Chapter 9 #4
Disappointment rose like mist from the floor, cool and sudden. She had expected something different. His voice, though calm, carried the ring of evasion, as though he needed to flee.
Was he unhappy about their marriage, tied as it was to scandal and suspicion? He had seemed committed, even eager. But now he appeared desperate to be away, and her heart gave a quiet thud of concern.
“Um … I shall see that the servants have unpacked your things and … await your return.”
Aidan nodded, not quite meeting her gaze, then bowed. The gesture was polite, respectful, but painfully formal. It did not suit the intimacy of the day they had just shared. Without further word, he turned and slipped out the front door with unexpected haste.
How was he to reach his club? There had been no carriage waiting. Would he catch a hackney?
Gwen held her arms stiffly at her sides and shook out her hands, an effort to dispel the anxious tension building within her. Was her groom regretting their vows? She had not thought so earlier. But now? Now she did not know what to believe. And it was far too late to change course.
Aidan had walked several miles through London streets, attempting to clear his thoughts. It had not worked. His mind circled like a restless horse, unable to outrun the anxiety coiled in his chest. He could not stop thinking about this evening, about what was expected of him as a husband.
The mechanics were no mystery. But that knowledge did little to ease his turmoil.
Seated alone at a back table in his club, Aidan stared down at the untouched brandy he had ordered.
Around him, the murmur of deep conversation and the clink of fine crystal glasses filled the air, mingling with the rich scent of cigars and polished wood.
Other gentlemen indulged in French spirits and jocular debate, but Aidan remained apart.
Like the rest of the Abbotts, he did not drink spirits, an enduring habit formed out of respect for his cousin Sophia and the vow she had made long ago. On occasion, he would order a brandy to avoid distressing the club’s servers, who hovered uncertainly when he remained unserved.
He considered the glass now. Perhaps one swallow would soothe him and settle his nerves?
Not that tonight’s duties were unwelcome.
Quite the opposite. He had imagined Gwen—dreamed of her, truthfully—since that night on the terrace when her eyes had met his.
But imagination was a far cry from reality, and Gwen was an innocent.
She deserved more than awkward uncertainty or the ill-timed clumsiness of a man overthinking every step.
What if he disappointed her?
“Little Breeches.”
Aidan grunted under his breath. Of course. He had managed to find the one club in London where he might stumble across Lord Trafford.
Looking up, Aidan set his jaw and forced a passable smile, though irritation thrummed beneath it.
Trafford approached with his usual theatrical flair, dressed in a bronze jacquard coat so bright it threatened to dazzle the chandeliers. Beneath it, an ebony waistcoat was embroidered in a pattern that seemed to shimmer whenever he moved.
Aidan could not help noting, grimly, that whatever allowance the Earl of Stirling granted his son was clearly too generous, if one judged by the foppish excess of his attire.
The other heir dropped into the chair opposite, sweeping a practiced hand through the deliberately tousled curls at the crown of his head.
Aidan rolled his eyes. Nothing screamed affectation like Trafford’s two-toned hair, wheat-hued on top and a darker brown beneath.
The result of artifice, no doubt, and a valet far too eager to indulge in chemical experimentation.
“I thought you wed today,” Trafford remarked.
“I did,” Aidan answered curtly.
“Then why are you here?”
Aidan rolled his shoulders and forced himself back into the chair with a show of ease he did not feel. “No reason.”
“Is the whole …” Trafford gestured vaguely in the air, as if conjuring smoke.
“No.” The muddle with Gwen’s father—and the knowledge that, now her future was secured, Aidan must return to his investigation into Smythe—weighed heavily upon his conscience. But today, that was not what troubled him most.
“Are you well, Little Breeches?”
Aidan snorted. Only Trafford could offer sympathy and insult in the same breath.
“What are you doing here?”
The other heir dropped his gaze, his usual levity dimmed. “I … cannot be at home right now. There are … issues.”
Aidan tilted his head, examining the shadows under Trafford’s eyes. The man was clearly unsettled.
“Are you staying at the club?”
A brief nod was the only response.
Aidan did not welcome the prick of sympathy that stirred within him, slow and persistent, like the kindling of a hearth fire. It appeared they both bore burdens unspoken.
Trafford gave his head a little shake, as if tossing away unwelcome thoughts, then leaned forward on the table. “But what of you, Little Breeches? You appear melancholy, and your bride awaits.”
