Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
“Therefore in chariot fighting, when ten or more chariots have been taken, those should be rewarded who took the first. Our own flags should be substituted for those of the enemy, and the chariots mingled and used in conjunction with ours. The captured soldiers should be kindly treated and kept.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
AUGUST 2, 1821
Lord Aidan Abbott paced the library, the soles of his boots muffled by the thick Aubusson carpet as he gestured sharply, his voice clipped with frustration.
“There is still a killer out there, Filminster. And if this man believes there is a letter connecting him to the crime, he might take it into his head that you or Lily know something. That means my sister is still in danger.”
“Or a woman.”
“What?”
“We do not know it was a man who committed the murder. It could have been a woman.”
“Why would a woman kill the baron?”
“Why would a man kill the baron?”
“Faugh! I have quite forgotten my point.”
“You were stating that Lily and I are still under threat, especially if the killer believes we might find this mysterious letter.”
Abbott exhaled harshly, running a hand through his tousled hair before stalking across the floor to collapse into a well-worn leather armchair near the hearth.
The scent of beeswax and ink hung in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang from a nearby tray of untouched tea that had long since cooled.
Brendan remained standing, hands clasped behind his back.
He understood the protective urgency in Lily’s older brother.
They sat in a charged silence for several moments, the heavy ticking of the longcase clock in the corner measuring time like a judicial metronome. Then came a disturbance from the hallway, shuffling footsteps and raised voices that immediately caught their attention.
“Lord Trafford, his lordship instructed me he was not to be disturbed. He is in a meeting!” Michaels’s voice, usually placid and dry as sandpaper, now carried the unmistakable strain of impending panic.
“Unhand me immediately, you … you serf!” came the indignant cry in reply, though there was a note of theatrical flourish that betrayed the speaker.
Brendan suppressed a sigh. “Lord Trafford!” Despite Michaels’s typical restraint, the final exclamation bordered on a shriek, a most undignified sound from Ridley House’s usually imperturbable butler.
Lord Julius Trafford, heir to a prosperous northern earldom and prone to bouts of insufferable boredom, had long made it his mission to cause gentle chaos wherever decorum threatened to reign too comfortably. Brendan feared this might be the day his friend finally sent Michaels into apoplexy.
“Just a jest, Michaels. You know what a rapscallion I am.”
There was an unintelligible murmur from the butler, no doubt clipped and scathing.
“You see? Admit it. I am your favorite.”
More mumbling ensued. A few seconds later, Michaels appeared, composed once more, as though his earlier outburst had been someone else’s entirely. “Lord Trafford to see you,” he announced coolly, executing a precise bow before retreating with upper servant efficiency.
Trafford came striding in as if entering a ballroom, his boots clicking confidently on the parquet flooring. He paused, sweeping the library with theatrical deliberation before his gaze landed on Abbott, whom he regarded with faint curiosity, then turned to Brendan.
“What is this I hear? A man was killed in your home yesterday? You did not think to summon me?”
Brendan was not certain whether Trafford’s indignation was genuine or feigned, so he swallowed the chuckle rising in his throat. “Summon you?”
Trafford had a penchant for seasonal reinvention, a personal antidote to what he termed “the soul-crushing sameness of the high society.” The previous year, he had penned abysmal verse while wrapped in black velvet à la Byron. This year, he had evidently embraced a flamboyant foppishness.
His polished buckled shoes gleamed beneath slim-fitting trousers, and his purple jacquard coat shimmered faintly in the lamplight.
A gold-embroidered waistcoat completed the ensemble, startling against the contrast of his thick blond curls and the clipped, dark hair that framed the sides of his head in a fashionable undercut.
Brendan recognized the spectacle for what it was. Calculated theatricality.
With a sniff that spoke volumes, Trafford sauntered to the library table.
He gave a perfunctory tug to his lace-edged cuffs, flicked an invisible speck of lint from his lapel, and then dropped into a carved mahogany armchair.
Stretching out his legs in studied indifference, he folded his arms and turned his brown eyes once again on Brendan.
“Am I not your friend? Should I not be informed when you are in mortal peril?”
This time, Brendan let the laugh escape. “Are you taking umbrage regarding the peril, or are you more outraged that something of intrigue took place and you were left out of it?”
Trafford surveyed him with a look of dignified disdain. “The intrigue, of course.”
