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Trafford’s lips quirked into a smile. “This conversation remains our secret. I am, however, profoundly impressed with my own talents in the field of deduction. When I first inquired after you, the notion crossed my mind briefly, but I dismissed it as too unlikely. It appears I am quite the investigator.”

“Splendid,” Aidan muttered. “Find a murderer other than Smythe, then. It would spare Gwen a great deal of pain if someone else could be shown to have had a motive.”

“I am working on it. Ridley is rather dear to me, old chap.”

Aidan rolled his shoulders again, the tension never fully leaving them. “I suppose I should go home and …” He made a vague gesture, the very act of articulation too mortifying to attempt.

“There is a book in my rooms that might assist you.”

Before Aidan could protest, Trafford sprang from his chair and disappeared down the corridor. Within minutes, he returned, dropped into his seat once more, and placed a small leather-bound volume on the table between them.

Aidan picked it up, frowning at the strange symbols stamped on the cover. “I am quite the scholar, Trafford, but even I do not read Sanskrit.”

Trafford shook his head in mock despair. Leaning over, he opened the book and flipped a few pages. “There are illustrations, Little Breeches.”

Aidan drew the book closer. The moment his gaze landed on the images, his breath caught and his collar felt suddenly too tight. The artistic renderings, though elaborate, left little to the imagination.

“Is this legal?”

“The activities? More or less. The book itself? Probably not.”

“I understand the general … framework,” Aidan said stiffly. “I do not need these.” He pushed the book back across the table.

Trafford snickered and slid it right back. “You might find there are more … interpretations of the task than you assumed. Trust me, and pay attention to the visuals.”

Aidan sighed and tucked the volume into his coat. He would hire a hackney and explore the illustrations somewhere far more private.

“Now,” Trafford said with relish, “I shall impart some of my personal wisdom on the subject.”

“Please do not.”

“You wish to know what I know, Little Breeches. And believe me, Gwendolyn Abbott will be a very happy woman if you listen carefully.”

Aidan shoulders slumped, surveying his options. Return home with vague notions, return to the Abbott townhouse and pester his father for counsel, or remain here and endure Trafford’s unsolicited lecture.

“Dash it, just make it painless.”

Trafford tsked like a disappointed tutor. “Do you want painless or effective?”

Aidan dropped his head into his hands, utterly mortified to be receiving matrimonial advice from the most ostentatious peacock in London. “Effective, I suppose.”

That was all the encouragement Trafford required. With the enthusiasm of a man presenting a military strategy, he launched into a tactful, if spirited, dissertation on how best to proceed with one’s duties as a newlywed husband, complete with occasional euphemisms and far too much confidence.