Chapter 2
Two
“The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.”
Aristotle
The past ten days in Trafford’s company had been excruciating.
Together, they had attended several social events, to Aidan’s increasing chagrin, the pursuit of information notwithstanding.
Trafford was not the kind of companion he wished to be associated with, but they had been seen together the length and breadth of Mayfair, nodding to matrons, bowing to debutantes, and shaking hands with dandies, while Aidan had been forced to endure the other man’s antics with clenched teeth.
Currently, Aidan stood at the shadowed corner of a narrow street, the limewash walls of the townhouse behind him cool against his shoulder.
He observed the home of Mr. Frederick Smythe amid the loud clatter of carriage wheels, the occasional hiss of steam from coach horses, and the muffled notes of a pianoforte drifting faintly from the lit windows.
The night sky was adorned with silvery clouds and a large full moon, but from his vantage point in the street, his view of the magical evening unfolding above was largely obscured by overhanging eaves and the high hedgerows lining the Smythes’ drive.
“How do you plan to get in without an invitation?”
Trafford waved his hand in dismissal, a practiced flick of indifference, though his gaze was sharp as he assessed the arriving guests.
His gold silk tails shimmered faintly under the gas lamps.
Aidan growled in irritation, his jaw tight.
Of all the men in London, must he endure this preening peacock?
Nevertheless, he stepped back, boots scuffing lightly on the uneven cobbles, granting the other man the space he had requested.
This is for Lily.
The reminder helped to quell his resentment.
He was no longer a soldier, but it felt very much like he had been ordered to serve as batman to the most aggravating officer in the regiment.
He had attempted to question Lily about Trafford’s involvement, but she had only chattered cheerfully about the new books she had ordered for the library, as if she had not faced death and injury less than a fortnight earlier.
“If Brendan trusts Trafford, then so do I.”
That had been her only reply, which meant, surely, that she did not know the fop all that well.
Aidan cracked his knuckles, an old habit from his cavalry days, and began pacing behind Trafford, awaiting the oaf’s direction with reluctant forbearance.
Suddenly, Trafford broke the silence. “I see my great-aunt, Gertrude, with her husband.” With that, he took off toward the Smythe residence, his gold silk tails fluttering behind him like a banner on a battlefield.
Aidan hesitated, then cursed under his breath and followed his now-constant companion.
Trafford wove through the line of carriages gathered in the crescent-shaped drive, his kid-leather shoes quick over the gravel.
He skipped up to an elderly couple just descending from a town coach with polished lamps and a worn crest.
“Aunty!”
A wizened old lady with stooped shoulders in blue silk squinted up at her nephew before clapping her hands in delight. The plume on her turban wobbled with the motion.
“Julius, my boy!”
Trafford leaned down, accepting a trembling hand that emerged from beneath an embroidered shawl.
She pinched his cheek between arthritic fingers, beaming with pleasure.
Behind her stood the husband, an equally ancient man clad in old-fashioned breeches, white silk stockings, and buckled shoes that looked to big for the spindly legs which did little to disguise the march of time.
“What are you doing here, boy?”
Aidan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Trafford was anything but a boy. The man had clearly dallied with numerous women of the ton, attired like a coxcomb with far too much allowance wasted on foppery. Only a nearsighted great-aunt could affectionately view him as a boy.
“I was just walking by with my friend.” Trafford gestured in Aidan’s direction. Aidan gritted his teeth. They were on a small but elegant estate near the Thames, private property, which belied the notion that they happened to just be passing by. “Are you attending an event?”
“It is the Smythe ball. Frederick has a daughter he has been attempting to marry off for years. She is a dear girl, but the boys do not like her, I am afraid. A wallflower.”
“That is a pity. I was hoping to catch up, but if you are otherwise occupied …” Trafford trailed off with deliberation, baiting his great-aunt.
“Come with us, Julius! Frederick will be delighted to have such strapping young men in attendance.”
Without hesitation, Trafford joined arms with his relation and assisted her up the front steps, lit by twin lanterns bracketed to the columns.
Aidan exhaled through his nose and followed them in with the frail husband, resisting the temptation to offer his own arm as the gentleman shuffled upward with careful, halting steps.
