Page 85

J. Ridley, Baron of Filminster

Lily stood frozen, mouth parted in disbelief, as Brendan lowered the letter to the desk.

“This truly must be the reason the baron was killed!” she exclaimed. “Do you think the false heir is the one who did it?”

Brendan did not answer at once. His thoughts churned, slow and heavy.

Inheriting a title was not merely a matter of honor. It could involve estates, tenancies, seats in the Lords, and wealth beyond ordinary imagining. A hidden heir, a lost son—it all sounded like something from a dramatic novel, and yet here it was, spelled out in the scrawled hand of the late baron.

It could explain everything.

The late-night visit. The panic. The choice of weapon. The sudden violence.

It was a theory as logical as it was chilling.

“We do not know enough,” he said finally.

Lily threw up her hands. “What are you saying? We have everything we need right here!”

Brendan shook his head. “We do not even know the identity of the lord he spoke with. Do you know how many peers have at least three sons? That the second son is named Peter narrows things only marginally.”

“But we know Peter died about twenty years ago. He married a Catholic woman, she might have been from the Continent. And he left England before his death. That must reduce the number of possibilities by … well … quite a bit?”

Brendan reached up to cover her hand where it still rested lightly on his shoulder. “You are correct. It is simply … a great deal to absorb.”

He looked back at the letter, its smudges and blotches now imbued with cruel weight. “The baron’s death suddenly seems almost trivial in light of this. It was a matter of chance. Someone must have come to silence him without even knowing this note would give them away.”

“I suppose,” Lily said, her voice low as she rested her chin against his hair, “you shall meet with Briggs and the others to discuss where this takes the investigation.”

He nodded.

“The baron’s murder was a tragic event,” she continued softly, “but it led us to each other. It is dreadful to ponder the reason we are now married, but I cannot bring myself to regret that we are wed.”

Brendan turned in his chair to look up at her. Her face was serene, yet her eyes sparkled with fierce conviction.

“No regrets,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

“None at all,” she agreed and pressed her cheek gently to his temple.

Brendan felt a smile tug at his lips despite the unsettling revelation of the letter. Without thinking, he reached over and drew Lily gently into his lap, cupping her face as he pressed a kiss to her soft mouth.

“Despite how all this came to pass,” he murmured, his forehead resting lightly against hers, “I regard myself as most fortunate to have married such a singular and intriguing woman.”

“Intriguing?” Lily asked, her breath warm against his cheek.

“Absolutely captivating. Endlessly amusing. Ravishing in spirit and wit.”

Her arms twined around his neck, and Brendan felt the lingering tension in his chest finally begin to ease.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For standing beside me. For helping me navigate this ordeal. For believing in me.”

“For keeping you out of prison?” she teased, her tone light.

He chuckled. “Indeed. That, most especially.”

Lily tilted her head, her eyes soft, and deepened their kiss in a way that was sweet and certain. Brendan lost himself in her affection, grateful beyond measure. Her presence anchored him more than any title, more than any inheritance.

Their closeness mounted like a slow-burning flame, and Brendan held her tightly, brushing a hand down her back in reverence. He thought, fleetingly, how much he would like to lift her into his arms and carry her upstairs, simply to hold her uninterrupted.

A knock at the door startled them both. They sprang apart slightly, laughter in their eyes as Brendan smoothed a curl behind her ear.

“Dinner is served, milord.”

Michaels stood in the doorway, his expression serene and focused on a point somewhere beyond the far wall. His composure was exemplary, considering he had clearly interrupted a moment of newlywed intimacy.

“Thank you, Michaels,” Brendan replied, mustering more dignity than he felt.

The butler nodded and withdrew, shutting the door with quiet efficiency.

Lily turned back to him with sparkling eyes before succumbing to a sudden, irrepressible fit of giggles. Brendan laughed in response, then drew her into his arms for one final embrace.

“Come now, Lady Filminster,” he said with mock solemnity as he helped her to her feet. “It is time to dine.”