Aidan cleared his throat, dropping his gaze to the polished floorboards. “I think you know, considering your charming little sobriquet for me.”
A pause followed, filled only by the low hum of the room. A hand entered his peripheral vision and plucked up his drink. The quiet clink of glass against teeth came next, followed by a deliberate swallow. Then …
“It is true, then?”
Aidan nodded, heat rising to his cheeks.
“You have never …?” Trafford left the question dangling, incomplete.
Another reluctant nod.
Trafford exhaled slowly. “I suspected. There was never any gossip about women. Some whispered that perhaps you … well, never mind that. I have seen the way you look at Lady Abbott … it leaves little doubt. But why have you never pursued …?”
By Jupiter, this is an uncomfortable subject.
Aidan had spent so long abroad that he had few confidants left in England, and he never imagined that the first person he would confide in about this would be Trafford.
Yet, oddly, there was something pacifying in speaking the truth aloud to someone who, for all his polish and pretension, had seen more of the world than most.
“I believe that such an act should be shared between people who care for one another,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I never met a woman I wished to offer that part of myself to … until Gwen.”
Trafford stared at him for a few moments before huffing a laugh. “A man with standards. I shall order another drink so I may toast that which Diogenes only dreamed of. I have found an honest man.”
Aidan groaned. “I am deceiving my bride, so not as honest as I would wish.”
“That aside, I think it is rather endearing, Little Breeches. You come from a good family and you possess morals. There is nothing in that to be ashamed of.”
“I am not ashamed. Unless”—Aidan leaned forward, his hands curling into fists on the table—“you decide to share this conversation, in which case I will be forced to defend my honor in a most vigorous manner.”
Trafford’s lips quirked into a smile. “This conversation remains our secret. I am, however, profoundly impressed with my own talents in the field of deduction. When I first inquired after you, the notion crossed my mind briefly, but I dismissed it as too unlikely. It appears I am quite the investigator.”
“Splendid,” Aidan muttered. “Find a murderer other than Smythe, then. It would spare Gwen a great deal of pain if someone else could be shown to have had a motive.”
“I am working on it. Ridley is rather dear to me, old chap.”
Aidan rolled his shoulders again, the tension never fully leaving them. “I suppose I should go home and …” He made a vague gesture, the very act of articulation too mortifying to attempt.
“There is a book in my rooms that might assist you.”
Before Aidan could protest, Trafford sprang from his chair and disappeared down the corridor. Within minutes, he returned, dropped into his seat once more, and placed a small leather-bound volume on the table between them.
Aidan picked it up, frowning at the strange symbols stamped on the cover. “I am quite the scholar, Trafford, but even I do not read Sanskrit.”
Trafford shook his head in mock despair. Leaning over, he opened the book and flipped a few pages. “There are illustrations, Little Breeches.”
Aidan drew the book closer. The moment his gaze landed on the images, his breath caught and his collar felt suddenly too tight. The artistic renderings, though elaborate, left little to the imagination.
“Is this legal?”
“The activities? More or less. The book itself? Probably not.”
“I understand the general … framework,” Aidan said stiffly. “I do not need these.” He pushed the book back across the table.
Trafford snickered and slid it right back. “You might find there are more … interpretations of the task than you assumed. Trust me, and pay attention to the visuals.”
Aidan sighed and tucked the volume into his coat. He would hire a hackney and explore the illustrations somewhere far more private.
“Now,” Trafford said with relish, “I shall impart some of my personal wisdom on the subject.”
“Please do not.”
“You wish to know what I know, Little Breeches. And believe me, Gwendolyn Abbott will be a very happy woman if you listen carefully.”
Aidan shoulders slumped, surveying his options. Return home with vague notions, return to the Abbott townhouse and pester his father for counsel, or remain here and endure Trafford’s unsolicited lecture.
“Dash it, just make it painless.”
Trafford tsked like a disappointed tutor. “Do you want painless or effective?”
Aidan dropped his head into his hands, utterly mortified to be receiving matrimonial advice from the most ostentatious peacock in London. “Effective, I suppose.”
That was all the encouragement Trafford required. With the enthusiasm of a man presenting a military strategy, he launched into a tactful, if spirited, dissertation on how best to proceed with one’s duties as a newlywed husband, complete with occasional euphemisms and far too much confidence.