The woman bobbed her head, her hair as white as snow and gathered in a coiffure twenty years out of date.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.
CHAPTER 3
“Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together;
it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature. Each of us, then, is a matching half of a human whole … and each of us is always seeking the half that matches him.”
Plato
“Plato is dear to me, but dearer still is truth.”
Aristotle
Aidan was fortunate in discovering Frederick Smythe’s study at the end of the hall that Trafford had led him down, just two doors from the library. The room was in darkness when he entered it, but after fumbling around in the dark for several minutes, he managed to light a candle by the cabinetpositioned near the door.
Holding the candle carefully, Aidan made his way over to the desk near the fireplace. He sat in the desk chair, grimacing in irritation at the height. Smythe was several inches shorter than he, making for an awkward placement of his long legs.
Opening the drawers on the right, Aidan pulled out a stack of pages into the lit space on the surface. Flipping through, he whistled quietly to himself in the shadows of the room.
He was holding bills of sale. Paintings,objets d’art, even a piece of land located north of London. Thousands of pounds, even tens of thousands. All within the past six months.
Rumors of Smythe’s financial troubles had not been overstated. Why would a man need to liquidate so much? Had the heir fallen into debilitating gambling habits? Was he facing bankruptcy for some reason?
Excitement unfurled in Aidan’s gut. The sheaf in his hand pointed to a tangible motive. Smythe appeared to be desperate for funds, which meant he could very well have been desperate to silence Filminster’s uncle by thwacking him to death.
If they could uncover evidence of Smythe’s violent act, and have him arrested, Lily would be safe and this terrible time would be over.
Aidan pulled an inkstand closer, picking up a quill and searching for a blank leaf of paper. Methodically, he made notes, writing down the details from the bills. The purchaser, the amount and the item sold of each, and any addresses mentioned. The runner, Briggs, could use the list to track down more information.
Finding the pounce, Aidan sprinkled it on to dry the ink. Blowing it off, he carefully folded the list and put it away in the inside pocket of his coat. His lurking had proved successful, and perhaps they had found their man. It would be arelief to end these furtive activities, which were a constant source of disquiet. He was not made to engage in such deceit, the ethics of the matter raising perpetual questions to dwell on.
Aidan carefully returned the bills to the drawer, then placed the inkstand and quill where he had found them and used a handkerchief to wipe away evidence of his presence from the surface of the desk. He rose, pushing in the seat where he had found it before making his way back to the cabinet to return the candle and its holder. Leaning down, he blew the flickering flame out.
Walking over to the door, he paused. The sound of voices in the hall outside made his heart pick up speed. Looking about in the light of the full moon, his eyes slowly adjusted to notice that the windows across the room were French doors leading to a terrace. The voices grew louder, and Aidan realized he needed to move quickly.
Loping across the room, he fumbled to open the doors. He flickered his eyes back and forth to ensure that no one was about to witness his departure from the study.
About thirty feet down the terrace stood a woman, framed by the light of the full moon and enthralled by the view. Aidan drew in a deep breath and prayed the door was well lubricated. If it squeaked, she would be alerted to his presence and know he had exited Smythe’s study, which would ruin his mission.
He slowly opened the door and mentally praised the servants for their diligence when it failed to make even the slightest of sounds. Stepping through onto the terrace, he quietly drew the door shut behind him and made his way to the stone balustrade as if he had been viewing the gardens.
He placed his hands on the stone, which was still warm from the afternoon sun, gazing up at the silvery moon above and humbled by the majesty of the night sky.
