Chapter 16
Sixteen
“Suffering becomes beautiful when anyone bears great calamities with cheerfulness, not through insensibility but through greatness of mind.”
Aristotle
Gwen sat still as stone, her fingers buried in Buttercup’s soft fur, absently stroking the spaniel’s silky head as sorrow dulled her senses. She felt as though she had been hollowed out, the fire in her chest reduced to brittle ash.
Footsteps approached in the corridor. They slowed, then came to a halt just beyond the locked door.
“Gwen?”
His voice.
Lord Aidan Abbott. Her husband. Her betrayer.
Gwen did not respond, nor did she turn her head. A tear slipped down the slope of her cheek, cool against her skin, and she dashed it away with the back of her hand. A part of her wanted to rise and throw open the door. To demand answers. To hear some explanation that might lessen the ache.
But she was not ready.
Her delicate, precious dreams had been crushed, and all she could do was sit amidst the wreckage and mourn.
“I am so sorry, Gwen,” came the muffled voice again. “Please … let me in so we can speak of what happened.”
Buttercup shifted in her lap, lifting her head with a worried whimper, brown eyes searching Gwen’s face for reassurance. Gwen shook her head slowly, whispering, “Not today, girl. Not today.”
“Gwen?”
His voice—low, coaxing—scraped raw along her nerves. How easily he had lied to her, all soft-spoken charm and ardent glances. Aidan Abbott was no hero. He was Hades, spinning poetry as he lured her into the underworld.
And she, Gwendolyn Smythe, the Spotted Giraffe, had been fool enough to believe him.
Footsteps retreated down the corridor. Buttercup huffed quietly and tucked her head against Gwen’s ribs once more.
Outside the window, the storm rolled away in slow procession. Golden light spilled across the floor in stripes, growing more vivid as the clouds thinned. The sky bloomed with color. Dusky violet, burnished rose, fire-bright orange. A wound bleeding beauty into the twilight.
The handle of the door rattled again.
Gwen did not stir.
Then came another knock.
“Gwendolyn Smythe, are you in there?” Octavia’s voice was hushed with worry. “Are you well?”
Gwen remained where she sat, her fingers lost in Buttercup’s silky ears. She offered no answer. The door handle rattled again.
“Let me in. Please. I only wish to know that you are well.”
Still Gwen made no reply. She could not be expected to soothe others when she herself felt splintered down the center. Whatever came next could wait. This moment belonged to grief.
The wreckage of what might have been, the dreams she had dared to nurture, lay strewn about as so much debris in a field after a tempest. She would gather the pieces come morning. But tonight … tonight was for mourning what she had believed was true.
A beat passed. Then another. At last, the gentle echo of retreating steps marked Octavia’s departure.
Darkness embraced the room. The sunset had faded, leaving no trace but a dusky gray.
Shadows softened the furniture, and Gwen sat unmoving save for her hand gliding over Buttercup’s warm back.
The little dog curled in her lap like an ember of comfort, and Gwen clung to that flicker of warmth with quiet desperation.
She considered rising. Perhaps she ought to light the lamp or change into her night rail.
But the effort seemed monumental. Instead, she turned her cheek to the velvet cushions of the chair, letting memory carry her to a time when she had been a girl with a mother who brushed her curls and promised the world held joy and love in abundance.
She longed for her mother’s arms. For the balm of that soothing voice and the scent of lavender water and linen.
You cannot hide forever, Gwendolyn, her mother would have said with gentle command. The world may break your heart, but you must always rise.
Gwen exhaled, the breath long and weary. “You are right, Mama,” she whispered. “I cannot stay buried in this sorrow.”
She kissed the top of Buttercup’s head and set the little dog on the rug. The floor was cold beneath her feet, the kind of cold that reminded one to move.
Crossing to the bellpull, Gwen rang for Octavia, then moved about the room to light the lamps. The soft glow pushed the darkness into corners, and with it, the ache in her chest began to ebb.
The stars blinked faintly beyond the windows. No moon tonight to enchant or deceive.
The world would not pause for a broken heart, nor did it care for love betrayed.
She was no longer the girl with stars in her eyes.
She was a woman, and it was time to choose her future.
Aidan stood in Smythe’s study, rolling his stiff shoulders as he contemplated the molten sky spilling through the terrace doors.
