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Gwen allowed a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth. “Not in the least. You are the most incorrigible gossip I have ever met. I would not entrust you with a piece of toast, much less a noblewoman’s secret.”

Octavia let out a peal of laughter, her sharp shoulders shaking beneath the tidy lines of her gown. “Well then,” she said between breaths, “if it is to remain confidential, I would rather not carry the burden. Secrets cause indigestion.”

Still grinning, Gwen watched as her lady’s maid turned away to gather the day’s clothing from the wardrobe. She sat upright, adjusting the sheet to remain modest as she stared through the tall windows. A bank of clouds loomed beyond the panes, iron-gray and ominous, pressing down on the horizon with a heaviness that matched the turn of her thoughts.

She hesitated, then spoke. “How was he? This morning?”

Octavia froze in the wardrobe’s doorway, her expression unreadable for a moment before she pursed her lips and said, “I would say … distracted.”

Gwen nodded slowly. That seemed right.

Whenever Aidan was near, she found herself enchanted by his presence. The light in his eyes, the curve of his mouth when he smiled. He made her feel cherished. But the moment he left her side, her worries returned like restless phantoms. What did she truly know of the man who had so quickly captured her heart?

He seemed to care for her. Of that she had little doubt. But his inner world remained a mystery. Where did he go? What weighed upon him? And why did he hide so much from her? She wished to be more than his bride in name only. She longed to be his confidante, his partner in truth as well as passion.

What burdens did he carry, and how could she convince him to share them?

Outside, the storm broke. Thunder cracked the sky with a violence that startled her, and the windows rattled as rain lashed the glass in heavy sheets. Gwen gave a soft gasp as Buttercup whimpered and dove beneath the pillows, trembling in fright.

“Oh, sweet girl.” Gwen reached for the dog, stroking her quivering flank and smoothing her little head. “It is only the weather, Buttercup. You will be fine. We both shall be fine.”

Her voice, soft and certain, rang more as a hope than a promise.

Rain roared down upon the roof of the hackney.

Aidan yawned widely and carefully kneaded the bruised shoulder he had landed on the day before. It was aching something fierce, and he was pleased with his decision to hire a driver rather than attempt to ride. Grabbing more than three hours of sleep would have been welcome under the circumstances, but he could not afford the time.

He had taken a page from Smythe’s book, having decided that he could follow the Smythe carriage with less fear of being spotted if he was in a hackney that was indistinguishable from the next.

The rain made it more difficult to see, and his driver wore a battered hat and large, black overcoat with the collar raised to defend him from the elements. It further obscured any possibility that Smythe would notice he was being followed.

Aidan stretched his legs out, grimacing at the state of his damp boots, and hoped that Smythe would make a move again this day. He and the driver, Old Fred, had been observing the Smythe mews, he pulled on his fob to check his timepiece, for the better part of two hours.

Occasionally, they would traverse a block or two before taking up a fresh position to prevent rousing the suspicions of servants from the neighborhood. It was a boring and arduous process that made Aidan appreciate the tedious work of runners hired to retrieve stolen goods.

He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck from side to side, and lamented that he had not brought a book to read while he waited inside the dim interior of the aging carriage. The thin squabs were flattened with the imprint of thousands of buttocks, and the upholstery had been mended dozens of times. The neat repairs spoke to the fastidious nature of Old Fred.

He did not envy the aging man. Sitting out on his box seat while the heavens poured water down in buckets. Even now, Aidan followed a trail of rainwater slipping down the interior of the aged carriage windows. He was grateful the driver had been persuaded to aid him for the day.

There was a knock on the window, and Aidan felt the pull of the carriage. Peering out the window, he saw the Smythe carriage exiting the mews. This was it!

Old Fred followed at a snail’s pace, drawing to a stop at the corner to wait. The front door of the Smythe home opened and Aidan’s father-in-law exited. At least, Aidan assumed it was Smythe, given the general size and gait of the cloak-covered gentleman running forward to climb the steps into the carriage interior while a figure dutifully held the door ajar. The steps were raised, the door was shut, and the servant climbed aboard.

Aidan’s heart hammered in anticipation. He was prepared to see this to the end, having spent the morning catching hackneys until he had discovered Old Fred.

Today, there would be no reckless riders to cause him to be tossed from his mount.

He had instructed Old Fred to stay close when they reached the more congested streets. Aidan could not afford to lose Smythe again.

His only consolation on this dreary day was that Lily was in residence at the much larger townhouse of the duke, who had more footmen than Filminster in addition to the brawny guards that Halmesbury had hired to protect his guests.

Nevertheless, this investigation needed to progress before someone else was hurt … or worse.

Old Fred nudged his horses forward, and soon they were following Smythe. Both carriages moved slowly as the wheels churned up mud from the puddled streets. Smythe was determined to reach his destination if he chose to brave such hard weather.

They trundled down empty streets, the citizens of London dissuaded from venturing out. When they reached the Strand, the traffic picked up. Riders were not to be seen, but carriages clogged the road as they moved tentatively through the downpour.

The journey to the London Docks took considerably more time than the day before. Pedestrians stood shivering beneath shop awnings and, on one corner, a wagon was mired in the slopping mud. Other drivers yelled impatiently from their perches, while the teams of men and horses toiled to unstick it, but Aidan only had eyes for Smythe’s carriage.