Chapter 15 #2
Her chamber door loomed ahead. She burst inside and slammed it shut with a resounding thud. Her hands shook as she turned the key, the metal cold beneath her damp fingers.
Then she crumpled to the floor. Silk and sorrow pooling around her in a tangle of crushed fabric and wracking sobs.
She had dared to believe.
She—Gwen, Gwen the Spotted Giraffe—had foolishly let herself hope that a man like Aidan could love her.
A soft scratching came at the door, followed by a low, anxious whine. Buttercup.
Dragging herself upright, Gwen unlocked the door. The little dog scrambled in with a flurry of claws on polished wood and nestled immediately beside her, whining low in her throat.
Gwen locked the door once more and slumped against the wall, her back cold against the paneling. She stroked Buttercup’s silky ears, seeking comfort in the familiar weight at her side.
“Do not worry, girl,” she murmured. “You and I will be all right.”
But even as she said it, her eyes flooded again, and the first tears traced a fresh path down her already swollen cheeks.
It had all been a cruel trick of the moonlight.
Aidan was still trying to gather his thoughts, to piece together what might be said to Smythe to begin righting the wrongs he had wrought, when a knock interrupted.
Jenson entered with his customary precision. “My lord, Lord Filminster is here to see you.”
Aidan froze.
The delicate hope that had only just begun to stir within his chest fell still. Cold dread took its place.
Something has happened to Lily! Why else would Filminster call upon me here?
His mind conjured horrors in rapid succession. Had his sister been injured? Was she ill again? Had Michaels—gallant, cantankerous Michaels—succumbed to the wounds he had received while defending her?
Beside him, Smythe stirred. “Show Filminster in.”
Jenson bowed and withdrew.
“I shall leave you to your conversation,” Smythe added quietly, already moving toward the door.
Aidan barely managed a nod, so fixated was he on the fear gnawing at his insides.
Moments later, Filminster entered the room, his face unreadable. Smythe departed in silence.
“What is it?” Aidan rose. “Has something happened to Lily?”
Filminster shook his head, stepping forward. “No, it is not Lily.”
Aidan’s lungs filled with air again, but the reprieve was brief.
Filminster took the chair opposite and leaned forward, reaching into his coat. “But something may have happened to Trafford.”
“Trafford?” Aidan repeated, frowning.
His brother-in-law nodded, withdrawing a page folded into quarters.
“A woman brought this to the duke’s townhouse not long ago.
The butler knew nothing about her. Only that she had fair hair, and he believed she was young.
She wore a heavy cape with the hood drawn, obscuring her features. She did not give a name. Only this.”
Aidan accepted the missive with a growing sense of foreboding. The note was written in hurried strokes with a lead pencil, the lines faint and uneven.
Blast. If he never received another letter again, it would be too soon.
It is not Smythe. 1 of the other 3. Do not inform Peel until you hear from me.
—Traf …
The note trembled in Aidan’s grasp. The handwriting was erratic. A scrawled mess devoid of Trafford’s usual flourish. He had trailed off mid-signature, as though he had lacked the strength to complete his own name.
Aidan squinted at the paper. “Is this … blood?”
Several reddish-brown droplets stained the page, dried but unmistakable.
Dread coiled tightly in his gut. Was Trafford grievously wounded? Or worse?
Filminster exhaled heavily and scrubbed a hand down his face.
The weariness in his manner spoke volumes.
“We believe it is blood. Briggs and his men are already searching for him. I came here to learn whether you might know his whereabouts. No one has seen Trafford since early this morning, and his father’s townhouse was locked, with only the servants in attendance.
The Earl of Stirling left for the Continent on Crown business at first light. ”
“By George,” Aidan breathed. “What the devil happened?”
Filminster leaned back, eyes drifting to the ornate crown molding above them.
“He was incensed to hear of Lily’s encounter yesterday.
Deeply frustrated. Said our investigation was too cautious, too slow.
He wanted action, something decisive to flush the villain out.
I think …” He trailed off, grim. “I think he attempted something rash. And it went poorly.”
“But he is alive.”
“For now,” Filminster replied soberly. “He was well enough to write and to send the girl with the note. But his condition is uncertain. And Trafford is not a man who easily concedes weakness.”
Aidan paced a few steps, the words striking like hammer blows. “Do we alert the authorities? Speak with Peel?”
