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“I saw a man climbing in. I screamed.”

Aidan’s stomach twisted. Her voice was hoarse, and he flinched at the realization.

“You screamed yourself hoarse,” he murmured. “Did he … did he harm you?”

His sister—his small, fierce Lily, who had already endured more than most—shook her head. “No. He fled the moment I cried out.”

Aidan strode forward and gathered her into a fierce embrace. “I am so sorry, Lily.”

She leaned into him for a moment, then pulled back to look up at him with tired eyes. “It is not your fault, Aidan. You must not carry this.”

“How can I not?”

Her pale features were calm, but the weight of recent weeks showed in every line.

“I am happy. I love Brendan. This is the work of a madman … whoever murdered the baron. He is to blame, not you.”

Aidan nodded slowly. “If anything happened to you …”

He did not finish.

“What now?” he asked instead. “Are you finally leaving for Somerset?”

Lily shook her head. “Briggs fears the roads are too exposed. Whoever is behind this is growing bolder.”

Filminster cleared his throat. “We have been invited to stay with the duke and my sister at their London home. They have taken precautions. Guards have been hired, and our own servants and the Johns will remain here to defend Ridley House.”

Aidan frowned. “The Johns?”

Lily offered a faint smile. “They are all named John. At least, that is what Brendan claims.”

Aidan gave a soft exhale. “Thank God. You must be protected at all costs.”

“Agreed.”

Aidan let Lily go and raked a hand through his hair. His boots clicked sharply on the polished floor as he paced, the carved trim of the mantel glinting with morning light streaming through the tall, uncovered windows.

“Surely at this point,” he said, voice taut with urgency, “if the killer is becoming so bold, we should report what we know to the authorities? Then he will lose interest in Ridley House once his secret is out.”

Filminster sighed. “I have thought of that. That we might end his interest in us by disclosing the matter to the Home Secretary. But the perpetrator still believes that there remains a chance he can conceal his deeds … that the baron’s letter remains hidden. Which means we can still lure him out, draw him into the open. If we act too soon, he will vanish.”

Lily crossed to the window and rested her hands lightly against the sill, the thin muslin of her sleeve catching the pale daylight. “I agree,” she said, her voice unmistakably hoarse from her earlier fright. “So long as he believes the letter is in Ridley House and that we do not know why the baron was killed, we retain an advantage. A formal investigation would force his hand. He would flee, and we would never find him if he escapes England’s reach.”

Aidan watched her closely. The drawn lines around her eyes, the set of her jaw. Signs of weariness, yes, but also steel. “But what if he suspects that you and Filminster have already found the letter?”

She turned her head, her gaze steady. “I do not know. But he must still believe his inheritance can be secured. That hope keeps him within reach.”

He stared at his sister. This pale, resolute woman bore little resemblance to the carefree girl he remembered, and he felt an unexpected swell of admiration.

“When did you become so clever?”

“I am not a girl anymore, Aidan Abbott. While you were away, I grew up. I improved my French. I read books on military strategy. Much happened in the past few years.”

It was true. His return to England had revealed a family transformed. Cousins married to reformed rakes, sisters ruined for honor’s sake. The women of his family had proven themselves to be as tenacious as they were courageous.

The thought of Gwen flickered through his mind, bringing a shift of warmth to his chest. She was observant, capable, certainly bright, but would she prove as resilient as Lily if she were forced to confront harsh truths about her own father?

“Faugh! What a tangled web this is!”

At that, Lily and Filminster both laughed. Short, startled sounds of amusement edged with strain. Aidan joined them, the absurdity of it all rising briefly to the surface like bubbles rising in a glass. Spies, secrets, murder, and hidden letters. It was all beginning to resemble a bad pantomime.