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She leaned in just a little, her voice low. “When we are alone,” she murmured, “you must explain what that was about.”

The scent of citrus clung to her skin, and the soft press of her shoulder brushed his coat. Aidan swallowed hard. For a moment, he imagined brushing a curl from her cheek, telling her everything. About the note, the fears for Trafford, the possible safehouse nearby.

But her nearness stirred other thoughts too—simpler, deeper ones. He smiled, letting just a touch of mischief reach his eyes. “When we are alone, we may find ourselves rather occupied.”

She tilted her head, cheeks faintly pink, but her voice was steady. “We will make time for both.”

Her confidence delighted him. Under the table, he squeezed her hand lightly where it rested in her lap. She offered him a subtle smile and turned her attention back to her meal. He, in turn, focused on his, though the gentle blush rising in her cheeks stayed with him.

There would be time. Time for secrets. And time for love.

“What was that about?” Gwen asked the moment they stepped into her bedchamber, her voice firm but not unkind.

Buttercup, clearly sensing her mistress’s agitation, leapt from the bed and scurried across the floor, barking furiously at Aidan as if he were a villain in a stage play. Her tail stuck out like a quill, her little body quivering with defiance.

Aidan blinked in surprise at the ferocious display, and Gwen could not help herself. Laughter burst from her chest until she had to clutch her sides.

“The trials of winning the affection of a protective guardian,” Aidan said wryly, his mouth twitching into a lopsided smile.

Still giggling, Gwen motioned toward the door. Aidan obliged, opening it just long enough for her to scoop Buttercup gently into the corridor. The dog gave one last protesting bark as the door closed behind her.

Gwen took a breath to calm herself, then stood tall, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “Now. No more evasions. I am your wife, Aidan Abbott, and I insist on being included. I deserve to know what is happening.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then took a step closer, cupping her cheek with gentle fingers. His kiss was soft and reverent, not seeking to distract, but to affirm. “You are my family now, Gwen. You have every right.”

His voice, low and steady, curled around her like velvet. She stepped closer, her heart beating faster as the warmth of his nearness enveloped her.

“Then do not try to charm your way out of this,” she said, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “Why is Lord Trafford the subject of such furtive whispers?”

Aidan sighed and pressed another brief kiss to her forehead before stepping back, his expression sobering.

“Trafford was following a lead,” he said carefully. “He believed one of the other suspects might be guilty, and he went to investigate. Alone. We received a note from him clearing your father of wrongdoing … but it bore bloodstains. And no one has seen him since.”

Gwen’s lips parted, her breath catching. The words made sense, yet the situation felt unreal. “That sounds very grave,” she said quietly. “Start from the beginning. Please.”

Aidan nodded and began to pace, his steps slow and measured as he recounted the sequence of events that had brought them to this moment. He spoke of the baron’s murder. So sudden, so senseless. Of Lily’s terrifying attack. Of Filminster’s discovery, the cryptic note that hinted at motive but fell short of naming the villain. And finally, of the men they had scrutinized, the narrowing of the field to her father and three others, and the startling developments at Ridley House.

Gwen listened in silence, her brow furrowed, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if to brace herself against the weight of each revelation.

When he fell quiet, she released a breath she had not realized she had been holding. “You have all taken such grave risks,” she said softly. “Did you know the baron personally?”

“No.” Aidan’s voice was low, tinged with regret. “But his death touched everyone around him. And Lily …”

Gwen’s gaze softened at the mention of his sister. She leaned back against the door, absorbing the tangle of implications. “Perhaps … Trafford is hiding at Lady Hays’s townhouse. She and Lord Hays often leave it in the care of their oldest servants when they are away. Some of them practically raised Little Julius.”

“I pray that is the case,” Aidan replied. “But we cannot simply call at her door. If the murderer is watching our movements, we risk leading danger straight to Trafford.”

She nodded slowly. “Do you think he found something? Some proof?”

“There is no way to be certain. Not until we speak with him. Until then, we are navigating blind.”

Gwen lifted her chin, her voice calm but certain. “That is not quite true. You told me the list of suspects is fixed. That means every effort should now focus on those three men. You are not as lost as you believe.”

Aidan stopped pacing, his brows rising in surprise at her clarity. He studied her for a long moment, struck by the precision of her reasoning.

“You are right,” he said after a moment. “Your insight is … exactly what we need.”

Gwen rolled her eyes and folded her arms over her waist, a firm tilt to her chin. “I know I am right. The evidence is plain to see. Trafford’s note named three men. He did not hedge or speculate. If he is now in hiding, it is because he uncovered something real. Something dangerous. Your investigation has achieved more than you realize. It has narrowed the truth to a definite few.”