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The shift back to his earlier allusions stirred anxiety in Brendan’s gut. He had been contending with a rising sense of inadequacy, a small voice inside whispering that he was ill-prepared to shoulder the burden of those now depending on him. Lily’s honor, as far as he could see, far outshone his own. He scarcely deserved the vows she had spoken that very morning.

It was time—past time—for him to become a man he could respect. The days of idle carousing and self-indulgence were over.

Crossing to the sideboard, he reached for the decanter. A bit of claret would not go amiss to steady his nerves. “Claret?”

“No, thank you.”

Brendan froze, glancing down at the decanter poised in his grasp. In his experience, young ladies, when afforded the opportunity, were not usually inclined to refuse a sip of something stronger. He turned, brows raised in surprise.

Lily’s gaze darted away from his, and her expression softened with apology. “My family does not imbibe. After Sophia lost both her parents and came to live with us, Papa removed spirits from the household out of respect for her and her brother. And after what her brother did to her last year … and because Richard was nearly killed by that drunken lord who broke into their home, I made a promise to Sophia that I would never drink spirits. She has seen too many loved ones destroyed by it. It was the least I could do.”

Brendan winced and turned back to the decanter with a grimace. He had forgotten the sordid string of events that had shadowed Sophia’s past—violence, betrayal, trauma wrapped in the lingering scent of brandy. I am a bacon-brain.

“But you are welcome to enjoy one, if you wish.”

He let out a short, humorless huff and placed the decanter back with deliberate care. “I should probably reduce my drinking. There will not be much time for it now that I am to manage the baronial estates.”

“What was the problem you wished to share?”

Brendan wandered the room for a few paces, his steps muffled by the threadbare rug, before returning to sit beside her on the settee, leaving several feet of polite distance between them. The air between them, however, felt taut with unspoken weight.

“It is possible the baron allowed his killer entry. However …”

His pause was heavy, and when Lily drew in a breath, it was sharp with realization. “One of the servants might be involved?”

Brendan was impressed. She had reached the conclusion faster than he had. “It is a possibility. The runner we hired—Briggs—has questioned the servants. There are only five in … our … home who attend to the front door.”

Lily leaned toward him, her expression sharpening with curiosity. “Who?”

“There is Michaels, the butler. And the two footmen—Wesley, whom you have met, and Stephen. In addition, the baron brought two footmen with him, Stanley and David. And there is a coachman who brought them to London, but he did not have access to the house. The baron’s valet was away that night and did not return until the next day. My valet assisted the baron but had been sent to retrieve an item that the baron had misplaced earlier in the day and was absent for several hours.”

“And whom does the runner suspect?”

“He ruled out Wesley because he was not on duty that night. Stephen was sent out on an errand by the baron, which kept him away overnight with the baron’s coachman. The other footmen deny attending to anyone that evening, but it is Michaels whom he is most concerned about.”

“Michaels? The butler? What motive would he have?”

Brendan sat up slightly. He had not known what to expect when he shared the potential danger, but Lily did not shrink from it. She leaned in with unfeigned interest, her brows drawn in concentration, her hands gently folded in her lap—composed, but attentive. She was asking intelligent questions and absorbing the details with unflinching clarity.

“I did not know, but Michaels has been with us since his youth. His father was the gamekeeper at our country seat, Baydon Hall. The father was killed in the woods, perhaps by poachers, and apparently his mother blamed my grandfather for his death. It is a long time ago⁠—”

“But Briggs thinks it might be a motive for Michaels to either have lost his temper with your father or assisted someone else to cover up the murder?”

“There is no evidence, and Briggs is still investigating Stanley and David, but I need you to be vigilant until this matter is cleared up.”

Lily nodded, seemingly lost in thought as she considered all he had just revealed. Then she turned back to him with those wide, steady brown eyes.

How had he never noticed the sweep of her lashes? They fanned downward as she blinked, drawing attention to the soft roundness of her cheek. There was something delicate about her, a softness that stirred a deep ache within him. His hand itched to reach out, to trace the graceful curve of her jaw in a simple, wordless connection.

“I am sorry for your loss,” she whispered the words, her voice low and warm with sympathy. The soft, throaty murmur pulled him toward her almost unconsciously, and before he knew it, he had shifted closer on the settee.

Seated beside her now, he caught the faintest trace of something sweet in the air, like honey warmed by the sun. Perhaps it was a skin cream or perhaps simply her. Whatever the source, it tugged at his senses in a way that left him strangely off balance. But this time, he mastered the urge to lean further. He would not startle his bride, not now, when something so much more important needed to be said.

“I suppose I must confess a secret. The others are already aware, and you might hear about it amidst the gossip making the rounds.” He sighed and leaned back, giving her space, though her closeness still filled the air between them. “The baron was not my father.”

Lily drew in a sharp breath, sitting back with visible surprise. Brendan’s pulse ticked upward, wary now. Was she horrified? Would this revelation undo the tentative trust they had begun to build?

Chapter