morning. Filminster held out a hand to quieten him.

“It appears that matters have gotten out of hand.” His brother-in-law was eyeing Aidan with curiosity. “Or did you find something that cleared Smythe of the murder before …” Filminster raised his brows suggestively.

“Before you stuck your tongue down his daughter’s throat in a marvelous display of discretion and judgment, Little Breeches?” Trafford’s ire was obvious, the lines of his body suggesting he was holding down a fine temper.

“Why are you angry?” Aidan was genuinely curious to see the other heir so outraged.

“This one and his wife are in danger”—Trafford gestured at Filminster—“and you were meant to be tactful about investigating the man. Now you have drawn unwarranted attention not only to yourself, but to me. Aunty Gertrude sent a note to my father yesterday to inform him that I was at the ball, and that my companion has ruined an innocent. The whole family is in an uproar over it.”

Filminster coughed into his fist. “To be fair, Trafford, you did complain that you were bored.”

Trafford scowled. “I create my own entertainment. Involving Father is not entertaining.”

Aidan’s brother-in-law hid a smile, clearly teasing his friend, which Aidan supposed was a good sign. Life was returning to normal at Ridley House if they could just make certain that the killer was apprehended. It was the only path to secure Lily’s future safety.

“I think Smythe might be our man.” Aidan pulled out the list he had written on the night of the ball, placing it on the table in front of Filminster. The other man raked a hand through his dark curls, staring down at the page before picking it up to unfold it.

“It is a list of assets that Smythe has sold. All within the past two months if you check the dates. He appears to have some sort of financial trouble, which would certainly provide motive for protecting his inheritance.”

Filminster ran a finger down the list, turning the page. He whistled, looking up at Trafford. “This is a small fortune. Smythe must be spending a lot of blunt to need this.”

Trafford frowned, pulling the list to read it himself. “I have been busy looking into our other suspects, but I have heard no mention of gambling or mistresses in regards to Smythe. No rumors that would explain why he needs funds.”

Filminster leaned forward, viewing the list again. “Could he be involved in a land purchase? That might explain the need for funds?”

Aidan considered this. “There was no mention during our negotiations yesterday. Miss Smythe’s dowry does not amount to much, so my father made generous concessions in the interests of expediency. I shall have to raise the subject with Smythe the next time we meet to learn if there are any legitimate reasons for him to be liquidating in this manner.”

Filminster nodded. “Your sister is astonished at the news. She tells me it is quite unlike you to be caught in such a dishonorable manner.”

Aidan straightened up, feeling defensive. “Gwen is … special.”

“So special that you are willing to risk marrying into a family that you are investigating for murder?”

Aidan dropped his gaze to stare at the grain of the table. He could not explain what had happened in the moonlight. He just knew his desire to take care of the young woman, to protect his beauty from the cruelty of the beau monde, and to ensure she did not fall into neglect or poverty, had become essential to him since they had been caught together.

“If Smythe is our man, Gwen will need protection. No matter what comes, she is innocent and does not deserve to face the world alone if her father is arrested.”

Trafford interjected, which was a welcome respite, pointing to the list lying in front of them. “I am looking into the other men on the list, but there are no indications of a tangible motive such as this. This certainly signals that there is more to Smythe than meets the eye. He is selling off property, art, jewels. There is little doubt that he is hiding something here.”

Aidan nodded. “I spoke with my father about it, and he thought it was a suspicious number of transactions. He noted it was either to cover crippling debts or to make a major purchase of some sort. Filminster, perhaps you can put out queries about such a purchase while Trafford continues to look into the other men on the list?”

“I have ruled out at least one of these men.” Trafford pulled out a notebook, turning to a page where he had listed the suspects. Looking about to ensure no club employees were in earshot, he returned to the page. “Miller, along with his older brother who holds the title, was at a soirée until the early hours after the coronation. The servants witnessed them throughout and told me both brothers were too soused to walk, never mind leave the soirée. I confirmed the dinner was too far to walk to Ridley House, and they did not call for their carriage until after dawn. I think it is safe to scratch him from the list.”

Filminster nodded. “My runner, Briggs, confirmed that Miller is wealthy in his own right, so there is no indication of a motive.”

Trafford pulled out a pencil to scratch the name, leaving the names of four heirs. Aidan stared down at the names, but it was Smythe’s name, first on the list, that held his attention.

“The more I think about the baron’s letter, the more convinced I am that Smythe is the man we seek. His older brother is a baron, which means that your uncle sat with him or near him at the coronation, which was the primary opportunity for the baron to speak with anyone before his murder. He has some sort of financial mess, and my father tells me that his older brother who holds the title is exceptionally fond of him—just as the letter stated.”

Filminster shook his head, his expression sympathetic. “God help you, if that is the case, Aidan. I cannot imagine having to break that kind of news to Lily. Your bride will be devastated if her father is tried and hanged—more so if her husband is the accuser. I do not envy the position you are in.”