The sunset, glorious and unyielding, seemed to mock the turmoil lodged beneath his ribs.
The bruising along his side, an unwelcome reminder of recent events, throbbed with each breath.
After his failed effort to speak with Gwen, he had spent the last hour mentally rehearsing his apology.
Not for the pain he carried, but for the pain he had caused.
He awaited a final knock at the door, pivoting as it came at last.
Jenson stepped inside. “The Duke of Halmesbury and Lord Filminster.”
Smythe rose behind his desk, gesturing to receive them. Jenson held the door wide for the duke and Aidan’s brother-in-law to enter, then withdrew, closing the door with a muted click.
The study bore signs of preparation. Extra armchairs had been summoned from other parts of the house.
Aidan’s eyes swept across the room, noting who sat where.
His father had arrived first and occupied the seat nearest Smythe.
The Earl of Saunton had appeared shortly thereafter in response to Aidan’s urgent summons and now leaned casually against the mantelpiece, declining the chair intended for him.
The Duke of Halmesbury, always imposing, was folded into a chair far too small for his long frame, and Lord Filminster balanced on the edge of his own, his expression unusually grave, his gaze flicking repeatedly toward Smythe.
“For those of you not yet aware,” Aidan began, his voice measured, “Mr. Smythe did not kill the baron.”
Lord Moreland let out a breath. “Thank the Lord. The notion of informing your mother … it was …” His words drifted into silence, and he simply shook his head.
Clearly, Aidan’s father had not yet been briefed on the news of Trafford and the others.
Saunton, Halmesbury, and Filminster exchanged quiet nods, already privy to the truth.
Filminster, no doubt, had relayed the message to Saunton earlier in the day.
Aidan suspected the earl was even involved in the manhunt.
His younger brother’s longstanding friendship with Stirling’s heir made it likely.
Aidan resumed pacing. Speaking to such elevated company unsettled him. Though his recent marriage had tied him to such important noblemen, familiarity had not yet bred ease. And what he was about to ask, he knew it was not a small thing.
“My wife has informed me,” he began, carefully, “that Mr. Smythe was with her on the day of the coronation. All through the night, in fact, owing to a grave illness.” His voice faltered, the import of the statement anchoring in the room like a weight.
“We have since received a note … confirming this.” His glance met Smythe’s, and he caught himself just in time, stopping short of revealing what could not yet be spoken aloud.
Given the number of individuals already privy to the details surrounding the baron’s death, it seemed wisest, for Trafford’s sake, to refrain from further disclosures. Especially with his whereabouts still unknown and no resolution yet in sight.
Aidan raised a hand to his brow, pressing his fingers briefly to the skin as if he might calm the storm within.
His mind had been occupied with thoughts of Trafford, their uneasy friendship and the looming uncertainty coiling through every waking hour.
And yet, he had forged ahead, preparing for this evening with a singular purpose.
To support both Mr. Smythe and the young woman who had come to mean so much to him.
“Mr. Smythe has explained his actions to me,” Aidan began quietly. “The reasons behind the sale of certain holdings. Once I understood the truth, I felt it my duty to arrange this meeting before the ladies join us.”
Smythe sat stiffly, hands worrying the objects strewn upon his desk.
Papers, an inkpot, a pocket watch slightly askew.
The habitual grin that usually softened his features was notably absent.
Aidan had pressed him for this meeting, insisting it would bear fruit.
Even so, he knew how difficult it had been for the older man to agree.
“Aidan assures me that I may place my confidence in all of you,” Smythe said at last, his voice grave. “That what I share here will remain within these walls. And perhaps, that you may even offer your counsel.”
The Duke of Halmesbury inclined forward, the light catching the blond strands threaded through his hair. “You have my word. Nothing spoken here will travel beyond this room. We are family now, and family must hold one another steady.”
Smythe offered a tight nod and slowly lowered himself into the armchair near the fireplace.
“I had long imagined the moment I would explain myself. I thought I would feel prepared. But instead …” He hesitated, staring at the fire as though it might offer him courage.
“I find I am more anxious than I had anticipated.”
Aidan moved to stand beside him, his posture strong and quietly supportive. “Mr. Smythe is preparing to enter trade,” he said, voice steady. “And I hoped to ask for your assistance in smoothing the way.”