Chapter 3
Three
“Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature. Each of us, then, is a matching half of a human whole … and each of us is always seeking the half that matches him.”
Plato
“Plato is dear to me, but dearer still is truth.”
Aristotle
Aidan was fortunate in discovering Frederick Smythe’s study at the end of the corridor Trafford had indicated, only two doors down from the library, its heavy oak door partially ajar.
The room lay in complete darkness, cloaked in the hush of early evening.
After a few moments fumbling among unfamiliar furniture, Aidan located a taper and managed to coax a flame from the tinderbox positioned atop a narrow cabinet near the door.
The single candle he lit sent warm flickers across the paneled walls and gilded frames of sailing ships that lined them.
Holding it carefully aloft, Aidan advanced into the chamber, the scent of old vellum and furniture wax meeting his senses.
A well-used desk stood near the cold hearth, and he made his way to it, seating himself in the creaking chair with a grunt of discomfort.
Smythe, several inches shorter than he, evidently favored a lower seat, and Aidan’s long legs were ill-accommodated by the narrow kneehole.
Opening the desk’s right-hand drawer, Aidan withdrew a stack of loose pages, fanning them into the candlelight atop the blotting mat. As he thumbed through them, a low whistle escaped his lips.
Bills of sale.
Paintings. Objets d’art. Even a modest parcel of land just north of London. Thousands of pounds, perhaps tens of thousands, all liquidated in the past six months alone.
The gossip surrounding Smythe’s financial instability had not been exaggerated. What could compel a man to divest himself of so much? Gambling debts? Imminent bankruptcy? Some hidden folly?
Aidan’s pulse quickened. Here, perhaps, was the motive they had sought. Smythe’s desperation for funds could easily have driven him to silence Filminster’s uncle, perhaps fatally.
If solid proof of the act could be secured and the man arrested, Lily’s danger might at last be dispelled, and this harrowing chapter brought to an end.
Drawing the inkstand closer, he selected a sharpened quill and found a fresh leaf of foolscap in the drawer.
Methodically, he began recording the entries.
Names of purchasers, prices rendered, descriptions of goods, and any addresses noted.
The faint scratch of quill on paper echoed in the still room.
This list would be invaluable. Briggs, the runner, could trace each transaction. And perhaps, at the end of this paper trail, they might find the evidence they needed to unravel the truth.
Finding the pounce, Aidan sprinkled the fine powder across the fresh ink, watching as it dulled the sheen of the words.
With a careful breath, he blew it off, then folded the sheet with precision and slid it into the inner pocket of his coat.
His lurking had borne fruit. Perhaps they had found their man.
It would be a profound relief to conclude these clandestine endeavors, which continually gnawed at his sense of honor.
He was not fashioned for deceit. Such duplicity sat ill with him, the ethical implications an ever-present undercurrent of unrest.
He returned the bills of sale to the drawer with methodical care, then repositioned the inkstand and quill precisely where he had found them.
Producing a linen handkerchief from his waistcoat, he wiped away any smudges or impressions his presence might have left upon the surface.
Rising, he pushed the chair gently back beneath the desk and padded across the thick Axminster rug toward the cabinet by the door.
There, he replaced the candlestick, then leaned down to extinguish the flame with a breath that stirred the air but left the silence undisturbed.
At the threshold, he paused. Muffled voices echoed from the corridor beyond, drawing nearer. His pulse quickened.
Turning, he scanned the darkened room now bathed in silver by the moonlight pouring through tall windows across the chamber.
As his eyes adjusted, he discerned that the casements were in fact French doors leading to a terrace.
The voices had grown more distinct, male and female tones, strolling and unsuspecting. He must act swiftly.
He crossed the room in a few long strides, heart thumping as he tested the latch. He looked left and right, checking for any witness to his emergence.
Some thirty feet along the stone terrace, a lone woman stood, haloed by moonlight, her attention wholly absorbed by the vista before her. Aidan inhaled slowly, sending up a prayer that the door hinges had been seen to recently. If they creaked, all would be undone.
