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Beside him, Smythe stirred. “Show Filminster in.”

Jenson bowed and withdrew.

“I shall leave you to your conversation,” Smythe added quietly, already moving toward the door.

Aidan barely managed a nod, so fixated was he on the fear gnawing at his insides.

Moments later, Filminster entered the room, his face unreadable. Smythe departed in silence.

“What is it?” Aidan rose. “Has something happened to Lily?”

Filminster shook his head, stepping forward. “No, it is not Lily.”

Aidan’s lungs filled with air again, but the reprieve was brief.

Filminster took the chair opposite and leaned forward, reaching into his coat. “But something may have happened to Trafford.”

“Trafford?” Aidan repeated, frowning.

His brother-in-law nodded, withdrawing a page folded into quarters. “A woman brought this to the duke’s townhouse not long ago. The butler knew nothing about her. Only that she had fair hair, and he believed she was young. She wore a heavy cape with the hood drawn, obscuring her features. She did not give a name. Only this.”

Aidan accepted the missive with a growing sense of foreboding. The note was written in hurried strokes with a lead pencil, the lines faint and uneven.

Blast. If he never received another letter again, it would be too soon.

It is not Smythe. 1 of the other 3. Do not inform Peel until you hear from me.

—Traf …

The note trembled in Aidan’s grasp. The handwriting was erratic. A scrawled mess devoid of Trafford’s usual flourish. He had trailed off mid-signature, as though he had lacked the strength to complete his own name.

Aidan squinted at the paper. “Is this … blood?”

Several reddish-brown droplets stained the page, dried but unmistakable.

Dread coiled tightly in his gut. Was Trafford grievously wounded? Or worse?

Filminster exhaled heavily and scrubbed a hand down his face. The weariness in his manner spoke volumes. “We believe it is blood. Briggs and his men are already searching for him. I came here to learn whether you might know his whereabouts. No one has seen Trafford since early this morning, and his father’s townhouse was locked, with only the servants in attendance. The Earl of Stirling left for the Continent on Crown business at first light.”

“By George,” Aidan breathed. “What the devil happened?”

Filminster leaned back, eyes drifting to the ornate crown molding above them. “He was incensed to hear of Lily’s encounter yesterday. Deeply frustrated. Said our investigation was too cautious, too slow. He wanted action, something decisive to flush the villain out. I think …” He trailed off, grim. “I think he attempted something rash. And it went poorly.”

“But he is alive.”

“For now,” Filminster replied soberly. “He was well enough to write and to send the girl with the note. But his condition is uncertain. And Trafford is not a man who easily concedes weakness.”

Aidan paced a few steps, the words striking like hammer blows. “Do we alert the authorities? Speak with Peel?”

“I asked Halmesbury. The duke urges caution. Without knowing where Trafford is or how compromised he may be, it would be unwise to act hastily. Trafford’s note pleaded for discretion. We must respect that … for now.”

Aidan clenched his fists. “Devil take this entire farce! I accused Smythe, and Gwen overheard every word.”

Filminster winced. “So I gathered. She nearly ran me down in the corridor, poor thing. Said Lily and I had deceived her. And … well, she is not wrong. I never meant for any of this to hurt her.”

He lowered his gaze, regret heavy in his voice. “When I found my uncle lying dead in his study, I knew nothing would be simple. But I never imagined it would ensnare so many. Least of all your wife.”

Aidan shook his head slowly. “You are family now, Brendan.” The name still felt foreign on his tongue, but it was time. “You did not draw us into this. We stepped in willingly. And no matter how you felt about your uncle, he deserves justice. Someone murdered him in cold blood.”