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 thebeau 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 witnessedthem 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 wantto 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 thefront, 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.
