Chapter 18 #2
Abbott shook his head, as though attempting to reorder his entire perception of the man seated before him.
Brendan could hardly blame him. Trafford had that effect on people.
It was difficult to imagine what, if anything, might one day tame the impudent showman.
But until that day arrived, Brendan was grateful for his friendship, particularly in moments of crisis.
Trafford had gone to considerable lengths to assist Perry Balfour the year prior, and that loyalty counted for more than eccentricities.
“So, what do we do now?” Abbott asked, his voice tight with frustration.
“I discussed it at length with Saunton and Halmesbury. There is not much to be done, I am afraid. We remain vigilant and continue our search for information.” Brendan wished he had a better answer, but it was the only one he had.
It was a glorious summer day, the sun filtering gently through a haze of London soot, and the cobbles gleamed faintly from an earlier sweep of rain. The bustle of Piccadilly was tempered by a cooling breeze, carrying the scent of horse and cut hay from carts passing en route to the park.
Made even more glorious by the fact that her husband was accompanying her to Hatchards.
The bookshop, its large glass windows gleaming behind polished brass trim, was one of her favorite places in all the world. And now she could share it with one of her favorite people in all the world.
“I think we should order a number of novels for the library,” she said, lightly brushing her gloved hand over the book spines as they stepped through the wide oak doors.
The interior was cool and dust-scented, the tang of ink and old paper welcoming her like an old friend.
“Most of the books in there are fusty old texts about agriculture. We should have some Byron, Wordsworth, and Keats. I also wish to order that Frankenstein book, along with Ann Radcliffe and Jane Austen.”
Brendan nodded, already absorbed in the front stacks. He pulled several titles down with a discerning eye, the leather bindings creaking faintly beneath his fingers.
Lily leaned in to examine the one on top. “Coleridge’s Lyrical Ballads! It did not cross my mind, but I love it!”
Their ongoing discussions about improving Ridley House had taken on a new dimension since the wedding. Brendan had proven surprisingly amenable to her taking charge of the estate’s inner workings, and they had both agreed that the library should reflect the literary spirit of the age.
Soon, their new housekeeper would arrive, and Richard had recommended they consult his brother, Mr. Thompson, about more substantial renovations.
Barclay Thompson, a renowned architect, had attended their wedding.
His firm had refurbished several Mayfair townhouses for the wealthiest members of society, and Lily was nearly giddy at the thought of what he might do for Ridley House.
She looked forward to meeting with him and his assistant upon their return to Town.
It would be a wondrous thing if they could begin the process before departing for Baydon Hall in Somerset.
Soon, they stood at the shop counter, placing their order.
The clerk’s quill scratched softly over the parchment ledger as Lily listed her selections.
She had never placed such a large order before, and her gloved hands trembled slightly from excitement.
To bring Ridley House to its full potential, not merely functionally, but soulfully, felt like reclaiming something sacred.
Wiping away the remnants of the past would, she believed, be the surest way to banish the shadow of death that still lingered within its rooms.
“Have you read much?” she asked softly as Brendan handed over the final list. He had shown a canny eye while selecting their new acquisitions, and she was curious. The sad state of their inherited library had suggested otherwise.
“I have,” he replied, holding the door open for her as the bell overhead gave a bright jangle. “But I mostly took advantage of the libraries of others. Annabel and the duke have an excellent selection, and I had access to Trafford’s and several other friends’.”
She paused at the threshold, turning back to question him with a glint of mischief. “Who is your favorite?”
But before he could answer, a familiar drawl cut through the hum of the street.
“Well, well. It is the scandalous Lily Ridley, if my eyes do not deceive.”
Lily spun about to find Lady Slight, accompanied by a friend.
The widow was resplendent in a striped blue walking dress, her bodice cut daringly low and her figure arranged for maximum display.
Lily instinctively stepped back, half-convinced she might be knocked in the face by the other woman’s prominently presented décolletage.
Lady Slight’s companion, a fashionable blonde with a similarly plunging neckline and eyes like winter frost, giggled at the remark, clearly finding the widow’s greeting devilishly amusing.
For a moment, Lily hesitated. The old Lily might have blushed and stammered. But the new Lily, Lady Filminster, could not afford apologies.