He eased the door open, mercifully silent, and stepped out into the night.
The air was cooler here, faintly scented by the clipped box hedges below.
He drew the door closed behind him and moved to the balustrade, laying his hands upon the stone.
It still held the gentle warmth of the departed sun, grounding him in the stillness of the hour.
Lifting his eyes, he beheld the sky above, vast and serene. The moon reigned sovereign, its glow turning the clouds to luminous gauze. In that still moment, he was nothing more than a man in awe of the heavens.
To his right, the young woman remained unmoving. Her profile was a study in elegance. The soft line of her jaw, the delicate architecture of her nose. All rendered in perfect relief by the moon’s pale glow. She had not yet seen him.
She must surely be Miss Smythe. The same composed young woman from the receiving line, now revealed in ethereal majesty.
Without conscious decision, he spoke aloud the words that arose unbidden in his soul.
“Who can know heaven except by its gifts?”
She started slightly, a soft intake of breath the only evidence of her surprise. She did not turn to face him, yet her voice emerged clear and thoughtful.
“And who can find out God, unless the man who is himself an emanation from God?”
Aidan blinked, momentarily unmoored. “You have read Astronomica?”
“Marcus Manilius was one of the greatest poets of Ancient Rome.”
Her voice, low and lyrical, held the quiet assurance of a mind well-trained. Aidan’s breath caught. A scholar. A thinker. A woman of intellect and grace.
The folded list in his breast pocket mocked his romantic optimism. Did he truly believe that the heavens would reveal the other half of his soul to be the child of the man responsible for the attack on his sister two weeks earlier?
Yet, how else did one explain this synchronization, this attraction he was feeling for the young lady?
He had traveled the realm and the Continent and never encountered such feminine perfection as a divinity who quoted the great minds of the ancient world.
How was such a woman unwed? Undesired by the bucks of the ton?
Was she surrounded by deaf and blind imbeciles?
If only …
Drawn by forces beyond conscious thought, he stepped to her side.
They stood together, shoulder to shoulder, as silent witnesses to the majesty of the night.
His subterfuge forgotten, he beheld her as one might venerate a sacred vision, overwhelmed by reverence, by yearning, and by the unbearable ache of possibility.
Gwen was not accustomed to tall, striking gentlemen seeking her out, yet here one stood, mere inches away, his presence a quiet thunder in the hush of night.
Perhaps it was the dramatic beauty of the evening that had drawn him forth.
Certainly, he could not know that he was standing beside Gwen, Gwen the Spotted Giraffe, whose freckles were the bane of her existence and whose mirror offered no illusions of fashionable appeal.
Only moments earlier, she had sent up a silent plea to the stars, wishing she might share a moment like this, only once, with a gentleman who could see her, truly see her.
And now, as though the very heavens had listened, he had appeared from the shadows, summoned by poetry and moonlight.
Since their peculiar exchange on Astronomica, he had said nothing more, and she dared not speak for fear the enchantment would unravel.
She exhaled softly, accepting this improbable moment for what it was, a fleeting marvel spun from moonbeams and wishes.
Clearly, the man believed he stood beside someone else.
Likely, in the dim light, he assumed her to be a statuesque brunette with alabaster skin, not the freckled, flame-haired oddity she had always been.
Still, she would not correct him. Not yet.
Not when this singular moment was the nearest she had ever come to romance.
The fear of ruining the moment had her squeezing the stone beneath her fingers, as she clung to the phantasy that an eligible man wished to share the view with her.
She was terrified she would ruin the moment and it would end before she had gathered every sense, every second, that she could before returning to the solitude of her real life.
Not only was he physically impressive, from what she could see from the corner of her eye, but he had perfectly translated the Latin poem and attributed it to the rightful source.
He was a true scholar to engage in such a discussion, and for just a fleeting second, Gwen dared to believe that this was the man who her father had promised would appear.
She released her cynicism to allow the magic of possibilities to enter her heart.
It is to savor the moment, she told herself. But despite her pragmatic nature, deep in her soul she felt that something unexpected was unfolding.