Chapter 8

“Youth is easily deceived because it is quick to hope.”

Aristotle

Gwen awoke with a sense of guilt to find an unblinking Buttercup on the bed beside her, staring as if to criticize her for what she had done the previous night.

“Do not look at me that way.”

Buttercup’s slender snout twitched, and she whined in the back of her little throat, before rising to drop onto the floor and run out the door. Perhaps the dog needed the necessary, Gwen mused. She had certainly left in a hurry.

Gwen flopped over onto her back and thought about what she had done. Would it injure her father’s pride if he knew she had disclosed the truth of the Yorkshire property to Aidan? He had asked her a direct question, and she was poor at obfuscation. Her inherent honesty had the confession leaving her lips without fully intending to do so, but Aidan was bound to discover the truth at some point.

Being a member of high society was frustrating. There were so many constraints on behavior. The property belonged to Papa. It was his to sell. Why that had to be an embarrassment was ridiculous, but after the sale of that estate, her father had only the small London estate where they lived. In the eyes of the beau monde, that barely made him a landowner.

And everyone knew that there was nothing more important, more lauded, than being a landowner.

She supposed it was fortuitous that she was to marry. If word that the property had been sold got out, she would have been even less desirable than before. Their connections were weak, their wealth limited, and now her father only owned the one property.

Gwen suspected why her father was selling off his assets, but he had been close-lipped about it, even to her.

“Do not concern yourself, Gwendolyn. I know what I am doing.”

Gwen turned over, watching as Octavia opened the drapes to reveal the morning light. She hoped he did, but what could she do but trust him? For years, her father had insisted that the right man would come along, and somehow, he had been proved right.

“Word of your wedding is out,” announced Octavia.

Gwen looked up at her lady’s maid, whose head appeared to precariously balance on her shoulders from this angle. Sighing, Gwen pushed herself into a seated position to lean against the headboard.

“Apparently, it’s a love match,” Octavia continued.

Gwen huffed a laugh. “That is a bit rich. We only just met the night of the …” She waved a hand, unwilling to state the details.

“I have it on good authority that Lady Astley is telling everyone that Lord Abbott is smitten with your red hair.”

Gwen frowned, disconcerted. “Does he have a history of chasing women with red hair?”

Octavia shook her head. “He has no reputation in regard to women. Lord Abbott returned from his Grand Tour a couple of months ago, and until the ball, his name had not been linked with anyone.”

Noticing that Gwen had raised an eyebrow at her, Octavia shrugged. “I checked again. No history of redheads. No history at all.”

Gwen swallowed, staring down at her hands. “Do you think … that he is genuinely enthralled with me?”

Octavia leaned down and gave her a hug. “I do.”

“Would it be so! Imagine if we could be faithful partners and have many children together. Gareth would be an uncle, our family would grow, and Papa would have grandchildren. We have all been so lonely since Mama—” Gwen broke off, her throat thick with tears. “I could teach them?—”

The maid straightened up. “Just like Mrs. Smythe did.”

Gwen swiped the tears from her lashes, nodding. “Just so.”

“It’s well deserved, you hear! All these Seasons, I knew you were a catch. We were just waiting for the?—”

“Right man.” They said it together, before looking at each other and chuckling.

“Mr. Smythe said he would appear. The master said there’d be a gentleman who was overcome by your magnificence, and the perfection of your mind, and would fall at your feet … and he was right.”

“Papa is an eternal optimist.”

Octavia grinned, baring her crooked teeth. “What’s the alternative, Gwendolyn Smythe?”

Gwen pulled a face, trying to think. “To be an embittered old bat?”

A shout of laughter followed. “That’s right! The alternative is to be Lady Astley.”

“Who is now telling everyone that it is my red hair that attracted the gentleman to my side? Last year she was telling her acquaintances in private that my red hair was a curse, and the reason I would never wed.”

“Huh! Not so private, from what I hear.”

Gwen twisted her coverlet between her fingers, reluctant to admit the secret in her heart, but needing to state it aloud. “I … like him, Octavia. I really do. I want this to work out. He is handsome and kind and clever, but I never dreamed of finding such a match.”

A bony hand came out to tap her on the thigh. Gwen moved farther into the bed so that Octavia could sit on the mattress.

“Those girls at school muddled your head. You were always destined to make a great match with a wonderful man, but they convinced you that you are ugly. Do you know why they did it?”

Gwen shook her head, stricken by the thought it might be true.

“They envied you. You sailed through your lessons. No matter what you put your mind to, you do it well. Whether it be Ancient Greek, or needlework and music lessons. Your ability to learn intimidated them, and they bandied together to make nothing of you. It was cruel and meaningless because you’re a nice girl who would have helped them to succeed, too, if they’d only asked.”

“But, Octavia, Mama was a revered beauty while I have been mocked for nearly ten years.”

“And now a gentleman has seen what I see. A true original.”

In her heart of hearts, Gwen wanted to believe in moonlight and magic. That a decent, intelligent gentleman had noticed her. That she did not have to choose between an inferior marriage or being a childless spinster.

