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Eleven

“The law is reason, free from passion.”

Aristotle

AUGUST 26, 1821

With the coming of dawn, pale light filtered through the curtains and touched the edge of the coverlet in a hush of gold. Aidan opened his eyes to find Gwen still nestled in his arms, her breath warm and slow against his chest. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of stillness. The phantasy that the world beyond this chamber was untroubled, that Lily was safe, the baron yet lived, and Smythe was above suspicion.

But such wishes were only illusions.

And yet, without those harsh realities, he might never have crossed paths with Gwen. The very thought caused a small involuntary thrum in his chest. He looked down at her, brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, and smiled softly.

He had not known how incomplete he had been until he met her.

So be it. If this was the burden fate had placed upon him, he would bear it. He would uncover the truth, no matter how grim, and cling to Gwen with all his strength.

Her sleeping face was serene, her features softened by dreams. He thought of the words she had whispered to him the night before. Simple, heartfelt, and unguarded. Words that echoed still.

He bent low and pressed a gentle kiss to her brow.

“I will endeavor to be worthy of your love,” he murmured. “I promise this to you, Gwen Abbott.”

With care, he eased her onto the pillow, watching as she murmured faintly in her sleep before settling once more into stillness. He rose, gathered his garments from where they lay scattered, and dressed with quiet precision. As he fastened the last button, his gaze lingered on two bare patches upon the wall, ghostly rectangles where once artwork had hung. More possessions sacrificed, no doubt, to the family’s silent descent.

Crossing the room on soft footfalls, he opened the door with care.

In the corridor beyond, Buttercup waited with teeth bared and a growl rumbling low in her throat. Aidan smiled faintly.

“Go on, Buttercup,” he said quietly. “She is just inside.”

The dog wasted no time. She darted into the room and bounded onto the bed, landing where Aidan had lain. With a small huff, she curled beside Gwen, her head settling on her paws, protective and content.

Aidan pulled the door closed behind him, only to be met with an unexpected creak.

He turned, startled, to find Mr. Smythe rounding the corner from the stairwell. The older man jerked slightly, tucking a small notebook into his pocket with far too much haste, then schooled his features into their usual broad, unbothered grin.

“Mr. Smythe?” Aidan said, tone mild.

“Aidan, my boy,” Smythe replied cheerfully. “A fine morning, indeed. I have already been up to see the sunrise. Glorious light today!”

Aidan returned a measured smile, but inwardly, unease coiled in his gut. Smythe wore the same attire from the day before. His cravat loosened, his coat creased at the elbows. The man had not risen early. He had only just returned.

There had been no mention of any engagements after the wedding. No plausible explanation for where he might have gone.

It was a stark reminder of why Aidan had maneuvered his way into this household. His vow to Gwen must be matched by vigilance. He had come not just to wed, but to uncover truths.

Smythe passed him without pause, vanishing into his own chamber. Aidan stood in the hall, frustration prickling at the base of his neck.

Had he not spent the previous day indulging Trafford’s vulgar instruction or aimlessly wandering his clubs, he might have shadowed Smythe. But instead, he had surrendered those hours to avoiding Gwen, and now they were lost.

He would have to do better.

Drawing a breath, Aidan turned and strode away, his thoughts heavy. Whatever sweetness had been born in the night was now tempered by reality. Gwen slumbered unaware. But outside the door, the hunt resumed, and Lily depended on him to see it through.

Gwen stirred beneath the covers, her limbs stretching languorously as the memories of the night before wrapped around her like a warm shawl. It had been a night beyond her imagining. Poetry whispered against her ear, tender embraces, the brush of his lips along her brow. Romance had spilled into every moment.

She turned over, expecting to find her husband still near. But the bed was empty, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of Buttercup, who lay curled at the foot of the bed, her long ears sprawled across the coverlet in a state of blissful abandon. Gwen smiled faintly at the sight.