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That had played on repeat in her thoughts as well. She liked the sound of it.

Lord and Lady Abbott.

Too late, Gwen realized she had been staring at him for far too long. Their families stood in observation, and she was woolgathering like a schoolgirl in church.

“Aidan,” she blurted, flushing as she withdrew her hand.

The entire scene still felt too polished, too charmed, to be genuine. A handsome and eligible heir had offered for her. His parents were receiving her with open arms. And apparently, a curated list of names for their future grandchildren. Her father looked like a cat who had not only cornered the cream but had spied the cheese tray as well.

Something, surely, was about to go wrong.

Although she had attended countless social gatherings, Gwen had no idea what to do next. She stood awkwardly, unsure of her role in the unfolding tableau.

Which was when Providence intervened, disguised in the form of Jenson, the butler, appeared in the doorway.

“Dinner is served.”

Aidan stepped forward and offered his arm. Steady, well-formed, and thoroughly male. Gwen blinked down at it, momentarily startled, before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow with tentative grace.

She could feel the strength beneath the fabric, the solid warmth of him at her side. It would have been far too easy to lean in, to sigh with appreciation.

Fortunately, good manners, and the presence of his entire family, restrained her from such an indelicate display.

Aidan found himself once more entranced by his Venus. Gwen’s presence had a way of quieting the clamor in his mind, even now as her hand rested lightly on his arm, sending a faint ripple of warmth up through his sleeve.

He had scarcely registered the strange exchange between his mother and Gwen’s maid, his thoughts temporarily diverted by the gentle pressure of her fingers. But the momentary reverie faded as he glanced along the hallway and noticed something unsettling.

Missing paintings.

Here and there, along the walls, pale rectangles marked where portraits or landscapes had once hung. Their absence was stark. Faded wallpaper framed the ghosts of what had recently adorned the corridor.

It was yet more evidence of Mr. Smythe’s liquidation efforts. Aidan had already noted signs of financial strain, but this … this was far more extensive than the short list he had compiled over the past fortnight. Smythe had been parting with family possessions far longer than Aidan had suspected.

As they entered the dining room, Aidan’s mood dimmed. He wanted this evening to belong to Gwen, to celebrate their impending marriage, to allow himself a moment of calm. But as his eyes swept the shelves along one wall, he saw that the display was sparse. Fewer objets d’art than any well-appointed home ought to contain.

What should have been there was not.

He took a steadying breath.

His father had asked him to delay any further investigation until after the wedding, only days away now. But each omission, each silent space, frayed his patience. The dead baron, the persisting threat to his sister. None of it had been resolved.

Lily with the bold voice and unguarded heart. She deserved far better than a distracted brother playing at betrothal while danger loomed.

Their parents moved to their seats, and he accompanied Gwen around to the far side of the table. He drew out her chair and helped her to sit, catching the shimmer of lamplight on her hair before taking his own place beside her.

He must set these thoughts aside … at least for now.

Filminster and Trafford had warned him that the path ahead would be treacherous, to be both a faithful fiancé and a vigilant protector. The weight of that dual responsibility pressed down on him as he exhaled in a quiet puff of breath.

Gwen’s head turned toward him at once, eyes flickering with concern. He managed a small smile for her benefit, willing himself to be present.

Beneath the table, he reached for her hand.

Her fingers met his with a shy stillness. When he gently traced his thumb over her knuckles, she did not pull away. Instead, her hand curled softly into his, the quiet gesture anchoring him more firmly than any spoken vow.

For a moment, they remained thus, hands joined beneath the linen-draped table, a private connection beneath the polite hum of conversation.

The footmen entered, setting out the first course as his mother launched into a cheerful recitation of distinguished Abbott ancestors. Mr. Smythe responded with his own modest offerings from the Smythe family history.