Gwen heaved a deep sigh. “I have to make this work. This is my chance to build a family.”

“That’s the spirit, Gwendolyn Smythe!”

Aidan staredat the note in his hand with a feeling of hope and dread. The cryptic contents revealed not which emotion he should pursue.

There has been a development - Filminster

Damn his brother-in-law. Why could he not state what the development was? Something that vindicated Frederick Smythe, or something that implicated him? Or, was the development completely unrelated?

Stretching his neck from side to side, Aidan decided to finish his breakfast while the servants prepared his mount. He had not slept well, and eating would assist him with his flagging energy.

Gesturing to their head footman, Thomas, Aidan made his request before returning to his eggs and ham. There had been much interruption to his routine of late because of the investigations they were doing into the other suspects. Ensuring he ate while he had the opportunity seemed well-advised, and the note had not indicated urgency.

Soon, he departed from the Abbott townhouse and headed to Ridley House. The butler, Michaels, who had saved his sister’s life from a desperate servant, answered the door. Aidan had thanked the man for his service the day of the attack, but the upper servant was known to have a cantankerous temperament, so Aidan had not been able to read the older man’s reaction. This meant Aidan had been having some difficulty trying to decide how to behave toward the man since the incident earlier in August.

Members of the upper class were meant to mostly ignore the servants, but the Abbott family had developed a relationship with some of theirs over time—a natural consequence of being a rather personable family that appreciated their retainers. Out of politeness, Aidan did not presume that servants in other households would expect or welcome undue attention from guests.

But what if the servant in question has saved a valued sister?

“Michaels.” Aidan settled for acknowledging the butler with a brief bow of the head. Michaels stared back at him, unblinking.

Aidan gritted his teeth. “Is Lord Filminster home?”

Michaels nodded curtly. Standing aside, he allowed Aidan entry into the hall. Shutting the door, he proceeded to lead the way to Filminster’s study, his heavy tread smacking the floor as if a troop of soldiers were encamping.

Aidan followed behind, shaking his head at the enigmatic servant. Lily had mentioned that Michaels had been offered retirement in gratitude, but had chosen to remain on, so Aidan supposed he must enjoy his role in some manner that was unclear from his sullen demeanor. He found the man odd, but considering what Michaels had done for Lily, Aidan understood it was his lot to tolerate the awkwardness of their interactions for as long as Michaels saw fit to continue in his role.

Mayhap Michaels remaining in his post was fortuitous, considering the killer was still on the loose and the butler had proved to be a man of action when it counted.

Being shown into Filminster’s study, Aidan discovered Trafford was there, lounging in an armchair. He still thought the other heir was something of a pontificating fool with his elaborate coats, waistcoats, and collection of breeches, pantaloons, and trousers. However, it was certainly to the man’s merit that he had been consistently contributing to their murder investigation. Aidan conceded that Trafford had demonstrated persistence and loyalty these past two weeks, which meant Aidan had to begrudgingly acknowledge that there were hidden depths to the clownish friend.

Taking a seat in a faded armchair, Aidan stretched out his legs and turned to his brother-in-law who was seated behind his mahogany desk.

“Well, Ridley, are you going to brief Little Breeches here or not?”

Aidan squashed his irritation at Trafford’s languid demand. Despite his resolve to maintain his composure, he heard himself say, “It is Filminster, not Ridley.”

Trafford narrowed his eyes and tilted his head toward Aidan. “Is he not Brendan Ridley, my old chum from around Town?”

Aidan snarled. “Is he not now the Baron of Filminster? Lord Filminster? Otherwise known to his peers as … Filminster?”

Trafford waved a hand in dismissal. “Tempers are short and patience is frayed. I will allow your comments to pass without further rebuke.”

Soughing heavily, Aidan reflected it was not untrue that his patience was frayed.

He wished to end the risk to Lily’s safety.

He also wished to find a killer other than Smythe for the sake of his future bride.

None of that took into account the restless night of dreaming of Gwen’s body pressed against his, the hungry return of her kisses, and the almost inaudible moans she made from the back of her throat, firing his blood and jolting him from his sleep. Perhaps it had been a mistake to take her out on the terrace after dinner, but the truth was he had to do it. The compulsion to be close, to breathe in her citrus scent and to sip on her honeyed lips, had been too much to resist.

“I apologize. You have known Filminster for some years, so address him as you wish.”

Trafford snickered. “I shall, Little Breeches.”

Aidan curled his fingers into a fist. The ongoing taunt was not worthy of acknowledgment. Trafford might very well never cease using it if Aidan allowed him the knowledge that it was so very irritating. This was his own fault for engaging rather than allowing Filminster to respond to Trafford’s prompt.

“Did something happen?” Aidan turned his attention back to his sister’s husband, who had clearly not been paying a smidgen of attention to the tense confrontation.

Instead, he was staring down at the colorful rug on the floor with a bemused expression. Aidan knew that look. It was how he must appear when he had time alone with his thoughts. He knew the precise and incessant thought that ran through his head that caused that look.

How do I find the killer, and resolve this muddle, before Lily is hurt again?

