Page 69 of Long Live the Baron
CHAPTER19
“Therefore in chariot fighting, when ten or more chariots have been taken, those should be rewarded who took the first. Our own flags should be substituted for those of the enemy, and the chariots mingled and used in conjunction with ours. The captured soldiers should be kindly treated and kept.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
* * *
AUGUST 2, 1821
Lord Aidan Abbott paced the library, his hands flying around in agitation. “There is still a killer out there, Filminster. And if this man believes there is a letter connecting him to his crime, he might take it into his head that you or Lily know something. That means my sister is still in danger.”
“Or woman.”
“What?”
“We do not know it is a man who committed the murder. It could be a woman.”
“Why would a woman kill the baron?”
“Why would a man kill the baron?”
“Bloody hell! I have quite forgotten my point.”
“You were stating that Lily and I are still under threat, especially if the killer believes we might find this mysterious letter.”
Abbott stalked over to slump into an armchair. Brendan waited patiently, understanding that Lily’s older brother was anxious. They stared at each other for several moments until a disturbance out in the hall had them both shifting their gaze to the open door.
“Lord Trafford, his lordship instructed me he was not to be disturbed. He is in a meeting!” The ire in Michaels’s voice was evident even from this distance.
“Unhand me immediately, you … you serf!” Trafford’s ire sounded feigned to Brendan’s ear.
“Lord Trafford!” Despite Michaels’s usual reserved and recalcitrant manner, the last was more of a shriek than a rebuke.
His friend Trafford had a propensity for being easily bored as the heir to a healthy earl, and frequently acted in a buffoonish manner to, according to him, liven things up. Brendan was afraid that his butler was going to lose his head.
“Just a jest, Michaels. You know what a rapscallion I am.”
Michaels responded, but from this distance, it was a mere mumble.
“You see? Admit it. I am your favorite.”
More mumbling ensued. Seconds later, the butler came into view, his reserved air reinstated. “Lord Trafford to see you.” Turning on his heel, Michaels walked away.
Trafford came striding in and looked about with deliberation, surveying Abbott before his gaze swung round to meet Brendan’s. “What is this I hear? A man was killed in your home yesterday? You did not think to summon me?”
Brendan was not sure if Trafford’s indignant question was serious or in jest, so he swallowed the chuckle that threatened. “Summon you?”
Trafford tended to change his style from season to season, depending on his mood. It was the antidote to boredom, he claimed. Last year, he had engaged in terrible poetry, attired in the style of Lord Byron.
This year, he was trying out some sort of foppish fashion. He wore polished buckled shoes, slim-fitting trousers, and a purple jacquard coat over a waistcoat embroidered in gold. It was quite startling in contrast to his thatch of blond curls, and cropped brown hair on the sides and back.
Brendan recognized it was all part of the show.
Trafford sniffed before crossing over to the library table. Tugging his fluttering cuffs and flicking a piece of lint off his lapel, he took a seat. Stretching his legs out and folding his arms, Trafford turned his brown eyes back on Brendan. “Am I not your friend? Should I not be informed when you are in mortal peril?”
This time, Brendan did not hold the laugh back. “Are you taking umbrage regarding the peril, or are you more outraged that something of intrigue took place and you were left out of it?”
Trafford looked him over with a withering expression. “The intrigue, of course.”
