Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
“Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of the opponent’s fate.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
JULY 20, 1821, THE DAY AFTER
Lily was eager for an outing with her cousin. After a restless night dozing off in the front drawing room, she had finally made her way to bed and awakened refreshed and ready for a visit to Hatchards with Sophia to peruse the latest novels.
After yet another unsuccessful Season, Lily admitted she needed a respite from social events and the endless parade of introductions to gentlemen she scarcely knew.
A morning with Sophia would be a welcome change, a chance to relax and enjoy each other’s company without Mama watching her like a falcon guarding its nest of hatchlings.
She wore a muslin walking dress in the customary white her mother insisted upon.
Lily pulled a face at her reflection in the mirror.
White was hardly flattering on a pale young lady with brown hair and eyes.
Since her marriage, Sophia had enjoyed the privileges of a countess, including a wardrobe of flattering blues and spring hues that perfectly complemented her red-blonde hair and vivid eyes.
Even before marrying, Sophia had been allowed greater latitude as Mama’s niece than Lily could ever hope for.
How was she to catch the notice of a handsome young gentleman when she looked so washed out and childlike?
Shaking her head in disgust, she drew on a pastel blue Spencer, which did her complexion no more favors than the dress beneath it.
Mama, on the other hand, wore rich tones—claret, saffron, and Egyptian brown.
They shared similar coloring, and Lily knew well that such shades would lend her vibrancy, but Mama remained unmoved in her conviction that white and pale pastels were the only acceptable attire for a proper debutante.
Not that she was such a young debutante anymore.
Lily grimaced at her reflection. Indeed. After three full Seasons, she could hardly claim youth with any conviction.
She drew on her kid gloves and departed her room, her step lightening slightly. Sophia would collect her on the hour, and Lily could not suppress the flicker of joy at the prospect of escaping the Abbott townhouse without family in attendance.
Reaching the front hall, she glanced at the casement clock before moving to the window that overlooked the street. She gazed out in hopeful anticipation.
And gazed.
And continued to gaze.
Checking the time again, Lily began to pace. It was not like Sophia to be late. She had even sent a footman two days earlier to confirm their appointment, despite the countess’s many obligations surrounding the coronation.
When she checked the time once more, Lily blew out a sigh, her shoulders sagging with disappointment. First Aidan had left her to her own devices the day before, and now Sophia, too, had failed to appear.
Something must have happened.
Lily breathed in and decided that must be the case. Sophia would never deliberately leave her waiting without explanation, so there must be a good reason for the delay.
Just as she reached this conclusion, she heard the rumble of a carriage along the roadway, followed by the shifting shadow it cast across the entrance hall window. Running over, Lily peered outside to find the Saunton carriage drawing to a stop.
Without waiting for a footman to open the door, she pulled it open herself and nearly skipped in her eagerness to reach the carriage.
The Saunton footman stepped forward, opened the carriage door, lowered the steps, and assisted Sophia down. Lily bounded over, calling, “There is no need to come in! I am here—we may leave at once.”
But Sophia did not smile in return. Her expression was grim, her complexion pale in the morning light. “I am afraid I cannot go to the bookshop today. There has … something has happened. I only have a moment to inform you of the change in plans.”
Lily’s spirits plummeted, her stomach tightening. Something had to be terribly wrong. Sophia was a bold soul, a warrior of sorts, unflinching in most situations. For her to appear so somber meant the matter must be grave.
“What is it? Is it the earl?” Then, a far worse thought struck her—Sophia’s babe. “Miles?”
Sophia quickly glanced about the square, then took Lily by the arm and guided her into the townhouse. They stepped into the dining room, where Sophia quietly shut the door behind them.
“Richard and Miles are well. It is Richard’s friend. Mr. Ridley.”
“Mr. Ridley?” Lily’s thoughts scrambled, careening in all directions. She had seen him just hours earlier, hurrying away from Lady Slight’s home at dawn. Surely, nothing could have happened in so short a time?
“He returned home this morning to find his father had …” Sophia hesitated, biting her lip. “The baron has been killed.”
Lily’s eyes flew wide. She took a step back in shock. “What?”
“I hate to tell you such terrible news, but I am on my way to the Ridley townhouse to support the duchess. Richard and the duke are there with her and Mr. Ridley, helping with the authorities. She must be devastated.”