Trafford cleared his throat pointedly, causing Filminster to blink and return to their conversation.

“What happened?” Aidan questioned, when he still said nothing.

“The runner, Briggs, has had a couple men in the street monitoring Ridley House, and he reported that someone is watching the house. At his advice, I had the guards reduce their visibility to find out what the watchers would do … One of them broke into the library last evening but evaded the Johns when they attempted to capture him.”

Aidan jumped to his feet. “How long has the house been under surveillance? Why was I not informed?”

Filminster made eye contact with him, his eyes dull in the morning light. “There was no reason to cause your undue concern.”

A tide of fear on Lily’s behalf washed over Aidan as he began to pace. Throwing his hands up, he barked his next question. “Why do you not simply take Lily to Somerset? Remove her from this danger?”

Filminster sighed. “Briggs advises me it is safer to remain here. Here, we have guards and servants to defend Ridley House. If we depart, we will be in carriages and exposed.”

“But they are attempting to break in so they might search for the letter, not specifically for you or Lily!”

“If the killer who hired them believes we have found the letter, he might send a party after us. Out on the turnpikes, we would have little defense.”

“But the evidence we need might be there! We could solve this.”

“It is not that simple. My … uncle … kept copious records of everything. There are entire attics full of papers, journals, and accounts dating back decades. I can hardly endanger Lily’s safety on a long journey through the country, exposed to attack. Separating is out of the question. And, even then, once we were to reach Filminster, I would have weeks or months of pawing through piles of documentation to find anything useful because I can only entrust such a sensitive task to myself and perhaps some of Briggs’s men. Nay, the most expedient course is to flush the killer out with this investigation.”

Aidan growled, returning to his pacing while he tried to think. “Then remove with Lily to my parents’ home.”

Trafford stood up, rolling his shoulders. “It will not help, Little Breeches. Here Filminster has guards, as well as Michaels and the staff. Your parents are taking many of their servants with them to the country after the wedding, from what I understand. It is better for Ridley and his wife to remain here.”

“We need to solve this! Lily cannot remain in Ridley House forever!”

“Today is Saturday, which means you wed in a week. Lord and Lady Moreland will depart the following week, so you will be free to investigate Smythe and find out if there is a connection between his disposal of assets and the murder. Briggs has been looking into the sales, but it has not led to any new revelations.”

“How? How will I find out anything? I collect my bride on Saturday morning and then we will live in my parents’ home while our own home is being prepared.”

Filminster interrupted their exchange. “Perhaps you can convince Smythe to host you in his home? Perhaps … your parents’ townhouse is in need of urgent repairs and you think it will be less upheaval for Miss Smythe and you to remain in Smythe’s home until your new residence is ready?”

Aidan rubbed a hand over his face, considering the suggestion. His father had instructed that one of his London properties be prepared for Aidan and his bride, but it take a few weeks yet.

“It will be a strange request, but I suppose I could visit Smythe and put the request to him. I shall propose we marry in the Smythe home if I am to pretend repairs of such magnitude are required. It will not do for him to visit our home.”

“That might be best.” Filminster hesitated. “I know it is much to ask, but I would truly appreciate it. Smythe is the only suspect from our list who has any indications of questionable activities. He could be the one.”

As his heart sank, Aidan raised a hand to knead at his chest. He was hoping that one of the other investigations into their list of four suspects would bear fruit. Anything rather than hurt his intended in the near future.

Filminster must have noted his distress. “We will keep investigating the other men, but if Smythe killed my uncle, he will have to pay the price.”

“I know that. Lily’s safety is at risk, so I do not need reminding that it is my duty to reveal him as the killer if he did do it.”

“I regret that you are in this position … Aidan.” Filminster had moved closer, patting him on the shoulder even as he appeared uncomfortable. But Aidan appreciated the gesture.

Clearing his throat, he attempted to reciprocate. “Thank you … Brendan.”

Trafford chuckled, resuming his languid sprawl in the armchair. “It is heartwarming to witness family closeness.”

Aidan shut his eyes in aggravation. Trust the fop to ruin the moment. “Sod off, Trafford.”

Brendan laughed, his earlier bemusement forgotten, and Aidan caught a glimpse of the carefree fellow that his brother-in-law might be under less trying circumstances. “You are one of us now, Aidan. Only Trafford’s nearest and dearest tell him to sod off.”

Aidan shook his head. “If we reach the day that Trafford and I are friends, you should take me out back and put a musket ball through my head because it can only mean I have achieved a preposterous level of farce.”

Trafford pulled a face. “Careful, Little Breeches. You might hurt my feelings.”

“Do you have any?” Aidan shot back.

The clown shrugged. “Occasionally.”

Aidan snorted in disgust, albeit with an iota of gratitude that the fool did make him forget his troubles for a moment here or there. He supposed the other heir might have some use under the right circumstances, such as when a man was doing his best to act with honor to the women in his life.

How on earth had he managed to find himself toiling to secure Lily’s safety at the same time as protecting Gwen from scandal? Next week he would wed and this muddle would become ever more complicated.