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Two

“The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.”

Aristotle

AUGUST 13, 1821

The past ten days in Trafford’s company had been excruciating. Together, they had attended several social events, to Aidan’s increasing chagrin, the pursuit of information notwithstanding. Trafford was not the kind of companion he wished to be associated with, but they had been seen together the length and breadth of Mayfair, nodding to matrons, bowing to debutantes, and shaking hands with dandies, while Aidan had been forced to endure the other man’s antics with clenched teeth.

Currently, Aidan stood at the shadowed corner of a narrow street, the limewash walls of the townhouse behind him cool against his shoulder. He observed the home of Mr. Frederick Smythe amid the loud clatter of carriage wheels, the occasional hiss of steam from coach horses, and the muffled notes of a pianoforte drifting faintly from the lit windows.

The night sky was adorned with silvery clouds and a large full moon, but from his vantage point in the street, his view of the magical evening unfolding above was largely obscured by overhanging eaves and the high hedgerows lining the Smythes’ drive.

“How do you plan to get in without an invitation?”

Trafford waved his hand in dismissal, a practiced flick of indifference, though his gaze was sharp as he assessed the arriving guests. His gold silk tails shimmered faintly under the gas lamps. Aidan growled in irritation, his jaw tight. Of all the men in London, must he endure this preening peacock?

Nevertheless, he stepped back, boots scuffing lightly on the uneven cobbles, granting the other man the space he had requested.

This is for Lily.

The reminder helped to quell his resentment. He was no longer a soldier, but it felt very much like he had been ordered to serve as batman to the most aggravating officer in the regiment. He had attempted to question Lily about Trafford’s involvement, but she had only chattered cheerfully about the new books she had ordered for the library, as if she had not faced death and injury less than a fortnight earlier.

“If Brendan trusts Trafford, then so do I.”

That had been her only reply, which meant, surely, that she did not know the fop all that well.

Aidan cracked his knuckles, an old habit from his cavalry days, and began pacing behind Trafford, awaiting the oaf’s direction with reluctant forbearance.

Suddenly, Trafford broke the silence. “I see my great-aunt, Gertrude, with her husband.” With that, he took off toward the Smythe residence, his gold silk tails fluttering behind him like a banner on a battlefield.

Aidan hesitated, then cursed under his breath and followed his now-constant companion. Trafford wove through the line of carriages gathered in the crescent-shaped drive, his kid-leather shoes quick over the gravel. He skipped up to an elderly couple just descending from a town coach with polished lamps and a worn crest.

“Aunty!”

A wizened old lady with stooped shoulders in blue silk squinted up at her nephew before clapping her hands in delight. The plume on her turban wobbled with the motion.

“Julius, my boy!”

Trafford leaned down, accepting a trembling hand that emerged from beneath an embroidered shawl. She pinched his cheek between arthritic fingers, beaming with pleasure. Behind her stood the husband, an equally ancient man clad in old-fashioned breeches, white silk stockings, and buckled shoes that looked to big for the spindly legs which did little to disguise the march of time.

“What are you doing here, boy?”

Aidan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Trafford was anything but a boy. The man had clearly dallied with numerous women of the ton, attired like a coxcomb with far too much allowance wasted on foppery. Only a nearsighted great-aunt could affectionately view him as a boy.

“I was just walking by with my friend.” Trafford gestured in Aidan’s direction. Aidan gritted his teeth. They were on a small but elegant estate near the Thames, private property, which belied the notion that they happened to just be passing by. “Are you attending an event?”

“It is the Smythe ball. Frederick has a daughter he has been attempting to marry off for years. She is a dear girl, but the boys do not like her, I am afraid. A wallflower.”

“That is a pity. I was hoping to catch up, but if you are otherwise occupied …” Trafford trailed off with deliberation, baiting his great-aunt.

“Come with us, Julius! Frederick will be delighted to have such strapping young men in attendance.”

Without hesitation, Trafford joined arms with his relation and assisted her up the front steps, lit by twin lanterns bracketed to the columns. Aidan exhaled through his nose and followed them in with the frail husband, resisting the temptation to offer his own arm as the gentleman shuffled upward with careful, halting steps.

Soon, they stood in the long receiving line. Trafford chattered brightly to his great-aunt while her husband stared blankly about, as if wading through foggy recollections.

From his considerable height, Aidan could see over the heads of the crowd. Up ahead, his attention caught on a statuesque redhead standing beside the host, a tidy gentleman in his fifties with an unremarkable but pleasant face.