Chapter 8 #2
“Michaels,” Aidan said, inclining his head in a brief nod.
The butler stood stiffly, his expression unreadable, eyes steady and unblinking.
Aidan clenched his jaw but kept his tone civil. “Is Lord Filminster at home?”
Michaels gave a curt nod. Stepping aside, he allowed Aidan entry into the front hall. After closing the door, the butler turned and led the way to Lord Filminster’s study, his tread so heavy and measured it echoed down the corridor like the march of a regiment.
Aidan followed, shaking his head slightly at the enigmatic servant.
Lily had mentioned that Michaels had been offered retirement in gratitude for his heroism, but had chosen instead to remain in service.
It was difficult to imagine that the man found any joy in his duties, yet Aidan supposed there must be some private satisfaction in maintaining his post. Michaels’s demeanor was, to Aidan’s thinking, rather like that of a sphinx, unreadable and faintly disapproving.
Still, the man had once saved Lily’s life, and that merited forbearance. As long as Michaels wished to remain, Aidan would endure their awkward interactions without complaint.
And truth be told, he mused, Michaels’s continued presence might prove fortuitous, given that the true killer remained at large. A man who had demonstrated such courage might be needed again before all was done.
Upon being shown into Filminster’s study, Aidan discovered Trafford already present, draped carelessly in an armchair.
The man remained, in Aidan’s estimation, something of a puffed-up fool with his parade of embroidered coats, theatrical waistcoats, and an encyclopedic collection of legwear.
Still, even Aidan had to admit that Trafford had proved a surprisingly useful ally in their ongoing investigation.
The fellow was persistent, and loyal—two traits that were not to be discounted.
With a nod, Aidan sank into a faded armchair and stretched his legs before addressing his brother-in-law, who sat behind a large mahogany desk with an air of collected gravity.
“Well, Ridley, are you going to brief Little Breeches here or not?” Trafford asked, his tone lazy and amused.
Aidan squashed the irritation that flared. Despite his best efforts, the retort slipped out. “It is Filminster, not Ridley.”
Trafford arched a brow, his head cocked toward Aidan. “Is he not Brendan Ridley, my old chum from around Town?”
Aidan’s tone cooled. “Is he not now the Baron of Filminster? Lord Filminster? Otherwise known to his peers as … Filminster?”
Trafford waved a languid hand. “Tempers are short and patience is frayed. I shall allow your comments to pass without rebuke.”
Aidan exhaled sharply. It was not untrue. His patience was indeed fraying. The urgency of ending the danger to Lily gnawed at his composure. And there was Gwen, his Gwen, who now lived in the periphery of every waking moment and every dream.
Last night had been a torment of restless images.
Her eyes catching the starlight, her breath warm against his cheek, the press of her hand in his.
In his sleep, those memories had stolen past his defenses, weaving a tapestry of longing and what-ifs.
He had awoken unsettled, caught between longing and regret, his heart hammering with equal parts want and restraint.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to take her onto the terrace. But it had not felt like one. Not in that moment. Not with her gaze holding his. Not with her presence stilling the chaos within him.
He drew in a breath and tried to push the memory aside.
“I apologize,” he said at last, eyes still on the desk. “You have known Filminster for years, Trafford. Address him as you wish.”
Trafford smirked. “I shall, Little Breeches.”
Aidan curled his fingers into a fist, his knuckles whitening.
The ongoing taunt was not worthy of acknowledgment.
Trafford might never relinquish it if he suspected how very aggravating it truly was.
This was Aidan’s own fault for engaging.
He ought to have allowed Filminster to respond instead of letting himself be baited.
“Did something happen?” he asked, redirecting his attention to his sister’s husband, who, as it turned out, had been paying not a whit of attention to the exchange.
Filminster was staring down at the rug, a rich swirl of colors that seemed to hold his entire focus. Aidan recognized the expression. He had worn it often enough himself in recent weeks, when the outside world dimmed beneath the weight of a single, relentless question.
How do I unmask the killer and resolve this muddle before Lily is hurt again?
Trafford cleared his throat with exaggerated purpose, and Filminster blinked, returning to the present.
“What happened?” Aidan prompted again when the silence stretched.
Filminster folded his hands atop the desk.
“The runner, Briggs, has had men stationed discreetly on the street outside. He reported that someone has been watching the house. At his suggestion, we reduced the visibility of our guards, hoping to draw the watchers out. One of them broke into the library last evening. He escaped before the Johns could seize him.”
Aidan surged to his feet, the chair creaking behind him. “How long has the house been under surveillance? Why was I not informed?”
Filminster met his gaze, his voice calm but his eyes shadowed. “There was no reason to cause you undue concern.”
A tide of fear rose, sweeping over Aidan in a wave that blurred reason. Lily. The thought of her in danger yet again turned his voice sharp as he began to pace. “Why do you not simply take Lily to Somerset? Remove her from this peril?”