“I asked Halmesbury. The duke urges caution. Without knowing where Trafford is or how compromised he may be, it would be unwise to act hastily. Trafford’s note pleaded for discretion. We must respect that … for now.”
Aidan clenched his fists. “Devil take this entire farce! I accused Smythe, and Gwen overheard every word.”
Filminster winced. “So I gathered. She nearly ran me down in the corridor, poor thing. Said Lily and I had deceived her. And … well, she is not wrong. I never meant for any of this to hurt her.”
He lowered his gaze, regret heavy in his voice. “When I found my uncle lying dead in his study, I knew nothing would be simple. But I never imagined it would ensnare so many. Least of all your wife.”
Aidan shook his head slowly. “You are family now, Brendan.” The name still felt foreign on his tongue, but it was time. “You did not draw us into this. We stepped in willingly. And no matter how you felt about your uncle, he deserves justice. Someone murdered him in cold blood.”
Filminster nodded gravely.
Aidan walked to the window. Beyond the glass, the afternoon wore a sullen, gray expression, the drizzle continuing despite the faintest glimmer of light behind the clouds.
“I wonder,” Filminster said softly, “if we were wrong to take this on ourselves. Should I have gone to Peel the moment I found that letter?”
“Perhaps,” Aidan murmured. “But it is far too late for regrets. Trafford asked us to wait for word, and so we shall. You focus on your men. I shall do what I can to repair the damage I have done with Gwen … and with her father.”
“You will let me know if you require anything?” Filminster asked, rising and smoothing his coat. “Lily and I are still entrenched at the duke’s townhouse. Anything at all, Aidan. You have risked much on our behalf.”
“I shall send word if I require aid,” Aidan replied quietly. “And keep me informed of the search for Trafford. He is … more than I expected.”
Filminster chuckled. “That is his way. One day, you realize you cannot imagine life without him.”
Aidan gave a weary nod. Despite Trafford’s absurdities, his insight and peculiar wisdom had become unexpectedly indispensable. His tutelage, particularly regarding certain conjugal matters, had proven quite effective on Aidan’s wedding night.
The scoundrel had better survive whatever misadventure he had pursued. The world would be colder without his irreverent cheer.
“I must go,” Filminster said, moving to the door. “There are a few places I wish to search. Send for me if you require anything further.”
Aidan watched him depart, then turned as the door reopened and Smythe stepped inside.
They regarded each other across the study with long, unspeaking gravity, until Aidan broke the silence.
“I cannot reveal the details surrounding the baron’s death nor the reasons I suspected you. Too many lives are entangled. It is safer you remain uninformed.”
Smythe gave a slow nod and returned to his chair. “Very well. But my daughter is upstairs in a state of profound distress. The servants are concerned.”
Guilt stabbed through Aidan’s chest like a blade. Gwen—his Gwen—had fled in tears, and he had not followed. He had not known what to say.
He swallowed. “What have you been doing, sir? If I may ask. Even though I cannot to answer your questions, I must know.”
To Aidan’s astonishment, Smythe leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin lighting his face. “Ships!” he whispered, eyes twinkling.
Aidan blinked. “Ships?”
Smythe nodded, his grin spreading wider. “Around the docks, they call them clippers. I have been selling off anything that I can to invest. Ships that can move commodities faster than before. Souchong and Congo teas, for instance. I aim to profit.”
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Aidan attempted to understand. “Why were you meeting with those brutish ruffians in the taverns?”
“I have been gathering information about the conditions of the ships and crews. Information I can use to negotiate the best arrangements for myself. I have limited funds, so I cannot afford to make any errors.”
“But sir … your behavior—”
“Appeared suspicious,” Smythe finished for him. He glanced down at his hands, his voice quieter. “I am the third son of a minor baron, Aidan. My claim to any true influence is tenuous. When it becomes known that I sold off my land to invest in trade, polite society will be appalled.”
Aidan’s breath left him in a rush. “They will say you are no longer a gentleman.”
“Exactly. My children may find it more difficult to marry well. We shall be relegated to the edge of society, and many of my peers will call me mad. But I am determined my family will never lack. I would rather be a scandalous success than a respected failure.”
Aidan shut his eyes. The guilt was unbearable now. He had accused an honorable man, misled his wife, and failed to see what was plainly before him.
He had been a greater fool than Trafford.
Smythe bobbed his head slowly in assent. “I shall be, horror of horrors, a man of trade.”