Aidan’s reticence returned. “Lily must be protected, no matter how difficult it might be. And I will take care of Gwen if that comes to pass.”

“I understand, but … I hope for your sake and that of your betrothed that we uncover another suspect.”

“I concur. It is quite a pickle you have put yourself in, Little Breeches.” Trafford had returned to his usual state of repose, his ire forgotten. “Your bride is going to hate you if you do this.”

Aidan did not like this thought. He certainly did not want to see Gwen with hate in her eyes or on her lips. What he wanted was her warm body against his, to take her mouth with his and feel her glorious responsiveness as she moaned in the back of her throat. He wanted to hear Manilius and Shakespeare spoken in her melodic voice, and argue about Aristotle’s teachings in front of the fireplace. Love, intelligence, and honor for the rest of their days.

“I will work it out.” He could hear the note of uncertainty, shutting his eyes to dig deep within his soul.

I have to work it out.

“I will work it out.” This time, his tone was resolute. Firm.

Filminster glanced down, clearly uncomfortable about pressing the issue. He and Aidan were not close—they barely knew each other. They were united by the cause of defending Lily from the murderous fiend who had taken the late baron’s life.

Even so, it was difficult to openly discuss their inner thoughts about how matters were unfolding when they were veritable strangers. Aidan regretted that he found himself without close friends in London after being on a Grand Tour for the past three years. He had no one with whom to freely discuss the quagmire he was sinking into.

Filminster rubbed his jaw, evidently trying to think of how to commiserate with his newly acquired relation. “Perhaps we will find another viable suspect. Maybe Smythe has a reasonable explanation for these funds he is procuring.”

That would be the best possible outcome, but Aidan knew that Smythe was up to something, so he did not hold much hope that he would not find himself in the untenable situation of accusing Gwen’s father. It was imperative Aidan wed her before the investigation progressed. Then he could take care of her and her younger brother, regardless of how muddled matters might become.

Gwen and Octaviaentered the modiste rooms owned by Signora Ricci with a list in hand. Her father had instructed her to prepare for a wedding and a new rank. Once Lord Abbott and she took their vows, she would no longer be the mere niece of a baron. Nay, she would ascend to be the wife of a future viscount from a powerful and wealthy family.

Daunting as that was, Signora Ricci was Gwen’s secret weapon. A talisman of self-assurance. It had been many years earlier when she had hunted through Mayfair to find a competent dressmaker who could make the best of her unduly tall form and slight … feminine qualities.

Gwen had needed to build her confidence in the aftermath of a particularly grueling ball—with too many nasty digs from her old schoolmates—and Signora Ricci was the artiste who lifted Gwen’s spirits with her draping gowns and compliments.

With a thick Italian accent, the signora had waved away the silly remarks of foolish English debutantes to inform Gwen that she would be considered an ornate gem of great value on the Continent.

Gwen was not a fool. She understood the proprietress made coin by flattering her patrons, but it had been a boon to hear such compliments when she had really needed it, and the new gowns had been far more flattering than her previous dismal wardrobe.

Octavia took off ahead of her to flitter through bolts of fabric, smoothing silks and cottons with her hands while shaking her head in dismissal at others. The lady’s maid had impeccable taste when it came to preparing Gwen for the public eye. She was also an entertaining chaperone for outings such as these.

Gwen stooped to peer at a display of gloves near the front, when behind her she heard the door open and the attached bell ringing to announce the arrival of another patron. Glancing over her shoulder, her stomach tightened in dread when she saw who had arrived.

Millicent ‘Milly’ Jameson, now Lady Tuttle of West Essex.

And Gwen’s least favorite nemesis from when they had attended school together nearly a decade before.

Milly paused, taking in the sight of Gwen with narrowed eyes and her customary sneer.

“Well, well. Gwen, Gwen …”

Milly did not finish the moniker, but it was left hanging in the air, spelled out in giant letters—Gwen, Gwen, the Spotted Giraffe.

Gwen straightened and, as usual, found herself without a defense against the unwarranted disdain that her peeresses insisted on perpetuating all these years. She stared at the other woman, finding no retort.

“Milly …” she finally croaked out.

“Is it true, Gwen-Gwen? Are you to join our ranks as a viscountess?”

Gwen swallowed, unsure of what to say. She was usually so good with words, but when she encountered one of the old guard from school, she simply fell apart at the memory of her two years of torment.

The other girls had hated her, and they had not allowed a day to pass without playing cruel jokes or taunting her with the horrible sobriquet aimed at the fact that she had a growth spurt and towered above the other students. Her father had not realized what was happening, dealing with the repercussions of her mother’s death, until it had been too late. He had brought her home once he knew, but Gwen’s confidence had been shattered by the animosity she had experienced.

The only time she was happy and confident was with her books and learning. Any contact with society inevitably led to encountering one of her old sorority, and she was ill-prepared to contend with Milly at the moment.

Octavia appeared out of nowhere to stand at her side, her attitude one of a mother hen. “That’s correct. Miss Smythe is betrothed to Lord Abbott.”