Filminster exhaled, the sound weary. “Briggs believes it is safer to remain here. At Ridley House, we have guards, footmen, and familiarity with our surroundings. On the road, we would be exposed, vulnerable in carriages.”
“But they are not after her!” Aidan snapped. “They want the letter. They are searching for evidence, not launching an assault.”
“If the killer suspects we have the letter,” Filminster replied evenly, “he might send men to intercept us. Out on the turnpikes, we would be open to ambush with little means of defense.”
Aidan raked a hand through his hair. “But the proof we need may lie in Filminster! We could solve this. We could end this.”
“It is not so simple,” Filminster said, more gently now.
“My uncle kept exhaustive records. Attics full of papers, journals, and accounts. It would take weeks, perhaps months, to locate what we seek. I can entrust such a task only to myself, and perhaps one or two of Briggs’s most trusted men.
I will not risk Lily’s safety for a journey that may yield nothing. ”
Aidan’s frustration boiled over as he turned again, pacing the worn rug. Every day they remained in Town, Lily was at risk.
“Then remove with Lily to my parents’ home,” he said, his tone edged with iron resolve.
Trafford rose and rolled his shoulders with a languid stretch.
“It will not help, Little Breeches. Here, Filminster has guards, and there is Michaels and the household besides. Your parents, as I understand, will be taking the majority of their servants to the country after the wedding. It is better for Ridley and his wife to remain here.”
“We need to solve this!” Aidan’s voice tightened with frustration. “Lily cannot remain in Ridley House indefinitely.”
“Today is Saturday,” Trafford replied with maddening calm. “Which means you are to wed in precisely one week. Lord and Lady Moreland depart the week after, so you will be free to pursue further inquiries. Briggs continues to investigate Smythe’s sales, but nothing new has yet come to light.”
Aidan raked his hand through his hair. “How? How am I to find out anything? I collect my bride Saturday morning and then reside with my parents whilst our own house is prepared.”
Filminster, who had remained silent, now interjected.
“Perhaps you could persuade Smythe to host you in his own home for a time? Say that your parents’ townhouse requires urgent repair, and you thought it best …
for Miss Smythe’s comfort … that you remain under her father’s roof until your new residence is ready? ”
Aidan rubbed a hand across his face. The suggestion had merit. His father had given instructions to ready one of their London properties, but that process would take several weeks yet. To claim the house required urgent work would not be too far from truth.
“It is a strange request,” he mused. “But I could call upon Smythe and propose the idea. I shall suggest we marry in his home if I am to carry off this fiction. It will not do for him to visit ours.”
“That may indeed be for the best,” Filminster said, hesitating only briefly. “I know it is a great deal to ask, but I would be grateful. Smythe remains the only one on our list with any substantive hints of duplicity. He could be the one.”
Aidan’s heart sank, a familiar ache settling in his chest. He raised a hand to knead it, hoping futilely to press back the dread that curled there. He had hoped fervently one of the other men under investigation might prove guilty. Anyone but Smythe. Anyone but Gwen’s father.
Filminster must have noticed his disquiet. “We are continuing to investigate the others. But if Smythe killed my uncle, he must answer for it.”
“I know,” Aidan replied hoarsely. “Lily’s safety is at risk, so I do not need reminding that I must reveal the truth if he is guilty.”
Filminster stepped closer, placing a hand on Aidan’s shoulder with a touch that was awkward but sincere. “I regret that you are in this position … Aidan.”
Aidan nodded and, clearing his throat, made a quiet effort at reciprocation. “Thank you … Brendan.”
Trafford, never one to let sincerity linger too long, smirked as he resumed his sprawl in the armchair. “It is heartwarming to witness family closeness.”
Aidan shut his eyes, the corners tightening with frustration. Trust the fop to ruin the moment. “Get lost, Trafford.”
Brendan laughed, the earlier tension melting from his features. For an instant, Aidan glimpsed the man his brother-in-law might be under normal circumstances, a man more inclined to levity than duty. “You are one of us now, Aidan. Only Trafford’s nearest and dearest tell him to get lost.”
Aidan shook his head with dry disdain. “If the day ever dawns that Trafford and I are counted friends, you are to take me out back and put a musket ball through my head. It will mean I have descended into some grotesque parody of existence.”
Trafford pulled a face, feigning injury. “Careful, Little Breeches. You may wound my delicate sensibilities.”
“Do you possess any?” Aidan shot back without missing a beat.
The fool shrugged. “On occasion.”
Aidan snorted, the sound half amused and half appalled.
As much as Trafford vexed him, he had to concede, grudgingly, that the man had a peculiar talent for breaking through his darker moods.
Perhaps, in certain moments, and under exceedingly specific circumstances, the other heir did serve some purpose.
He exhaled, the flicker of humor sliding from his features. How had it come to this? He was searching for a murderer, guarding his sister, and shielding the woman he was soon to marry from potential scandal. All at once. The weight of it pressed heavily upon his shoulders.
Next week, he would wed Gwen. And everything—every tangled, precarious thread—would become more complicated still.