Soon, they stood in the long receiving line. Trafford chattered brightly to his great-aunt while her husband stared blankly about, as if wading through foggy recollections.
From his considerable height, Aidan could see over the heads of the crowd. Up ahead, his attention caught on a statuesque redhead standing beside the host, a tidy gentleman in his fifties with an unremarkable but pleasant face.
The young woman was … luminous.
She stood with quiet poise, her bearing noble without artifice.
She might have appeared to step down from the friezes of the Parthenon, like one of the Elgin Marbles recently installed in the British Museum.
A veritable goddess of antiquity with Titian hair wound in artful curls, a classical profile, and skin like cream left out under moonlight.
But it was the scattering of freckles dusting her décolletage—innocent, sun-kissed, and utterly unpolished—that ensnared Aidan’s interest.
He had always harbored a fondness for red hair, but this …
this was something else entirely. Her tall, willowy form was clothed in a gown of ivory silk that clung modestly to her Grecian frame, the folds recalling the drapery of statuary.
There was nothing theatrical about her elegance.
It seemed the natural expression of a woman both spirited and serene.
This was the woman society had deemed a wallflower?
The men of London must be blind.
Rubbing a hand over his shaven chin, Aidan felt a surprising surge of anticipation.
For once, the tedium of another London ball had vanished, replaced by the delightful realization that when he reached the end of the receiving line, he would at last be presented to the resplendent goddess who had stolen the air from the room.
“It is time to go.”
Aidan slowly comprehended that the statement had been directed at him. Trafford was peering his way with a questioning look, his brow raised in mild curiosity. He bobbed his head toward a side hallway leading away from the receiving line.
Disappointment settled over Aidan like a damp cloak.
His spirits, which had lifted in a rare moment of wonder, plummeted once more.
The recollection of Lily’s peril came rushing back.
Her vulnerability, the danger that still lingered.
Of course he could not afford the indulgence of an introduction to the young woman at the end of the hall.
For the briefest moment, he had allowed himself to forget the gravity of their purpose. But it was not to be.
With a last glance toward the glowing figure in ivory silk, he turned and followed Trafford away from the chattering guests and gilt-framed mirrors of the reception chamber.
Soon, they stood together in a dimly lit library, its paneled walls lined with old calf-bound volumes, the scent of beeswax polish and aged paper thick in the air.
“Do you have any notion how ridiculous you look in this …” Aidan threw out a hand toward Trafford’s resplendent gold coat.
“Now, now, Little Breeches. There is no need to tell Banbury stories … I am unduly handsome in my brocade, as we both well know.”
Aidan snorted in disgust, though it escaped more like a sigh.
It was a farce to be engaged in this investigation with the clownish Trafford, but the choice had been removed from his hands.
Filminster’s other trusted associates, the Earl of Saunton and the Duke of Halmesbury, were married men.
Trafford, absurd as he was, remained the only bachelor man Brendan trusted to help ensure Lily’s safety.
Considering that Aidan had only recently returned from his Grand Tour, he had no long-standing allies to put forward. There was no time to vet new ones.
“Did a certain young woman capture your eye out in the hall?” Trafford’s tone turned sly. “You seemed rather … bemused.”
Aidan looked away, unwilling to discuss the quiet astonishment he had felt upon seeing, he presumed, Miss Smythe. It would be folly to pursue any introduction to a debutante whose father might yet be involved in murder. The entire notion was preposterous.
“Is Aunty not surprised at our departure?” he asked coolly. “I thought you were to catch up?” The sneer was a thinly veiled attempt at changing the subject, and Trafford’s grin revealed he had noted it at once.
“Aunty will quite forget she saw me tonight by the time she reaches the head of the line. She and Uncle are easily distracted these days. I saw an opportunity to proceed, and I took it.”
Aidan was relieved the subject of Miss Smythe had been dropped.
He was still rather shaken by the sheer force of his reaction.
The memory lingered like a phantom sensation.
The elegant profile, the freckled skin. But there would be time to contemplate such matters later.
Much later, and only after they had completed this wretched errand.
This was not a time for musings, but for action.
“What is the plan?”