Chapter 11 #2
“I might not be here for dinner,” he added, glancing toward the window. “There are matters I must attend to.”
Desperation bloomed within her. Buttercup stirred, shifting uneasily as if in quiet sympathy. Gwen leaned in slightly, lowering her voice so the servant could not hear.
“Will you … will you come to my room tonight?”
She held her breath. Please. Please, say yes.
“We shall see what time I return.”
The hope within her withered. Aidan stood and left the breakfast room, his footsteps receding, the absence of warmth in his parting weighing more heavily than silence.
Gwen remained seated, the cut fruit untouched before her. Her thoughts whirled. She had spoken too soon, offered her heart without provocation, and now he was pulling away.
Beneath the table, Buttercup whined softly, as though understanding her mistress’s despair.
Aidan had been kind. Attentive. She had been too eager, too exposed. Too much.
And now she feared she had frightened him.
Aidan’s fingers brushed against the folded letter nestled in his coat pocket. As ever, Filminster’s words were cloaked in ambiguity. Careful, no doubt, to avoid revealing too much should the message fall into the wrong hands. Yet Aidan discerned the intent with clarity.
It was time.
Whatever Smythe was entangled in, the moment had come to act and to uncover the truth for himself.
It happened again. I have doubled the guards.
- Filminster
Ridley House remained under watch, and word had reached him that another attempt had been made to force entry into his sister’s home. The only comfort was that capable men had been stationed there, ready to prevent any harm from reaching her.
Aidan strode toward the library, thoughts turning over with increasing urgency. Upstairs, Smythe was presumably at rest after a night spent out, his absence only solidifying Aidan’s growing suspicion.
Perhaps I should search his study once more?
The notion felt futile, but desperation made even a fruitless endeavor seem worth attempting. And still, a stronger thought pressed. He must follow Smythe himself. If the man slipped out again that afternoon, Aidan intended to know precisely where he went … and with whom.
There were few choices. He might first call at Ridley House to obtain the particulars of the latest disturbance and still return in time to observe Smythe should he venture forth on further errands.
Better that than wear a path into the library carpet while Smythe slept peacefully above.
His mind settled, Aidan turned for the hall to give instructions for his mount.
But as he reached the entry, he found the butler in quiet discussion with two liveried workmen. Together, they were engaged in the delicate removal of the grand painting that hung above the primary staircase.
A sweeping landscape met his gaze. English ladies in elaborate gowns and towering hats adorned with lace and ruffles, their powdered hair lending them an ethereal glow as they strolled through what appeared to be St. James’s Park.
Small dogs cavorted at their feet, and the entire scene was captured with the fluid elegance of a master’s hand.
It was not only beautiful. It was valuable. Possibly even a Gainsborough.
Aidan’s brow furrowed. “What is this, Jenson?”
The butler, a slim man in his fifties with iron-gray hair and the composed demeanor befitting a long-standing servant, glanced over his shoulder at Aidan before returning his focus to the task at hand.
Together, he and two workmen carefully eased the weighty, gilded frame to the ground with slow coordination.
Ordinarily, such proceedings would not be questioned by another gentleman, particularly not one outside the household. But Aidan was heir to a viscount, and few in service would dare withhold the truth from a man of his standing.
“Mr. Smythe has sold the painting, my lord,” Jenson said with careful formality. “These men have come to collect it.”
Aidan drew a hand through his hair, restraining the urge to curse aloud. His jaw tightened.
Again.
Each passing hour made the matter more evident. The continued liquidation of valuables, the timing of the murder, the persistent surveillance of Ridley House. All pointed to a man ensnared in desperate schemes.
It reeked of concealment. A killer needing coin to bury evidence, to silence witnesses, to stay one step ahead of ruin. Funds had been spent. Hired watchers, a treacherous footman now dead, and the cache of hidden currency found among his belongings.
The ongoing liquidation of assets coincided with both the murder and the recent attempts to breach Ridley House.
Both reeked of desperation. A killer who needed to hide evidence of his dastardly deeds and obtain funds for some mysterious reason.
Covering up the murder of a peer would cost coin.
There were men being paid to watch Ridley House, and the now-deceased footman who had attacked Lily weeks earlier had hidden quite a stash in his things.
Most of Gwen’s dowry had been forfeited in light of the scandal, the Abbotts providing for her and their future progeny in the marriage contracts.
Something Smythe had insisted on, and his own father had acquiesced to.
Yet another indication that Smythe was obsessed with obtaining funds for some undisclosed reason.
As a result, Smythe had not been in a position to deny Aidan access to his residence because his contribution to Gwen’s future had been practically non-existent.
Smythe’s perfidy was on full display, and it was imperative that Aidan prove it and end this threat. If anything happened to Lily or her husband, the guilt would be too much to bear.