Chapter 6
Six
“We make war that we may live in peace.”
Aristotle
Aidan entered the club and made his way through a bank of tables and chairs toward the farthest corner, where Filminster and Trafford awaited.
The space buzzed with masculine murmurs and the occasional sharp clink of crystal thunking down on wooden surfaces, a familiar din beneath the chandeliers’ low gleam.
Polished mahogany and aged leather infused the air with a subtle tang of wax and tobacco.
Several gentlemen stopped mid-conversation to follow him with their eyes.
Whispers dogged his heels like a stray hound.
He felt the weight of their scrutiny as surely as if he had been draped in velvet robes rather than his plain wool coat.
Relief flickered through him as he approached the corner alcove, which was chosen, he noted with gratitude, for being too far from neighboring tables for their conversation to carry.
Dropping into a plump armchair, its arms creaking slightly with age as they took his weight, Aidan breathed deeply.
The scent of pipe smoke and ink-stained newsprint mingled oddly in the back of his throat.
Being the subject of gossip was a novel experience.
Heretofore, he had lived a faultless life, guided by duty and honor.
Now, he could only hope that Gwen was not suffering too acutely in the aftermath of their indiscretion two nights past.
Across from him, Trafford scowled and leaned forward, thrusting a folded news sheet across the table.
The paper was faintly smudged, its corners softened by prior hands.
Aidan glanced down, scanning the headline.
It chronicled the uproar caused by their embrace.
His memory supplied the precise weight of Gwen in his arms, the softness of her form pressed against his.
A flicker of heat stirred at the recollection.
She had fit against him with startling ease, her height nearly matching his, making it effortless to claim her lips.
“Have you lost your mind, Little Breeches?”
Gone was Trafford’s usual nonchalance. Filminster lifted a hand, palm out, to stay his friend’s temper.
“It appears that matters have gotten out of hand.” His brother-in-law’s tone was measured, though his brow quirked with curiosity. “Or did you uncover something that cleared Smythe of murder before …” He allowed his brows to rise with suggestive flair.
“Before you stuck your tongue down his daughter’s throat in a marvelous display of discretion and judgment, Little Breeches?” Trafford’s voice sharpened, his shoulders taut beneath the fine stitching of his jacket. The ivory buttons at his cuffs glinted in the lamplight like polished accusations.
“Why are you angry?” Aidan asked, not from petulance but genuine puzzlement. Trafford’s pique surprised him.
“This one and his wife are in danger”—Trafford gestured at Filminster with a curt flick of his gloved fingers—“and you were meant to be tactful about investigating the man. Instead, you drew unwarranted attention not only to yourself, but to me. Aunty Gertrude sent a note to my father yesterday to inform him that I was at the ball, and that my companion has ruined an innocent. The whole family is in an uproar.”
Filminster coughed into his fist, a gleam of amusement in his eye. “To be fair, Trafford, you did complain that you were bored.”
Trafford scowled. “I create my own entertainment. Dragging Father into it is not entertaining.”
Aidan’s brother-in-law allowed himself a small smile, which Aidan found reassuring. Perhaps life at Ridley House was beginning to right itself … if only they could apprehend the murderer. That, more than anything, was the key to ensuring Lily’s future safety.
“I think Smythe might be our man.” Aidan reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a page, carefully folded. He placed it on the table in front of Filminster.
The other man ran a hand through his dark curls before lifting the sheet. His gaze scanned the contents with growing focus.
“It is a list of assets that Smythe has sold. All within the past two months, if you check the dates. He appears to be in some financial distress, which would certainly provide motive for protecting his inheritance.”
Filminster ran a gloved finger down the list, the vellum page crackling faintly as he turned it. He whistled low under his breath and looked up at Trafford. “This is a small fortune. Smythe must be spending a great deal of blunt to need this.”
Trafford frowned, drawing the list toward him to scan it more closely.
His eyes flicked from line to line, the sunlight from a tall window glinting off the signet ring on his right hand.