Sophia had grown close to the duchess, Mr. Ridley’s sister, over the past year. Given the close friendship between the earl and the duke, and the duchess’s warm nature, it was unsurprising Sophia would rush to her side. But her eyes now were shadowed with worry.
“I must come with you!”
Sophia turned back, blinking. “What?”
“I can help. Mama expects me to be with you, and your coachman can return me later.”
“Oh, Lily. What purpose would that serve?”
Lily drew herself up to her full, if modest, height, placing her hands on her hips.
“Do not treat me like a child. I am twenty years old, Sophia Balfour! I am your friend, and I have a good head on my shoulders. The duchess is increasing, and she has her son besides. I might be of some use. I can provide comfort … or … or something.”
It was not the most articulate of appeals, but Lily was frustrated and sincere. Sophia had always treated her with respect, not as an over-talkative girl but as an equal. If she were denied now, at such a moment, she would feel hopelessly excluded and helpless to offer aid where it was needed.
Sophia’s lips curved at last, a hint of her usual mischief returning. “My, my, Lily Billy. Such fire!”
“So I may come?”
The countess sighed, resigned. “Not a word to your mama about where we went, you hear?”
Lily bounced onto her toes, her cheer somewhat restored. “Then we should go quickly before she comes downstairs to break her fast.”
Brendan sat slumped, caught in a mild state of shock. They had gathered in the library, as the study was well occupied. A corpse lay there, awaiting the coroner’s arrival. The cloying, metallic scent of blood that lingered in that room had quite given him a headache.
His brother-in-law, the Duke of Halmesbury, along with the duke’s cousin and Brendan’s close friend, Lord Richard Balfour, the Earl of Saunton, were speaking in hushed tones with the Bow Street Runner who had responded to the summons Brendan had sent via footman.
The three stood a few feet away beneath the muted light of a solitary lamp.
The blond duke towered over both men, despite the earl being a tall fellow himself, easily six feet.
Yet even Halmesbury’s formidable frame was somewhat diminished by the looming bookcases and weighty furnishings of the library.
The drapes and armchairs, which might once have been a rich green, had long since faded into a grayed murk.
Brendan had always disliked Ridley House.
It had been decorated in a previous century, and not with any sense of timelessness.
The earl seemed to know the runner, Briggs. Brendan recalled, with some effort, that Richard had shot a man in his own home the year prior. Perhaps that was the connection.
“So Mr. Ridley … his lordship … found his lordship … the late baron … when he returned home this morning?”
Brendan winced at the sentence’s awkward construction.
The runner was a stern, lean man wrapped in a crumpled greatcoat, his battered hat pulled low.
He had the look of one who had seen much and grown hard to it, yet his voice was halting, uncertain, as he stumbled over the etiquette of addressing a man who had, mere hours ago, been a baron’s son and now stood poised to inherit the title.
Yes. The baron was dead.
And yes, that implied Brendan was now Lord Filminster, though such matters required confirmation by the Committee for Privileges.
The runner, street-born and plainly self-conscious about the particulars, was fumbling to speak with due propriety.
“That is correct,” Halmesbury replied. His deep voice carried reassurance, steady and composed. Brendan had yet to fully collect his wits since discovering his father’s body, and was grateful that the duke had stepped forward to take charge.
“And where was Mr. Rid—his lordship—the night before?”
The duke cleared his throat into one large gloved hand. A pause followed. Richard intervened smoothly.
“His lordship was staying with a friend overnight. A lady friend.”
“Will she be able to confirm his whereabouts?”
Both Halmesbury and Saunton glanced back toward Brendan, still sunk in the armchair, bleary and numb. He shook his head.
“That will not be possible.”
“Did any of the household staff witness him arriving this morning?”
All three men turned to look at Brendan. He nodded, then sighed deeply, his voice dull and heavy. “I did not pay attention to who let me in at the front door. I was in a rush. I simply ran inside without noting it, but it must have been the butler or one of the footmen.”
Briggs nodded, a lock of lank hair falling away from his brow to reveal a faint scar above it. His face was narrow, dominated by a thick mustache that reminded Brendan of the stable master back in Somerset.