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The young woman was … luminous.

She stood with quiet poise, her bearing noble without artifice. She might have appeared to step down from the friezes of the Parthenon, like one of the Elgin Marbles recently installed in the British Museum. A veritable goddess of antiquity with Titian hair wound in artful curls, a classical profile, and skin like cream left out under moonlight. But it was the scattering of freckles dusting her décolletage—innocent, sun-kissed, and utterly unpolished—that ensnared Aidan’s interest.

He had always harbored a fondness for red hair, but this … this was something else entirely. Her tall, willowy form was clothed in a gown of ivory silk that clung modestly to her Grecian frame, the folds recalling the drapery of statuary. There was nothing theatrical about her elegance. It seemed the natural expression of a woman both spirited and serene.

This was the woman society had deemed a wallflower?

The men of London must be blind.

Rubbing a hand over his shaven chin, Aidan felt a surprising surge of anticipation. For once, the tedium of another London ball had vanished, replaced by the delightful realization that when he reached the end of the receiving line, he would at last be presented to the resplendent goddess who had stolen the air from the room.

“It is time to go.”

Aidan slowly comprehended that the statement had been directed at him. Trafford was peering his way with a questioning look, his brow raised in mild curiosity. He bobbed his head toward a side hallway leading away from the receiving line.

Disappointment settled over Aidan like a damp cloak. His spirits, which had lifted in a rare moment of wonder, plummeted once more. The recollection of Lily’s peril came rushing back. Her vulnerability, the danger that still lingered. Of course he could not afford the indulgence of an introduction to the young woman at the end of the hall. For the briefest moment, he had allowed himself to forget the gravity of their purpose. But it was not to be.

With a last glance toward the glowing figure in ivory silk, he turned and followed Trafford away from the chattering guests and gilt-framed mirrors of the reception chamber.

Soon, they stood together in a dimly lit library, its paneled walls lined with old calf-bound volumes, the scent of beeswax polish and aged paper thick in the air.

“Do you have any notion how ridiculous you look in this …” Aidan threw out a hand toward Trafford’s resplendent gold coat.

“Now, now, Little Breeches. There is no need to tell Banbury stories … I am unduly handsome in my brocade, as we both well know.”

Aidan snorted in disgust, though it escaped more like a sigh. It was a farce to be engaged in this investigation with the clownish Trafford, but the choice had been removed from his hands. Filminster’s other trusted associates, the Earl of Saunton and the Duke of Halmesbury, were married men. Trafford, absurd as he was, remained the only bachelor man Brendan trusted to help ensure Lily’s safety.

Considering that Aidan had only recently returned from his Grand Tour, he had no long-standing allies to put forward. There was no time to vet new ones.

“Did a certain young woman capture your eye out in the hall?” Trafford’s tone turned sly. “You seemed rather … bemused.”

Aidan looked away, unwilling to discuss the quiet astonishment he had felt upon seeing, he presumed, Miss Smythe. It would be folly to pursue any introduction to a debutante whose father might yet be involved in murder. The entire notion was preposterous.

“Is Aunty not surprised at our departure?” he asked coolly. “I thought you were to catch up?” The sneer was a thinly veiled attempt at changing the subject, and Trafford’s grin revealed he had noted it at once.

“Aunty will quite forget she saw me tonight by the time she reaches the head of the line. She and Uncle are easily distracted these days. I saw an opportunity to proceed, and I took it.”

Aidan was relieved the subject of Miss Smythe had been dropped. He was still rather shaken by the sheer force of his reaction. The memory lingered like a phantom sensation. The elegant profile, the freckled skin. But there would be time to contemplate such matters later. Much later, and only after they had completed this wretched errand.

This was not a time for musings, but for action.

“What is the plan?”

“I think I shall wander about and gather information while you search Smythe’s office.”

Aidan wanted to argue. Sneaking through a gentleman’s private places was not his idea of an excellent or honorable pastime, but he could not deny that Trafford was better at soliciting information. Not least because the idiot seemed to know almost the entire ton and their servants, with the exception of marriageable misses. Aidan hated being disingenuous and violating peoples’ trust by searching their homes, but …

This is for Lily. To keep her safe.

His father would have definite opinions about what Aidan had been doing these past two weeks, which was why Lord Moreland had not been informed of their informal enquiry into six heirs. To date, they had managed to rule out only one of the men on the list. The gentleman in question had been holed up in the country with his family after a serious fall, so could not have been the murderous visitor on the night of the coronation.

There were six men to investigate, but Smythe was the man at the top of their list. He was the heir to a baron, which made him a promising suspect because the murdered Baron of Filminster had been seated with other barons the day of his murder.

There were whispers of Smythe selling off assets in the clubs, and Filminster had pointed out that a suspect with some sort of financial difficulty could certainly be driven to a passionate act such as murder if the late baron had threatened his future inheritance.

“I will meet you in the ballroom when I am done,” Aidan murmured, his voice low and grim.

Trafford nodded, too easily. “Have fun, Little Breeches. You might learn interesting things when you search through a man’s private belongings.”