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He turned away to look at Smythe. There was no honor to how Aidan had reacted to this muddle, so all he could do was proceed with his accusation. One step at a time.

“You killed the Baron of Filminster to secure your inheritance.”

Smythe blinked his intense blue eyes before collapsing into his leather swivel chair. “I … most certainly did no such thing.”

“You just admitted it!”

Smythe’s brows drew together, a heavy scowl marring his face. “I most certainly did not.”

“What were you confessing to, then?”

“Not that! Why do you think I would kill the baron?” Smythe shook his head. “And why would killing him secure my inheritance? I did not even know the man that well.”

Gwen’s skirts rustled as she walked up to Aidan from behind. He was too ashamed to look at her, so he stared resolutely at Smythe, watching him like a hawk that had spotted its next prey. But it was he who was the prey to his bride’s menace.

“When was the baron killed? Was it the night of the coronation?” Gwen’s voice was melodic steel, and Aidan’s chest tightened in response. If he had wrecked their marriage before it had even begun, he would never recover. He raised a hand to rub at the pain in his chest where his heart refused to beat.

“Yes.”

“Then Papa could not have done what you accuse him of.”

Aidan could scarcely breathe as he slowly admitted to himself, as if from a great distance, that he may have made a mistake. It never paid to lose one’s temper. How many times had his own father repeated those words?

“How would you know that?”

“Because last month I contracted a terrible fever. Octavia and Papa were at my side night and day. The day of the coronation was when the doctor informed my father that I might expire before the night was over, and Octavia can attest that he kept vigil at my bedside all night long until my fever finally broke in the early hours.”

Aidan blinked in horror, struggling to breathe at the awful accusation he had made. His gaze found Smythe’s, who had an expression of sympathy on his face. “It is true, son. I do not know why you think I killed the baron, but I was at Gwendolyn’s side all day and night. I could not bear to walk away lest she die while I was absent. It was such a blessed relief when her fever broke.”

Behind Aidan there was once again a rustle of skirts, a hint of citrus teasing his senses, and the sound of a door opening and closing, then racing footsteps in the hall.

Aidan spun around to find he was alone with Smythe. Buttercup was at the door, pawing and scratching to be let out. She sat back and howled in distress, much as Aidan wished to do. Gwen had left without a word, taking his very heart with her so that he stood with his chest cracked open to reveal the gaping hole where it had once resided.

Aidan strode across the room to allow the distressed animal out, giving her a pat on the head, before whipping around to glare at Smythe.

“What the hell were you confessing to?” Aidan’s cry was one of pure despair, his hopes for his marriage cracking into a thousand shards of glass as he realized he had ruined everything.

“Not that.”

“Then what?”

“Take a seat, Aidan. I shall explain, but first you must calm yourself.”

It was an excellent suggestion because Aidan felt as weak as a kitten. Lily Billy herself, his petite little sister, could overpower him in his current state.

He walked over to drop into one of the plump armchairs. He would race after Gwen if he had any notion of what to say. Given that he did not, he welcomed any assistance he could gain from Frederick Smythe to repair his egregious mistake in accusing his father-in-law of murder in front of his bride.

“Gwen thinks I married her because of this.”

Smythe sank farther into his chair and nodded. “That is likely what she is thinking.”

“But you did not kill the baron?”

“I did not. I find myself a little overwhelmed that you believe I am capable of such a vile action.”

Aidan ran a trembling hand through his hair, an echo of Smythe’s earlier distress. “It was all the assets you sold, and the fact that you were meeting with ruffians at the docks. It made perfect sense.”

Smythe exhaled heavily. “There is an explanation for that which is far more innocent.” He stopped, raising his gray brows. “This is such a muddle. I think we should sort this out one bit at a time. Let us begin with … Why would I kill the baron?”