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Filminster nodded gravely.

Aidan walked to the window. Beyond the glass, the afternoon wore a sullen, gray expression, the drizzle continuing despite the faintest glimmer of light behind the clouds.

“I wonder,” Filminster said softly, “if we were wrong to take this on ourselves. Should I have gone to Peel the moment I found that letter?”

“Perhaps,” Aidan murmured. “But it is far too late for regrets. Trafford asked us to wait for word, and so we shall. You focus on your men. I shall do what I can to repair the damage I have done with Gwen … and with her father.”

“You will let me know if you require anything?” Filminster asked, rising and smoothing his coat. “Lily and I are still entrenched at the duke’s townhouse. Anything at all, Aidan. You have risked much on our behalf.”

“I shall send word if I require aid,” Aidan replied quietly. “And keep me informed of the search for Trafford. He is … more than I expected.”

Filminster chuckled. “That is his way. One day, you realize you cannot imagine life without him.”

Aidan gave a weary nod. Despite Trafford’s absurdities, his insight and peculiar wisdom had become unexpectedly indispensable. His tutelage, particularly regarding certain conjugal matters, had proven quite effective on Aidan’s wedding night.

The scoundrel had better survive whatever misadventure he had pursued. The world would be colder without his irreverent cheer.

“I must go,” Filminster said, moving to the door. “There are a few places I wish to search. Send for me if you require anything further.”

Aidan watched him depart, then turned as the door reopened and Smythe stepped inside.

They regarded each other across the study with long, unspeaking gravity, until Aidan broke the silence.

“I cannot reveal the details surrounding the baron’s death nor the reasons I suspected you. Too many lives are entangled. It is safer you remain uninformed.”

Smythe gave a slow nod and returned to his chair. “Very well. But my daughter is upstairs in a state of profound distress. The servants are concerned.”

Guilt stabbed through Aidan’s chest like a blade. Gwen—his Gwen—had fled in tears, and he had not followed. He had not known what to say.

He swallowed. “What have you been doing, sir? If I may ask. Even though I cannot to answer your questions, I must know.”

To Aidan’s astonishment, Smythe leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin lighting his face. “Ships!” he whispered, eyes twinkling.

Aidan blinked. “Ships?”

Smythe nodded, his grin spreading wider. “Around the docks, they call them clippers. I have been selling off anything that I can to invest. Ships that can move commodities faster than before. Souchong and Congo teas, for instance. I aim to profit.”

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Aidan attempted to understand. “Why were you meeting with those brutish ruffians in the taverns?”

“I have been gathering information about the conditions of the ships and crews. Information I can use to negotiate the best arrangements for myself. I have limited funds, so I cannot afford to make any errors.”

“But sir … your behavior⁠—”

“Appeared suspicious,” Smythe finished for him. He glanced down at his hands, his voice quieter. “I am the third son of a minor baron, Aidan. My claim to any true influence is tenuous. When it becomes known that I sold off my land to invest in trade, polite society will be appalled.”

Aidan’s breath left him in a rush. “They will say you are no longer a gentleman.”

“Exactly. My children may find it more difficult to marry well. We shall be relegated to the edge of society, and many of my peers will call me mad. But I am determined my family will never lack. I would rather be a scandalous success than a respected failure.”

Aidan shut his eyes. The guilt was unbearable now. He had accused an honorable man, misled his wife, and failed to see what was plainly before him.

He had been a greater fool than Trafford.

Smythe bobbed his head slowly in assent. “I shall be, horror of horrors, a man of trade.”

Aidan rolled his shoulders, wincing at the soreness that gripped him still, no doubt intensified by the tension strung tight through his frame as he calculated how he might ever make amends to his bride.

“But why?” he asked, voice hoarse with weariness. “Why are you doing all this?”