Milly did not acknowledge the servant, her eyes flickering over Gwen to find fault. The woman was high-society perfection. Slender, about six or seven inches shorter than Gwen, with a full bosom and perfect blonde curls. She had the refined nose and rosebud mouth. She had received several proposals in her first Season, and not held back about ensuring Gwen was aware, before making a match with a middle-aged viscount.

Milly arched her blonde eyebrows in a dismissive manner. “Lord Abbott is quite the catch, although I had not heard he was blind.”

The implication was clear, as Milly’s cold blue eyes raked over Gwen in disparagement. Gwen’s disquiet grew, barely noticing the growl that her companion emitted by her side.

Ouch!

Gwen threw an angry glance at Octavia, who was smiling beatifically, not at all the expression of a woman who had just kicked her in the ankle. The lady’s maid narrowed her eyes pointedly, tilting her head ever so slightly. Octavia was clearly of the belief that Gwen needed to be more aggressive.

Gwen cleared her throat to respond. “Lord Abbott and I are to wed.” Another growl from Octavia indicated that she expected Gwen to stand up for herself. “He is … quite taken with me.”

Milly burst out laughing, the mocking tone reminding Gwen of school. Of being too tall. Of not fitting in. Of missing her mother, and wishing she could return home. Of not wanting to burden her father with her problems when they all had their mourning to deal with.

“Is he?”

Octavia squared her shoulders, rearing to say something to the spiteful peeress. And Gwen suddenly surged out of her head to watch the interaction from above, perceiving the entire situation from a different angle than she was accustomed to. She realized she felt … emboldened.

Lord Abbott had said he knew who she was. He had tugged her into his arms for a passionate kiss and later compared her to Venus by Botticelli. He declared the soft words of great poets in the moonlight. A handsome young gentleman such as him had no reason to seek her out as he had—unless he had wanted to do so.

“He is.”

It was stated with firm conviction. She had given him several opportunities to walk away, and he had remained at her side, persuading her to marry him.

Octavia shot her a look, surprised but delighted by Gwen’s self-defense.

Milly blinked, clearly startled that Gwen had found her backbone. She forced a laugh. “Certainly, dear. An heir needs to ensure the continuation of the line.”

Ha! So I am nothing more than a broodmare?

But Lord Abbott had not been seeking a wife. No rumors of his courting had been spoken of. He himself had stated that he had had no thoughts of marriage, but, despite this, he found himself willing to wed her.

“Certainly, that is his duty,” affirmed Gwen, without any distress. What did Milly know of what had transpired between her and Lord Abbott?

The other woman narrowed her eyes, obviously intent on finding a chink in her armor. “Do not be alarmed when he grows bored and seeks the attention of other … lovelier … ladies of the ton. I, myself, was hailed as a diamond of the first water.”

Milly smugly tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. The inference being that Gwen’s betrothed would find someone like her far more enticing than Gwen herself once they wed.

Octavia’s head bobbed forward, her crooked teeth practically bared, but Gwen realized she did not need someone to stand up for her. Instead, she found her feet—it was time to fight back.

“I heard your old Lord Tuttle is continuing his line. His mistress in Cheapside is increasing, I believe?”

Milly drew back, almost hissing. Men of the peerage kept their mistresses, as Octavia had stated the day before, but no one acknowledged such.

“I am just thankful that my betrothed is young … and besotted with me.” Gwen reached up to lovingly finger her much-maligned ginger tresses, realizing she was rather excited to marry Lord Abbott. Their moment in the moonlight had been transcendent, and his comparison of her to the Birth of Venus had not been glib. She was tall and slender, and she certainly possessed the red hair of the subject of that masterpiece.

His ardor had not been feigned, if the recollection of a certain rigidness in the region of his falls were anything to go by.

She was not a broodmare courted on the marriage mart, but an object of passion for the gentleman.

“Which is why we will enjoy our travels to Italy together once we are married.”

Lawks! She hoped she was not overstepping with her announcement.

It was just that for a moment she had found empowerment in owning her change in circumstances, and finally believing Lord Abbott’s declaration of interest in her.

It was invigorating to believe in the possibility of love. The kind of great adoration that her parents had shared. To dare to hope their moonlight passion might turn into a match for the ages, and that they would have babes to cherish who, in turn, would gaze upon their parents with awe.

Milly huffed. “We shall see.”

It was a weak rejoinder, the other woman not having any other retort to give.

Gwen smiled. “We will.”

Octavia shot her a look of approval, bouncing with excitement to finally see her mistress standing up for herself. Gwen made a slight face in response, thrilled to attack rather than retreat, but still startled to …

Lawks! I truly hope I did not overstep!

She did not want to make the mistake of becoming over-confident and then discover a fly in the ointment that invalidated her tentative bravado. But Lord Abbott struck her as an honorable gentleman, and Octavia had imparted only positive news regarding the Abbott family, so perhaps this was finally her time.