Chapter 18
Eighteen
“Wishing to be friends is quick work, but friendship is a slow ripening fruit.”
Aristotle
Aidan watched as Gwen brought the spoon to her lips, her posture elegant even in the simple act of eating.
Though she might not favor this particular soup under ordinary circumstances, tonight hunger rendered her unusually enthusiastic.
The gentle clink of silver on porcelain punctuated the hum of conversation around the long dining table, accompanied by the occasional chime of crystal or faint rustle of silk.
It was a profound joy to witness her in this light.
No longer guarded, but surrounded by ease and laughter.
On their wedding day, there had been warmth, certainly, but a heaviness had hovered above their gathering.
Tonight, by contrast, the air itself seemed lighter, as though the burdens of doubt and suspicion had finally been swept away.
Gwen’s cheeks were tinged with a natural flush, and her gaze remained bright as she listened to the tale being retold by Saunton and Filminster.
Her contented expression was a balm to Aidan’s tightly strung nerves.
The story was, apparently, a well-embellished retelling of how Saunton’s brother had managed to win his bride.
Gentle laughter echoed around the table, mingling with the mellow glow of candlelight that flickered against the crystal decanters and polished wood.
Beneath the tablecloth, Aidan slid his hand toward Gwen’s and covered it lightly.
Her fingers tensed a moment in surprise, then relaxed.
She turned toward him just enough to grant a small sidelong smile before returning her attention to the tale.
Even in this moment of tentative harmony, Aidan’s thoughts drifted toward Julius Trafford.
The nagging worry remained. Where was the devil-may-care heir?
Was he hurt? Alone? The bloodied note haunted him still, its crimson mark etched into his thoughts.
It seemed almost a betrayal to sit in comfort, dining on roast and puddings, when Trafford might be in mortal danger.
Yet, glancing around the table, he saw similar shadows behind the smiles.
The fear for their missing friend was shared, though unspoken.
“And then Trafford said he could attest that Perry was an irreparable idiot to all who were present.”
The punchline prompted Gwen to cover her mouth, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Little Julius has always been a bit of a scoundrel,” she said lightly, her tone teasing.
The laughter fell away with astonishing swiftness. Silence pressed in. All heads turned toward her with collective surprise, forks pausing mid-air. The ticking of the clock upon the mantel became suddenly audible.
Even Smythe, who had been entirely absorbed in his soup, looked up with an uncomprehending glance before realizing the shift in mood.
Aidan cleared his throat, voice low. “Do you … know Lord Trafford, Gwen?”
Gwen’s brow furrowed at the attention. “No, but Lady Hays tells stories about Little Julius all the time. He frequently snuck into her home to wreak havoc on her household as a boy.”
Saunton’s hand moved to adjust his cravat, a small frown forming. “Lady Hays?”
“She resides near her niece’s house in Mayfair,” Gwen replied. “We are speaking of the heir to the Earl of Stirling, are we not? Little Julius was a regular visitor in her home.”
The name had barely left her lips when a flicker of recognition sparked in Aidan’s mind. He turned to Filminster, whose subtle shake of the head confirmed it. No one had considered Lady Hays’s home.
Then, the final piece fell into place.
“You mean … Aunty Gertrude?”
Gwen smiled gently. “That is correct … Lady Gertrude Hays. She was recounting a story about him at the ball where we met. After our betrothal was announced, she sought me out. Said it was a great pity I had not met her great-nephew. I believe she had hoped we might take to each other.”
The implication lingered. Lady Hays had once envisioned a match between Gwen and Lord Trafford.
“She told me he needed an intelligent woman to bring him up to scratch.”
Aidan exchanged a look with Filminster.
“And … is Lady Hays in London at present?” he asked.
Gwen shook her head. “She left with her husband shortly after the ball. She told me they would not return until Christmastide, but that we might expect an invitation to a house party before then.”
Hope surged through Aidan. If Lady Hays’s townhouse was near the Stirlings’ London residence and if she had left just after the ball … then perhaps that was where Trafford had taken refuge. And if Miss Gideon was with him, it could explain her sudden disappearance.
But riding up to knock on Lady Hays’s door in broad daylight was out of the question, not with the real culprit still at large, possibly watching their movements. They would need to proceed with caution, not give away the game.