“I have been occupied with our other suspects, but I have heard no mention of gambling or mistresses in connection with Smythe. No whispers or murmurs from the clubs or gaming hells that might explain his need for funds.”
Filminster leaned forward again, fingertips brushing the creases in the paper. “Could he be involved in a land purchase? That might explain the need for liquid capital.”
Aidan considered the question, absently adjusting his cravat.
“There was no mention of such during our parley yesterday. Miss Smythe’s dowry does not amount to much, so my father made generous concessions in the interest of expediency.
I shall have to raise the matter with Smythe the next time we meet.
It would be useful to learn if he has a legitimate reason for this sort of divestiture of assets. ”
Filminster nodded thoughtfully. “Your sister is astonished by the news. She tells me it is quite unlike you to be caught in such a compromising manner.”
Aidan straightened in his chair, the faint creak of the leather underscoring his discomfort. “Gwen is … special.”
“So special that you are willing to risk marrying into a family under investigation for murder?”
Aidan dropped his gaze to the table’s polished surface, tracing the dark grain with his eyes.
He could not explain what had happened in the moonlight.
He only knew that his desire to protect the young woman, to shield her from the vicious scrutiny of the beau monde and spare her from potential ruin, had become imperative since they were discovered.
“If Smythe is our man, Gwen will need protection. Whatever comes of this, she is innocent. She does not deserve to face the world alone if her father is arrested.”
Trafford interjected then, his voice steady.
It was a welcome distraction. He gestured toward the list with a flick of his fingers.
“I am looking into the other men listed here, but none of them display a tangible motive such as this. Smythe’s behavior—selling off property, artwork, even family jewels—certainly suggests that he is concealing something significant. ”
Aidan nodded. “I spoke with my father about it. He agreed the number of transactions was suspicious. He observed that it could be an effort to cover staggering debts or to finance a major acquisition. Filminster, perhaps you might discreetly inquire whether any such purchase has been recorded or rumored, while Trafford continues his investigations into the others?”
“I have already eliminated one of these men.” Trafford withdrew a small leather-bound notebook from his coat and opened it, flipping to a marked page.
He cast a cautious glance about the room to confirm no club employees lingered nearby, then returned his attention to the notes.
“Miller, along with his elder brother who holds the title, was present at a soirée that lasted well into the morning hours following the coronation. The household staff confirmed their presence. Both brothers were reportedly so deep in their cups that they could scarcely stand, let alone slip away to commit murder. Their carriage was not summoned until dawn, and the dinner was held far too distant from Ridley House to have allowed for a clandestine excursion by foot.”
Filminster inclined his head in acknowledgment. “My runner, Briggs, confirmed that Miller is independently wealthy. No financial motive. That is one name we may remove from suspicion.”
Trafford withdrew a pencil from the inner pocket of his waistcoat and neatly scored through a name on the list, the soft rasp of graphite faint beneath the low hum of conversation around them.
Four names remained. Aidan stared down at them, yet it was Smythe’s—first on the page, written in his own precise hand—that held his focus like a hook in the mind.
“The more I think about the baron’s letter, the more convinced I am that Smythe is the man we seek,” he said, his voice low.
“His older brother is a baron, which means your uncle likely sat with him or near him at the coronation. That would have been the baron’s primary opportunity to speak with anyone before his murder.
Smythe’s finances are in disarray, and my father confirms that the baron, his brother, is deeply fond of him. Just as the letter implied.”
Filminster shook his head, his gaze thoughtful, his features touched with pity.
“God help you, if that is the case, Aidan. I cannot imagine what it would be to deliver such a blow to Lily. Your bride will be devastated if her father is tried and hanged. More so if her husband is the accuser. I do not envy the position you are in.”
Aidan’s expression shuttered. His voice, when it came, was subdued. “Lily must be protected, no matter how difficult it might be. And I will take care of Gwen, if that comes to pass.”
“I understand. But …” Filminster hesitated, then pressed on gently, “I hope for your sake, and hers, that we uncover another suspect.”