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Michaels gave a curt nod. Stepping aside, he allowed Aidan entry into the front hall. After closing the door, the butler turned and led the way to Lord Filminster’s study, his tread so heavy and measured it echoed down the corridor like the march of a regiment.

Aidan followed, shaking his head slightly at the enigmatic servant. Lily had mentioned that Michaels had been offered retirement in gratitude for his heroism, but had chosen instead to remain in service. It was difficult to imagine that the man found any joy in his duties, yet Aidan supposed there must be some private satisfaction in maintaining his post. Michaels’s demeanor was, to Aidan’s thinking, rather like that of a sphinx, unreadable and faintly disapproving.

Still, the man had once saved Lily’s life, and that merited forbearance. As long as Michaels wished to remain, Aidan would endure their awkward interactions without complaint.

And truth be told, he mused, Michaels’s continued presence might prove fortuitous, given that the true killer remained at large. A man who had demonstrated such courage might be needed again before all was done.

Upon being shown into Filminster’s study, Aidan discovered Trafford already present, draped carelessly in an armchair. The man remained, in Aidan’s estimation, something of a puffed-up fool with his parade of embroidered coats, theatrical waistcoats, and an encyclopedic collection of legwear. Still, even Aidan had to admit that Trafford had proved a surprisingly useful ally in their ongoing investigation. The fellow was persistent, and loyal—two traits that were not to be discounted.

With a nod, Aidan sank into a faded armchair and stretched his legs before addressing his brother-in-law, who sat behind a large mahogany desk with an air of collected gravity.

“Well, Ridley, are you going to brief Little Breeches here or not?” Trafford asked, his tone lazy and amused.

Aidan squashed the irritation that flared. Despite his best efforts, the retort slipped out. “It is Filminster, not Ridley.”

Trafford arched a brow, his head cocked toward Aidan. “Is he not Brendan Ridley, my old chum from around Town?”

Aidan’s tone cooled. “Is he not now the Baron of Filminster? Lord Filminster? Otherwise known to his peers as … Filminster?”

Trafford waved a languid hand. “Tempers are short and patience is frayed. I shall allow your comments to pass without rebuke.”

Aidan exhaled sharply. It was not untrue. His patience was indeed fraying. The urgency of ending the danger to Lily gnawed at his composure. And there was Gwen, his Gwen, who now lived in the periphery of every waking moment and every dream.

Last night had been a torment of restless images. Her eyes catching the starlight, her breath warm against his cheek, the press of her hand in his. In his sleep, those memories had stolen past his defenses, weaving a tapestry of longing and what-ifs. He had awoken unsettled, caught between longing and regret, his heart hammering with equal parts want and restraint.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to take her onto the terrace. But it had not felt like one. Not in that moment. Not with her gaze holding his. Not with her presence stilling the chaos within him.

He drew in a breath and tried to push the memory aside.

“I apologize,” he said at last, eyes still on the desk. “You have known Filminster for years, Trafford. Address him as you wish.”

Trafford smirked. “I shall, Little Breeches.”

Aidan curled his fingers into a fist, his knuckles whitening. The ongoing taunt was not worthy of acknowledgment. Trafford might never relinquish it if he suspected how very aggravating it truly was. This was Aidan’s own fault for engaging. He ought to have allowed Filminster to respond instead of letting himself be baited.

“Did something happen?” he asked, redirecting his attention to his sister’s husband, who, as it turned out, had been paying not a whit of attention to the exchange.

Filminster was staring down at the rug, a rich swirl of colors that seemed to hold his entire focus. Aidan recognized the expression. He had worn it often enough himself in recent weeks, when the outside world dimmed beneath the weight of a single, relentless question.

How do I unmask the killer and resolve this muddle before Lily is hurt again?

Trafford cleared his throat with exaggerated purpose, and Filminster blinked, returning to the present.

“What happened?” Aidan prompted again when the silence stretched.

Filminster folded his hands atop the desk. “The runner, Briggs, has had men stationed discreetly on the street outside. He reported that someone has been watching the house. At his suggestion, we reduced the visibility of our guards, hoping to draw the watchers out. One of them broke into the library last evening. He escaped before the Johns could seize him.”

Aidan surged to his feet, the chair creaking behind him. “How long has the house been under surveillance? Why was I not informed?”

Filminster met his gaze, his voice calm but his eyes shadowed. “There was no reason to cause you undue concern.”

A tide of fear rose, sweeping over Aidan in a wave that blurred reason. Lily. The thought of her in danger yet again turned his voice sharp as he began to pace. “Why do you not simply take Lily to Somerset? Remove her from this peril?”

Filminster exhaled, the sound weary. “Briggs believes it is safer to remain here. At Ridley House, we have guards, footmen, and familiarity with our surroundings. On the road, we would be exposed, vulnerable in carriages.”

“But they are not after her!” Aidan snapped. “They want the letter. They are searching for evidence, not launching an assault.”

“If the killer suspects we have the letter,” Filminster replied evenly, “he might send men to intercept us. Out on the turnpikes, we would be open to ambush with little means of defense.”