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Aidan nodded. “I spoke with my father about it. He agreed the number of transactions was suspicious. He observed that it could be an effort to cover staggering debts or to finance a major acquisition. Filminster, perhaps you might discreetly inquire whether any such purchase has been recorded or rumored, while Trafford continues his investigations into the others?”

“I have already eliminated one of these men.” Trafford withdrew a small leather-bound notebook from his coat and opened it, flipping to a marked page. He cast a cautious glance about the room to confirm no club employees lingered nearby, then returned his attention to the notes. “Miller, along with his elder brother who holds the title, was present at a soirée that lasted well into the morning hours following the coronation. The household staff confirmed their presence. Both brothers were reportedly so deep in their cups that they could scarcely stand, let alone slip away to commit murder. Their carriage was not summoned until dawn, and the dinner was held far too distant from Ridley House to have allowed for a clandestine excursion by foot.”

Filminster inclined his head in acknowledgment. “My runner, Briggs, confirmed that Miller is independently wealthy. No financial motive. That is one name we may remove from suspicion.”

Trafford withdrew a pencil from the inner pocket of his waistcoat and neatly scored through a name on the list, the soft rasp of graphite faint beneath the low hum of conversation around them. Four names remained. Aidan stared down at them, yet it was Smythe’s—first on the page, written in his own precise hand—that held his focus like a hook in the mind.

“The more I think about the baron’s letter, the more convinced I am that Smythe is the man we seek,” he said, his voice low. “His older brother is a baron, which means your uncle likely sat with him or near him at the coronation. That would have been the baron’s primary opportunity to speak with anyone before his murder. Smythe’s finances are in disarray, and my father confirms that the baron, his brother, is deeply fond of him. Just as the letter implied.”

Filminster shook his head, his gaze thoughtful, his features touched with pity. “God help you, if that is the case, Aidan. I cannot imagine what it would be to deliver such a blow to Lily. Your bride will be devastated if her father is tried and hanged. More so if her husband is the accuser. I do not envy the position you are in.”

Aidan’s expression shuttered. His voice, when it came, was subdued. “Lily must be protected, no matter how difficult it might be. And I will take care of Gwen, if that comes to pass.”

“I understand. But …” Filminster hesitated, then pressed on gently, “I hope for your sake, and hers, that we uncover another suspect.”

“I concur. It is quite a pickle you have put yourself in, Little Breeches.” Trafford’s languid tone had returned, his earlier irritation now gone. He was once more the picture of repose, his legs stretched comfortably beneath the polished oak table. “Your bride is going to despise you if you do this.”

Aidan did not like that thought. The notion of Gwen’s hate—her warmth turned to coldness, her mouth drawn tight with betrayal—sat like a stone in his gut. What he wanted was her warm body nestled beside him, the press of her mouth beneath his, the glorious words of poets on her lips. He wanted to hear Manilius and Shakespeare spoken in her melodic voice, to spar with her over Aristotle’s writings by the drawing room fire. Love, intelligence, and honor … for the rest of their days.

“I will work it out,” he said, but an undercurrent of doubt threaded his words.

He closed his eyes, drew in a breath scented faintly with old paper and the oil of polished wood, and reached inward.

I must work it out.

“I will work it out.” This time his voice held confidence. Finality.

Filminster looked down, visibly relieved not to press further. He and Aidan were hardly confidants, their bond forged not through familiarity, but mutual concern for Lily’s safety. They had met through circumstance, not affinity, and though civility bound them, trust was only slowly earned.

Still, Aidan regretted the solitude of his situation. Having only recently returned from the Grand Tour, he had no close allies in London. There was no one with whom to confess the impossible knot he found himself ensnared.

Filminster rubbed a hand across his jaw, his cuff rustling against the wool of his sleeve as he sought something useful to offer. “Perhaps we will find another viable suspect. Maybe Smythe has a reasonable explanation for the funds he is acquiring.”

That would be the best possible outcome. Yet Aidan could not shake the weight in his gut. Something about Smythe’s actions rang of evasion, of desperation disguised as dignity. He did not allow himself much hope. The deeper the investigation, the clearer it became that the path led to the very doorstep of the woman he was coming to cherish.

He would marry Gwen before the matter advanced further. It was imperative. With the banns read and the vows exchanged, she and her younger brother would be under his protection, no matter how muddled the waters became thereafter.

Gwen and Octavia stepped into the modiste’s salon owned by Signora Ricci, the soft chime of the bell above the door announcing their entrance like a whisper of expectation. The air inside was delicately perfumed with rose water and starch, threaded with the subtle spice of imported silks. Gwen held a folded sheet of thick cream-laid paper, her father’s neat script listing everything she must acquire to reflect her new rank.

She was to be married.

Once she took her vows with Lord Abbott, she would no longer be the mere niece of a baron, navigating society’s edges. Nay, she would ascend to become the wife of a future viscount, one tied to a family flush with influence and ancient silver. The thought quickened her breath. The scale of it loomed like the Tower itself. Daunting, cold, and inescapable.

But Signora Ricci was her secret talisman. Her hidden weapon of self-assurance.

Years ago, after a particularly mortifying ball and too many cutting remarks from snide schoolmates, Gwen had prowled Mayfair for a modiste who could dress her long limbs and boyish figure with elegance. She had found Ricci tucked into a quiet corner near Hanover Square, an Italian widow with a flair for flattery and a talent for architectural draping. That first gown, soft mulberry silk with a daring Grecian fall, had been nothing short of a rebirth.

“Ah, la signorina returns!” the modiste called from behind a half-drawn curtain, her thick Italian accent as warm as hot chocolate. “Come, we make the swan ready for her coronation, sì?”

Ricci had always dismissed the cruel whispers of English debutantes, those who called Gwen a giraffe behind her back and mocked her want of curves. According to the signora, Gwen would be hailed as a rare Venetian opal on the Continent. Gwen knew it was salesmanship, but in those days, it had been salvation.

While Gwen unbuttoned her gloves at the display near the front window, Octavia was already elbow-deep in bolts of fabric, fingering the textures with the scrutiny of a jeweler evaluating pearls. She murmured disapproval at most selections, frowning at garish taffetas and favoring the finer muslins and crisp lawn cottons for morning gowns.

The bell over the door rang again, sharp and unwelcoming.

Gwen glanced over her shoulder, and her stomach tightened in dread, a visceral pull as unmistakable as nausea. Entering with her usual coterie of whispers and expensive perfume was Millicent “Milly” Jameson, now Lady Tuttle of West Essex.

Her nemesis.