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Brendan recognized the spectacle for what it was. Calculated theatricality.

With a sniff that spoke volumes, Trafford sauntered to the library table. He gave a perfunctory tug to his lace-edged cuffs, flicked an invisible speck of lint from his lapel, and then dropped into a carved mahogany armchair. Stretching out his legs in studied indifference, he folded his arms and turned his brown eyes once again on Brendan. “Am I not your friend? Should I not be informed when you are in mortal peril?”

This time, Brendan let the laugh escape. “Are you taking umbrage regarding the peril, or are you more outraged that something of intrigue took place and you were left out of it?”

Trafford surveyed him with a look of dignified disdain. “The intrigue, of course.”

Abbott, who had been watching in open-mouthed disbelief, abruptly straightened and glowered. “Who is this … this fool, Filminster?”

Trafford’s face crumpled into unrepentant mirth.

Brendan gave an apologetic shrug. “Allow me to introduce Lord Julius Trafford, heir to the Earl of Stirling. And first-rate clown.”

“Clown?” Trafford echoed, pulling a face of contemplation. “Like the performer Grimaldi? I am not fond of the garments, but I admire the slur. Well done, little Ridley.”

Abbott sprang to his feet, his shoulders tense. “My sister was almost killed, you ridiculous fop!”

“Now you know who I am. Who are you?” Trafford asked with lazy amusement.

Brendan stepped forward before Abbott could do anything rash. “This is Lord Aidan Abbott, heir to Viscount Moreland. My wife’s brother.”

“Ah! Another token title like my own. Dear Papa holds a barony, I suppose? Or is it an Irish viscountcy?”

Abbott’s eyes narrowed as he assessed Trafford with animosity. “You were at the wedding breakfast.”

“I was. Which is why Filminster should have sent for me.”

“A desperate criminal manhandled my sister. Your amusement was not foremost in our minds.”

Trafford tilted his head and appeared to think deeply. “I concede your point.”

“Dash it! Concede this—” Abbott stormed forward, and Brendan had to step between them.

“Trafford is attempting to get a rise out of you,” Brendan said quickly. “He acts out when he finds himself excessively idle, but he is not the fool he appears to be.”

Trafford beamed, clearly pleased with himself, even as Brendan worked to calm his brother-in-law. “Why, Ridley. I do believe you like me.”

Brendan coaxed Abbott back into his seat, both exasperated and faintly amused by his friend’s relentless provocation. Trafford was, at the best of times, insufferable, but there was no denying the wry charm threaded through his mischief. Beneath the irreverence beat a fiercely loyal heart, and for all his diabolical vagaries, Trafford enjoyed a surprising number of allies among both ladies and lords.

“Only in small doses, Julius.”

Trafford placed a hand theatrically over his heart and pouted as if wounded by sentiment. “So how can I help?”

Brendan resumed his own seat, glancing between the two heirs, so opposite in bearing that one might mistake them for creatures from different realms entirely. “I have nothing to tell you, gentlemen. Ridley House is being searched, but beyond that, we have no new clues as to who paid the footman. All we can do is wait for something new to come to light.”

“The murderer must be part of the peerage,” Trafford said airily.

Abbott frowned, brows drawn. “Why do you say that?”

Trafford rolled his eyes. When he finally responded, he spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “The baron never visited London, and the only event he attended was the coronation itself. And he sat with lords. So it can only be one of them or their connections who committed the crime.”

Brendan’s eyebrows lifted. “How would you know that?”

Trafford pulled a face that bespoke high insult, his tone dripping with disdain. “I asked around. What do you think I have been doing since the murder? Trimming my nails?”

Brendan snorted in amusement. “More like having your valet bleach your hair with lemon juice.”

Trafford straightened in his seat, his face falling as his hand shot up to finger his blond hair. “It is not …” He shook his head without finishing. Brendan felt a twist of guilt, realizing that he had touched on a nerve.