At the head of the table, the Duke of Halmesbury gave a genteel cough into his hand. “Smythe, the wine this evening is quite fine. Where did you come by it?”
Aidan glanced down. The duke’s goblet was full. It was a subtle cue. Halmesbury was deflecting, giving cover. Around the table, there was a flutter of movement as the conversation turned obligingly.
Lord Saunton raised his own glass with a bright smile. “Indeed, remarkable flavor.” He had barely touched his portion, as Aidan recalled. None of Sophia’s immediate family, a gesture of solidarity, knowing the pain spirits had brought to her kin.
Talk turned to the meal, to the quality of the fish and the freshness of the herbs. Aidan returned to his own plate, only to find Gwen watching him closely. Her gaze lingered, thoughtful and steady, her soup momentarily forgotten.
She leaned in just a little, her voice low. “When we are alone,” she murmured, “you must explain what that was about.”
The scent of citrus clung to her skin, and the soft press of her shoulder brushed his coat. Aidan swallowed hard. For a moment, he imagined brushing a curl from her cheek, telling her everything. About the note, the fears for Trafford, the possible safehouse nearby.
But her nearness stirred other thoughts too—simpler, deeper ones. He smiled, letting just a touch of mischief reach his eyes. “When we are alone, we may find ourselves rather occupied.”
She tilted her head, cheeks faintly pink, but her voice was steady. “We will make time for both.”
Her confidence delighted him. Under the table, he squeezed her hand lightly where it rested in her lap. She offered him a subtle smile and turned her attention back to her meal. He, in turn, focused on his, though the gentle blush rising in her cheeks stayed with him.
There would be time. Time for secrets. And time for love.
“What was that about?” Gwen asked the moment they stepped into her bedchamber, her voice firm but not unkind.
Buttercup, clearly sensing her mistress’s agitation, leapt from the bed and scurried across the floor, barking furiously at Aidan as if he were a villain in a stage play. Her tail stuck out like a quill, her little body quivering with defiance.
Aidan blinked in surprise at the ferocious display, and Gwen could not help herself. Laughter burst from her chest until she had to clutch her sides.
“The trials of winning the affection of a protective guardian,” Aidan said wryly, his mouth twitching into a lopsided smile.
Still giggling, Gwen motioned toward the door. Aidan obliged, opening it just long enough for her to scoop Buttercup gently into the corridor. The dog gave one last protesting bark as the door closed behind her.
Gwen took a breath to calm herself, then stood tall, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “Now. No more evasions. I am your wife, Aidan Abbott, and I insist on being included. I deserve to know what is happening.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then took a step closer, cupping her cheek with gentle fingers. His kiss was soft and reverent, not seeking to distract, but to affirm. “You are my family now, Gwen. You have every right.”
His voice, low and steady, curled around her like velvet. She stepped closer, her heart beating faster as the warmth of his nearness enveloped her.
“Then do not try to charm your way out of this,” she said, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “Why is Lord Trafford the subject of such furtive whispers?”
Aidan sighed and pressed another brief kiss to her forehead before stepping back, his expression sobering.
“Trafford was following a lead,” he said carefully. “He believed one of the other suspects might be guilty, and he went to investigate. Alone. We received a note from him clearing your father of wrongdoing … but it bore bloodstains. And no one has seen him since.”
Gwen’s lips parted, her breath catching. The words made sense, yet the situation felt unreal. “That sounds very grave,” she said quietly. “Start from the beginning. Please.”
Aidan nodded and began to pace, his steps slow and measured as he recounted the sequence of events that had brought them to this moment.
He spoke of the baron’s murder. So sudden, so senseless.
Of Lily’s terrifying attack. Of Filminster’s discovery, the cryptic note that hinted at motive but fell short of naming the villain.
And finally, of the men they had scrutinized, the narrowing of the field to her father and three others, and the startling developments at Ridley House.
Gwen listened in silence, her brow furrowed, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if to brace herself against the weight of each revelation.
When he fell quiet, she released a breath she had not realized she had been holding. “You have all taken such grave risks,” she said softly. “Did you know the baron personally?”
“No.” Aidan’s voice was low, tinged with regret. “But his death touched everyone around him. And Lily …”