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“Mr. Smythe said he would appear,” Octavia went on. “The master said there’d be a gentleman who was overcome by your magnificence and the perfection of your mind and would fall at your feet … and he was right.”

“Papa is an eternal optimist.”

Octavia grinned, revealing her crooked teeth in a smile that Gwen had loved since childhood. “What’s the alternative, Gwendolyn Smythe?”

Gwen made a face, tapping her chin. “To become an embittered old bat?”

A shout of laughter burst forth. “Precisely! The alternative is to be Lady Astley.”

“Who is now telling everyone that it is my red hair that attracted the gentleman to my side? Only last year she was whispering to her friends that my red hair was a curse and the reason I would never wed.”

“Hah! Not so private, from what I hear.”

She twisted the edge of the coverlet between her fingers, reluctant to admit the secret blooming within her heart, but needing, desperately, to voice it aloud. “I … like him, Octavia. I truly do. I want this to succeed. He is handsome and kind and clever, and I never dreamed I would find such a match.”

A bony hand emerged from the folds of Octavia’s work dress and tapped her gently on the thigh. Gwen shifted further back, making room as the older woman perched on the edge of the mattress with the ease of long familiarity.

“Those girls at school muddled your head,” Octavia said with quiet authority. “You were always meant to make a fine match with a wonderful man, but they convinced you that you were ugly. Do you know why they did it?”

Gwen shook her head, miserable at the awful recollections.

“They envied you,” Octavia said, matter-of-fact. “You sailed through your lessons. No matter what you turned your mind to—Ancient Greek, needlework, music—you excelled. Your cleverness unsettled them. So they banded together to make nothing of you. It was cruel and meaningless, because you were the sort who would have helped them shine, too, if they’d only asked.”

Gwen blinked hard. “But … Mama was a revered beauty. I have been mocked for nearly ten years.”

“And now,” Octavia said softly, “a gentleman has seen what I see. A true original.”

In her heart of hearts, Gwen wanted to believe it. To believe in moonlight and magic. In the notion that a decent, intelligent man had not only noticed her, but desired her. That she need not choose between a joyless match or a solitary future. Her parents had demonstrated a love built on companionship, of homes filled with books and children, and laughter around the hearth.

Gwen heaved a long, shuddering breath. “I must make this work. This is my chance to build a family.”

“That’s the spirit, Gwendolyn Smythe!” Octavia said with a proud little nod, eyes gleaming.

Aidan stared at the note in his hand, suspended in that uneasy space between hope and dread. The cryptic contents gave him no indication of which sentiment to favor.

There has been a development - Filminster

Blast his brother-in-law for these cryptic notes. Would it have been so difficult to clarify what sort of development? Something that vindicated Frederick Smythe? Or something that condemned him? Or perhaps something entirely unrelated, which would only entangle matters still further?

Rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck from side to side, Aidan tried to dispel the tension burrowed in his spine. He resolved to finish his breakfast while the servants prepared his mount. He had not slept well, and sustenance would help combat the fatigue that clung to him like damp wool.

He gestured to Thomas, their head footman, and made his request quietly before returning his attention to his plate. Eggs and ham. Simple fare, but welcome. The past days had been a series of interruptions and investigations, each more aggravating than the last. Best to take advantage of the opportunity to eat while it presented itself. The note, after all, had not indicated urgency.

Once fortified, Aidan departed the Abbott townhouse and rode to Ridley House. He dismounted with efficiency and knocked, waiting with the tense patience of a man prepared for almost anything.

The door opened to reveal Michaels, the Ridley butler. It was the same man who had saved Aidan’s sister from a desperate servant, an act of bravery not soon forgotten. Aidan had thanked him on the day of the incident, yet Michaels’s notoriously curt demeanor made it difficult to discern whether his gratitude had been well received. Aidan still found himself uncertain how to conduct himself around the man.

Members of the ton were not, as a rule, expected to engage closely with household staff, especially in homes not their own. But the Abbotts had always been somewhat unorthodox in that respect. A familial warmth had developed between their household and their long-serving retainers, an intimacy born not of indulgence but of mutual respect.

Still, this was not his home. And Michaels was not his servant.

But what if the man in question had saved your sister’s life?

“Michaels,” Aidan said, inclining his head in a brief nod.

The butler stood stiffly, his expression unreadable, eyes steady and unblinking.

Aidan clenched his jaw but kept his tone civil. “Is Lord Filminster at home?”