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You cannot hide forever, Gwendolyn, her mother would have said with gentle command. The world may break your heart, but you must always rise.

Gwen exhaled, the breath long and weary. “You are right, Mama,” she whispered. “I cannot stay buried in this sorrow.”

She kissed the top of Buttercup’s head and set the little dog on the rug. The floor was cold beneath her feet, the kind of cold that reminded one to move.

Crossing to the bellpull, Gwen rang for Octavia, then moved about the room to light the lamps. The soft glow pushed the darkness into corners, and with it, the ache in her chest began to ebb.

The stars blinked faintly beyond the windows. No moon tonight to enchant or deceive.

The world would not pause for a broken heart, nor did it care for love betrayed.

She was no longer the girl with stars in her eyes.

She was a woman, and it was time to choose her future.

Aidan stood in Smythe’s study, rolling his stiff shoulders as he contemplated the molten sky spilling through the terrace doors. The sunset, glorious and unyielding, seemed to mock the turmoil lodged beneath his ribs. The bruising along his side, an unwelcome reminder of recent events, throbbed with each breath. After his failed effort to speak with Gwen, he had spent the last hour mentally rehearsing his apology. Not for the pain he carried, but for the pain he had caused.

He awaited a final knock at the door, pivoting as it came at last.

Jenson stepped inside. “The Duke of Halmesbury and Lord Filminster.”

Smythe rose behind his desk, gesturing to receive them. Jenson held the door wide for the duke and Aidan’s brother-in-law to enter, then withdrew, closing the door with a muted click.

The study bore signs of preparation. Extra armchairs had been summoned from other parts of the house. Aidan’s eyes swept across the room, noting who sat where. His father had arrived first and occupied the seat nearest Smythe. The Earl of Saunton had appeared shortly thereafter in response to Aidan’s urgent summons and now leaned casually against the mantelpiece, declining the chair intended for him. The Duke of Halmesbury, always imposing, was folded into a chair far too small for his long frame, and Lord Filminster balanced on the edge of his own, his expression unusually grave, his gaze flicking repeatedly toward Smythe.

“For those of you not yet aware,” Aidan began, his voice measured, “Mr. Smythe did not kill the baron.”

Lord Moreland let out a breath. “Thank the Lord. The notion of informing your mother … it was …” His words drifted into silence, and he simply shook his head.

Clearly, Aidan’s father had not yet been briefed on the news of Trafford and the others. Saunton, Halmesbury, and Filminster exchanged quiet nods, already privy to the truth. Filminster, no doubt, had relayed the message to Saunton earlier in the day. Aidan suspected the earl was even involved in the manhunt. His younger brother’s longstanding friendship with Stirling’s heir made it likely.

Aidan resumed pacing. Speaking to such elevated company unsettled him. Though his recent marriage had tied him to such important noblemen, familiarity had not yet bred ease. And what he was about to ask, he knew it was not a small thing.

“My wife has informed me,” he began, carefully, “that Mr. Smythe was with her on the day of the coronation. All through the night, in fact, owing to a grave illness.” His voice faltered, the import of the statement anchoring in the room like a weight. “We have since received a note … confirming this.” His glance met Smythe’s, and he caught himself just in time, stopping short of revealing what could not yet be spoken aloud.

Given the number of individuals already privy to the details surrounding the baron’s death, it seemed wisest, for Trafford’s sake, to refrain from further disclosures. Especially with his whereabouts still unknown and no resolution yet in sight.

Aidan raised a hand to his brow, pressing his fingers briefly to the skin as if he might calm the storm within. His mind had been occupied with thoughts of Trafford, their uneasy friendship and the looming uncertainty coiling through every waking hour. And yet, he had forged ahead, preparing for this evening with a singular purpose. To support both Mr. Smythe and the young woman who had come to mean so much to him.

“Mr. Smythe has explained his actions to me,” Aidan began quietly. “The reasons behind the sale of certain holdings. Once I understood the truth, I felt it my duty to arrange this meeting before the ladies join us.”

Smythe sat stiffly, hands worrying the objects strewn upon his desk. Papers, an inkpot, a pocket watch slightly askew. The habitual grin that usually softened his features was notably absent. Aidan had pressed him for this meeting, insisting it would bear fruit. Even so, he knew how difficult it had been for the older man to agree.

“Aidan assures me that I may place my confidence in all of you,” Smythe said at last, his voice grave. “That what I share here will remain within these walls. And perhaps, that you may even offer your counsel.”

The Duke of Halmesbury inclined forward, the light catching the blond strands threaded through his hair. “You have my word. Nothing spoken here will travel beyond this room. We are family now, and family must hold one another steady.”

Smythe offered a tight nod and slowly lowered himself into the armchair near the fireplace. “I had long imagined the moment I would explain myself. I thought I would feel prepared. But instead …” He hesitated, staring at the fire as though it might offer him courage. “I find I am more anxious than I had anticipated.”

Aidan moved to stand beside him, his posture strong and quietly supportive. “Mr. Smythe is preparing to enter trade,” he said, voice steady. “And I hoped to ask for your assistance in smoothing the way.”

Silence settled across the room like a silken drape, weighted by implication. For a long breath, no one stirred. Then, from his place near the fireplace, the Earl of Saunton shifted, adjusting his cravat as though it had grown inexplicably tighter.

“I … must admit something,” he said, voice low. “I already engage in trade.”

Aidan’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

The very notion contradicted everything he had been taught. Gentlemen, especially those of noble birth, did not stoop to commerce. Such matters were for merchants and shopkeepers. A gentleman of standing derived his income from land, rents, and investments executed at arm’s length through agents. And yet, none of the men before him seemed remotely scandalized.