No, she would attack. With words.
“Oh, do you mean the scandalous night I spent with Lord Filminster while his father was being bludgeoned to death?” she asked lightly, turning and reaching for Brendan’s arm.
He responded without hesitation, stepping smoothly through the door and shutting it behind him with an elegant flick of the wrist before tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.
“Or do you mean when I stepped forward to speak to the coroner in order to clear Lord Filminster’s name of those dreadful accusations of murder?”
Lady Slight and her friend had drawn back, their expressions frozen in masks of wide-eyed horror.
“Or perhaps,” Lily continued sweetly, “you mean our hasty marriage to protect my reputation?” She paused, arching a brow, but no response came.
“Perhaps you mean when our footman attempted to abduct me and my husband bravely offered to take my place? Before our butler shot the man dead, of course.” Lily tapped a finger to her lip as if thinking. She tilted her head, eyes dancing with mischief. “But no, I think you must mean all of it.”
With a sweeping gesture, she settled the matter. “If I think about it, I must confess that I am. I am scandalous. Scandalously happy, that is!”
Lady Slight’s jaw had dropped unceremoniously. It appeared the widow had not anticipated being battered with the full brunt of Lily’s irrepressible candor. Lily, after all, was not famed for subtle manners.
Beside her, Brendan raised a gloved hand to his mouth, his eyes glittering with barely restrained laughter.
Lily managed to keep her face composed, but her heart fluttered with delight as she watched both women visibly wilt under the weight of her unapologetic truth.
Turning toward her husband, she reached up and gently cupped the side of his neck.
Rising onto the tips of her toes, she smiled as Brendan lowered his head to meet her.
His mouth met hers in a kiss that was warm, firm, and reverent —an unmistakable public declaration.
He wrapped his arm around her, steadying her, drawing her close.
The embrace was secure and full of promise. Her breath caught from sheer happiness.
From behind her, Lady Slight gasped at the public display.
It was not fashionable to like one’s husband, nor to be seen enjoying his company, certainly not in broad daylight on Piccadilly.
But Lily did not care a fig for what society considered appropriate.
Let the gossips wag their tongues until they dropped from their jaws.
She was deliriously joyful, and the entire world could go hang if they wished to complain.
Her dreams had come true, and she would not apologize for them.
Dropping back onto her heels, she drew a tremulous breath in an attempt to calm the riot of her pulse. Then, with composed dignity, she turned back to the widow.
“Whomever it was that my husband was with before me,” she said softly, “I am ever so grateful that they set him free … so that I could catch him.”
Lily tilted her chin upward in challenge, daring the viscountess to speak.
But Lady Slight could only gape, opening and closing her mouth like a fish gasping for air. The deflation in her eyes, the flicker of exposed hurt, pierced Lily unexpectedly. Just for a moment, her heart twinged.
The widow must be a very unhappy woman deep down.
Her life seemed a hollow one. Married off to a decrepit lord who had died shortly after the vows were spoken, she had borne no children. Now she floated through drawing rooms and musicales, changing paramours as frequently as Lily changed her stays. These were not the actions of a contented soul.
General Tzu, she recalled, would advise mercy to the fallen foe.
Letting Brendan go, Lily stepped forward. With slow grace, she reached out and touched the back of Lady Slight’s hand. The woman flinched as though scorched.
“I wish you the boundless joy of truly connecting with another person,” Lily said, her voice clear and gentle.
“Of opening your heart to another, and finding that you care more for them than for your own self. I wish you a strong young husband and healthy children. And I wish you a long and full life filled with laughter, Lady Slight.”
There was no mockery in her tone. Only sincerity.
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and returned to Brendan, slipping her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. Together, they strolled toward their waiting carriage, the wheels rattling softly on the cobbles as their driver readied the horses.
Brendan lowered his hand to rest over hers and smiled down at her with blazing, affectionate eyes. Leaning closer, he whispered into her ear, his breath brushing the curl at her temple.
“I choose you, Lily Ridley. Every kind, fiery, honorable inch of you.”
She looked up at him and smiled, her chest glowing with contentment. “And I choose you, Brendan Ridley.”