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“And now,” Briggs continued, folding his arms as he leaned against the edge of the table, “that same person may be searching for something in the house. Some item that links the baron to the killer …”

“Or something entirely unrelated,” Brendan finished, sweeping a hand across the clutter of correspondence on the writing desk. “Either way, we are still in the dark.”

A quiet pause settled between them. Outside, a faint clatter of hooves echoed down the distant street, softened by the thick stone walls of Ridley House. Brendan rubbed at the back of his neck.

“The difficulty is that the baron has spent the last two decades at his country estate,” Briggs said, his voice lower, more measured. “There are no known connections here in Town. I questioned his solicitors, unremarkable fellows, but they had nothing to offer. The baron’s world was Filminster, not London. If answers exist, they may lie there.”

Brendan glanced toward the window, where gauzy curtains stirred slightly in the evening draft. Dust motes drifted in the fading summer light, which cast a pale glow across the floorboards.

“Perhaps the truth lies in Filminster,” he murmured. “The baron despised travel, enough to shirk his duties at Westminster entirely after inheriting the title, preferring to remain cloistered at Baydon Hall. I could travel there and search for anything that might cast light on this matter.”

He glanced once more toward the window, where the summer clouds cast large shadows upon his view. “And if I go without any of the servants from this household, I could remove Lady Filminster from danger at the same time.”

Briggs stroked his mustache, deep in thought. “There might be merit to that. I shall continue the investigation here in Town. Meanwhile, I can recommend a discreet and experienced runner, whom you might take with you. He would be of use in Filminster.”

Brendan stood and began pacing the length of the library. His boots made muffled sounds upon the old rug, worn smooth by generations before him. The plan made sense. Not for reasons of strategy, but because of sentiment. He did not wish to be parted from Lily. These past few days, brief though they had been, had shifted something within him.

She was a revelation. Her optimism, her intelligence, her refusal to bend before convention had brought an unexpected lightness into his otherwise grim affairs. She had not only saved him from a protracted trial, but made him feel less alone. In her presence, burdens seemed a little lighter.

“I shall do it,” he said firmly. “Lady Filminster and I will leave for Baydon Hall as soon as I can make arrangements for travel. Perhaps the duke might lend me a carriage and men.”

Briggs inclined his head. “Then I shall send word to the runner and bring him to you in the morning.”

After Briggs departed, Brendan glanced at the longcase clock by the hearth. The day had slipped past unnoticed, the hours marked only by the subtle shift of light in the room and the scent of cooling ashes from the earlier fire. Despite the season, the house retained a damp chill that settled in the bones.

The list of tasks for departure would need to wait until morning, as Briggs had suggested. But already Brendan felt a sense of direction. If he could take Lily with him, he could keep her safe … and perhaps use the quiet of the countryside to better understand this new bond between them.

He had barely seated himself at the desk when a sharp rap sounded at the door. He looked up, startled.

Michaels entered, his expression as flat and disinterested as ever. “Lady Slight to see you, milord,” he intoned, as if announcing the arrival of the footman with tea.

Brendan rose at once, his face tightening in disbelief as Harriet swept into the library unbidden. He turned a furious look on Michaels, unable to fathom how she had been allowed past the threshold without his express permission.

“What are you doing here?”

Chapter

Fourteen

“Now, when your weapons are dulled, your ardor damped, your strength exhausted and your treasure spent, other chieftains will spring up to take advantage of your extremity. Then no man, however wise, will be able to avert the consequences that must ensue.”

Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)

Michaels withdrew in haste, the door shutting with a decisive click. Brendan stood rigid, fury rising like a tide. Perhaps it was time to pension off that wretched butler after all. A man who accepted his coin ought to extend a modicum of respect. Brendan had never mistreated a servant, but the continued insolence was unacceptable.

He drew a slow breath, willing his voice to remain calm. Composure, not outrage, would rid him of this unwanted guest.

He turned back to her, voice clipped. “Harriet. What are you doing here?”

The viscountess smiled, her expression syrupy and self-satisfied. Her red curls bounced as she tilted her head, and Brendan detected the pleased gleam in her eyes.

“This is my first visit to Ridley House, Brendan,” she said, as though that explained everything.

She stepped toward him, and once more, the overpowering scent of rosewater and wine reached his nose, cloying and artificial. The fragrance did not complement the space. It invaded it, masking the faint scent of aged paper and wood polish that normally brought him comfort.

“I realized that now you are a married man, it is perfectly respectable for me to call upon your wife,” she continued, the smirk curling her painted lips betraying any pretense of civility. “I could always claim I came to see that little featherbrain you married.”

Brendan’s jaw tensed. How had he once found her enticing? Her décolletage was aggressively on display, her corset pressing her gown to the edge of impropriety. He could not understand how he had ever mistaken this theatrical parade for elegance.