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Trafford continued, “As you are aware, I have a wide circle of acquaintances. I asked around to confirm the late baron did not attend any social events within the few days he was in London.”

Abbott snorted. “You cannot know that. There could have been a small gathering at someone’s home. A dinner, perhaps.”

Trafford said nothing, but shot a look of long-suffering incredulity in Brendan’s direction.

Brendan sighed. “Trafford means he checked with above and below stairs alike. He does not discriminate when it comes to seeking information. I should state that he is very thorough in gathering information about members of the ton.”

“Why?” Abbott sounded honestly perplexed. “Why would he be an expert in such a thing?”

Trafford burst into laughter, the sound echoing against the carved paneling and high ceiling. “What a little breeches you have on your hands, Filminster. Is your brother-in-law truly so unsophisticated?”

Brendan soughed heavily. “Women, Abbott. Trafford is highly skilled in gathering information about women of the ton. I should have thought to request his help in learning about my … father’s … movements.” He hoped Abbott and Trafford did not notice his hesitation, or ascribed it to the pressure he had been under.

“Just so,” Trafford said, flashing a knowing smirk.

Abbott shook his head, as though attempting to reorder his entire perception of the man seated before him. Brendan could hardly blame him. Trafford had that effect on people. It was difficult to imagine what, if anything, might one day tame the impudent showman. But until that day arrived, Brendan was grateful for his friendship, particularly in moments of crisis. Trafford had gone to considerable lengths to assist Perry Balfour the year prior, and that loyalty counted for more than eccentricities.

“So, what do we do now?” Abbott asked, his voice tight with frustration.

“I discussed it at length with Saunton and Halmesbury. There is not much to be done, I am afraid. We remain vigilant and continue our search for information.” Brendan wished he had a better answer, but it was the only one he had.

It was a glorious summer day, the sun filtering gently through a haze of London soot, and the cobbles gleamed faintly from an earlier sweep of rain. The bustle of Piccadilly was tempered by a cooling breeze, carrying the scent of horse and cut hay from carts passing en route to the park.

Made even more glorious by the fact that her husband was accompanying her to Hatchards.

The bookshop, its large glass windows gleaming behind polished brass trim, was one of her favorite places in all the world. And now she could share it with one of her favorite people in all the world.

“I think we should order a number of novels for the library,” she said, lightly brushing her gloved hand over the book spines as they stepped through the wide oak doors. The interior was cool and dust-scented, the tang of ink and old paper welcoming her like an old friend. “Most of the books in there are fusty old texts about agriculture. We should have some Byron, Wordsworth, and Keats. I also wish to order that Frankenstein book, along with Ann Radcliffe and Jane Austen.”

Brendan nodded, already absorbed in the front stacks. He pulled several titles down with a discerning eye, the leather bindings creaking faintly beneath his fingers.

Lily leaned in to examine the one on top. “Coleridge’s Lyrical Ballads! It did not cross my mind, but I love it!”

Their ongoing discussions about improving Ridley House had taken on a new dimension since the wedding. Brendan had proven surprisingly amenable to her taking charge of the estate’s inner workings, and they had both agreed that the library should reflect the literary spirit of the age.

Soon, their new housekeeper would arrive, and Richard had recommended they consult his brother, Mr. Thompson, about more substantial renovations.

Barclay Thompson, a renowned architect, had attended their wedding. His firm had refurbished several Mayfair townhouses for the wealthiest members of society, and Lily was nearly giddy at the thought of what he might do for Ridley House. She looked forward to meeting with him and his assistant upon their return to Town.

It would be a wondrous thing if they could begin the process before departing for Baydon Hall in Somerset.

Soon, they stood at the shop counter, placing their order. The clerk’s quill scratched softly over the parchment ledger as Lily listed her selections. She had never placed such a large order before, and her gloved hands trembled slightly from excitement. To bring Ridley House to its full potential, not merely functionally, but soulfully, felt like reclaiming something sacred.

Wiping away the remnants of the past would, she believed, be the surest way to banish the shadow of death that still lingered within its rooms.

“Have you read much?” she asked softly as Brendan handed over the final list. He had shown a canny eye while selecting their new acquisitions, and she was curious. The sad state of their inherited library had suggested otherwise.

“I have,” he replied, holding the door open for her as the bell overhead gave a bright jangle. “But I mostly took advantage of the libraries of others. Annabel and the duke have an excellent selection, and I had access to Trafford’s and several other friends’.”

She paused at the threshold, turning back to question him with a glint of mischief. “Who is your favorite?”

But before he could answer, a familiar drawl cut through the hum of the street.

“Well, well. It is the scandalous Lily Ridley, if my eyes do not deceive.”

Lily spun about to find Lady Slight, accompanied by a friend. The widow was resplendent in a striped blue walking dress, her bodice cut daringly low and her figure arranged for maximum display. Lily instinctively stepped back, half-convinced she might be knocked in the face by the other woman’s prominently presented décolletage.

Lady Slight’s companion, a fashionable blonde with a similarly plunging neckline and eyes like winter frost, giggled at the remark, clearly finding the widow’s greeting devilishly amusing.