Abbott, who had been watching in open-mouthed disbelief, abruptly straightened and glowered. “Who is this … this fool, Filminster?”
Trafford’s face crumpled into unrepentant mirth.
Brendan gave an apologetic shrug. “Allow me to introduce Lord Julius Trafford, heir to the Earl of Stirling. And first-rate clown.”
“Clown?” Trafford echoed, pulling a face of contemplation. “Like the performer Grimaldi? I am not fond of the garments, but I admire the slur. Well done, little Ridley.”
Abbott sprang to his feet, his shoulders tense. “My sister was almost killed, you ridiculous fop!”
“Now you know who I am. Who are you?” Trafford asked with lazy amusement.
Brendan stepped forward before Abbott could do anything rash. “This is Lord Aidan Abbott, heir to Viscount Moreland. My wife’s brother.”
“Ah! Another token title like my own. Dear Papa holds a barony, I suppose? Or is it an Irish viscountcy?”
Abbott’s eyes narrowed as he assessed Trafford with animosity. “You were at the wedding breakfast.”
“I was. Which is why Filminster should have sent for me.”
“A desperate criminal manhandled my sister. Your amusement was not foremost in our minds.”
Trafford tilted his head and appeared to think deeply. “I concede your point.”
“Dash it! Concede this—” Abbott stormed forward, and Brendan had to step between them.
“Trafford is attempting to get a rise out of you,” Brendan said quickly. “He acts out when he finds himself excessively idle, but he is not the fool he appears to be.”
Trafford beamed, clearly pleased with himself, even as Brendan worked to calm his brother-in-law. “Why, Ridley. I do believe you like me.”
Brendan coaxed Abbott back into his seat, both exasperated and faintly amused by his friend’s relentless provocation.
Trafford was, at the best of times, insufferable, but there was no denying the wry charm threaded through his mischief.
Beneath the irreverence beat a fiercely loyal heart, and for all his diabolical vagaries, Trafford enjoyed a surprising number of allies among both ladies and lords.
“Only in small doses, Julius.”
Trafford placed a hand theatrically over his heart and pouted as if wounded by sentiment. “So how can I help?”
Brendan resumed his own seat, glancing between the two heirs, so opposite in bearing that one might mistake them for creatures from different realms entirely.
“I have nothing to tell you, gentlemen. Ridley House is being searched, but beyond that, we have no new clues as to who paid the footman. All we can do is wait for something new to come to light.”
“The murderer must be part of the peerage,” Trafford said airily.
Abbott frowned, brows drawn. “Why do you say that?”
Trafford rolled his eyes. When he finally responded, he spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “The baron never visited London, and the only event he attended was the coronation itself. And he sat with lords. So it can only be one of them or their connections who committed the crime.”
Brendan’s eyebrows lifted. “How would you know that?”
Trafford pulled a face that bespoke high insult, his tone dripping with disdain. “I asked around. What do you think I have been doing since the murder? Trimming my nails?”
Brendan snorted in amusement. “More like having your valet bleach your hair with lemon juice.”
Trafford straightened in his seat, his face falling as his hand shot up to finger his blond hair. “It is not …” He shook his head without finishing. Brendan felt a twist of guilt, realizing that he had touched on a nerve.
Trafford continued, “As you are aware, I have a wide circle of acquaintances. I asked around to confirm the late baron did not attend any social events within the few days he was in London.”
Abbott snorted. “You cannot know that. There could have been a small gathering at someone’s home. A dinner, perhaps.”
Trafford said nothing, but shot a look of long-suffering incredulity in Brendan’s direction.
Brendan sighed. “Trafford means he checked with above and below stairs alike. He does not discriminate when it comes to seeking information. I should state that he is very thorough in gathering information about members of the ton.”
“Why?” Abbott sounded honestly perplexed. “Why would he be an expert in such a thing?”
Trafford burst into laughter, the sound echoing against the carved paneling and high ceiling. “What a little breeches you have on your hands, Filminster. Is your brother-in-law truly so unsophisticated?”
Brendan soughed heavily. “Women, Abbott. Trafford is highly skilled in gathering information about women of the ton. I should have thought to request his help in learning about my … father’s …
movements.” He hoped Abbott and Trafford did not notice his hesitation, or ascribed it to the pressure he had been under.
“Just so,” Trafford said, flashing a knowing smirk.