Page 23

“Calm yourself, Christiana,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, the very embodiment of noble restraint. “It shall all work out.”

Lady Moreland twisted toward him, her brocade shawl slipping from one shoulder. “What has befallen our children?” she moaned, her eyes wild and anguished. “Did I fail to raise them aright? Two scandals in one month!”

Then she buried her face in her delicate hands, the lace of her sleeves brushing against her flushed cheeks as she openly wept.

Aidan winced, his posture stiffening. Perhaps he should have spoken privately with his father first, rather than deliver his announcement to both parents simultaneously. It was an error of strategy that he now deeply regretted.

“I apologize, Mother,” he said quietly. “I have taken steps to make the matter right.”

Lady Moreland lifted her face, her chestnut-brown eyes glossy with tears, and gave another cry. “How?”

Aidan stood silent, struggling for words. He did not wish to upset her further. Words, after all, were the currency of poets and liars, neither of which seemed particularly helpful at the moment.

Lord Moreland cast his son a discerning glance before sighing, a sound weighted with long experience. It was clear he had pieced together what Aidan was yet to confess.

“Aidan has done the right thing,” he declared gravely. “The honorable thing.”

Lady Moreland blinked at her husband, confusion chasing away some of the panic clouding her features. She turned her head toward him, brows knittied.

Lord Moreland laced his fingers together as he settled into the rhythm of explanation. “If all goes as expected,” he said carefully, “Aidan shall soon provide another heir to the Moreland title.”

Aidan blinked, thrown by his father’s deft turn of phrase. Had he truly just recast the scandalous events of the previous night into a glowing family advancement?

Lady Moreland’s expression softened, understanding stealing slowly across her tear-streaked face. “Aidan is to wed?” she breathed.

Lord Moreland gave a solemn nod, then reached up with his monogrammed handkerchief to gently blot the moisture from her cheeks. His actions, though simple, conveyed the grace of a marriage long tempered by shared burdens and unspoken understanding.

“And then,” he added, smoothing the edge of the linen over her delicate temple, “he shall have babes. Sons and daughters. Our grandchildren.”

Thoughts flitted across Lady Moreland’s expressive face as she processed this newfound prospect of grandchildren. “I should have the servants visit the attics and bring down Aidan’s and Lily’s baby things,” she announced, already rising to move toward the door.

Lord Moreland nodded in agreement, his tone calm but decisive. “An inventory should be taken immediately.”

She swept from the room with revived purpose, her skirts rustling like wind across silk. Her departure left behind the faint scent of violets and the charged silence of two men confronting the fallout of family honor.

Father and son exchanged a weighted glance before Lord Moreland exhaled slowly, then turned his full attention to Aidan. “Your mother has suffered a great deal this past month. First Lily’s reputation was sullied. Then certain acquaintances, the sort who pretend to be pillars of grace, quietly withdrew their invitations. And then Lily was nearly …” He broke off, his hands fluttering mid-air, the conclusion unspoken but understood.

“I am deeply sorry for all of it,” Aidan murmured, guilt threading through his voice. “I should have spoken to you first … before Mother became involved.”

Lord Moreland sighed once more and leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out before crossing one ankle over the other. His thoughtful gaze bore into Aidan with a quiet authority. “Then tell me, what were you doing at the Smythe ball? I was not aware you had any interest in making a match.”

Aidan looked away, the fine carpet suddenly of immense interest. “I was … searching,” he mumbled.

A slow inhale came from the other side of the room. “Searching for what, precisely?”

“Evidence that Mr. Smythe may be responsible for the murder of Lord Filminster last month.”

Aidan’s voice dropped to a grim undertone, and he continued to study the toes of his riding boots. The only sound that followed was the faint ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel, and then … an audible groan from his father.

“Is that a genuine possibility?”

“It is,” Aidan replied, lifting his eyes only briefly.

Lord Moreland cursed under his breath, a rare slip in composure that made Aidan flinch. “Deuce it. I do not know Smythe well, but he is a charming man with influence and friends aplenty. His elder brother, I am told, thinks highly of him.”

Aidan thought of the letter he had uncovered. The one written by the baron, naming Smythe and expressing grave suspicion. The memory only cemented his growing certainty. Smythe was no genial host. He was a man hiding something dangerous.

“Miss Smythe is innocent in all this,” he said firmly. “And considering my actions last night, it is now my duty to protect her … both now and in the days to come.”