Page 70 of Long Live the Baron
Abbott had been watching with his mouth agape, but he straightened up with a scowl. “Who is this … this fool, Filminster?”
Trafford’s face crumpled into mirth.
“Allow me to introduce Lord Julius Trafford, heir to the Earl of Stirling. And first-rate clown.”
Trafford pulled a face, contemplating the description. “Clown? Like the performer, Grimaldi? I am not fond of the garments, but I admire the slur. Well done, little Ridley.”
Abbott sprang to his feet. “My sister was almost killed, you ridiculous fop!”
“Now you know who I am. Who are you?”
Brendan intervened before Abbott took it into his head to strike the other man. “This is Lord Aidan Abbott, heir to Viscount Moreland. My wife’s brother.”
“Ah! Another token title like my own. Dear Papa holds a barony, I suppose? Or is it an Irish viscountcy?”
Abbott was inspecting Trafford with narrowed eyes. “You were at the wedding breakfast.”
“I was. Which is why Filminster should have sent for me.”
“A desperate criminal manhandled my sister. Your amusement was not foremost in our minds.”
Trafford cocked his head to think before finally responding. “I concede your point.”
“Dammit! Concede this—” Abbott stormed forward and Brendan had to jump in his way.
“Trafford is attempting to get a rise out of you. He acts out when he finds himself excessively idle, but he is not the fool he appears to be.”
Trafford beamed, even as Brendan calmed his brother-in-law. “Why, Filminster. I do believe you like me.”
Brendan coaxed Abbott back to his seat, both irritated and entertained by his friend’s troublemaking. As aggravating as Trafford could be, there was a certain humorous charm to the man. Accompanied by a fierce loyalty to his friends, Trafford enjoyed a vast number of supporters despite his diabolical vagaries.
“Only in small doses, Julius.”
Trafford pouted, as if overcome by sentimentality, holding a hand over his heart. “So how can I help?”
Brendan returned to his own seat, contemplating the two heirs who could not be any different. “I have nothing to tell you, gentlemen. Ridley House is being searched, but beyond that, we have no clues to who paid the footman off. All we can do is wait for something new to come to light.”
“The murderer must be part of the peerage,” Trafford offered.
Abbott frowned. “Why do you say that?”
Trafford rolled his eyes. When he finally responded, he spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “The baron never visited London, and the only event he attended was the coronation itself. And he sat with lords. So it can only be one of them or their connections who committed the crime.”
Brendan’s brows shot up. “How would you know that?”
Trafford pulled a face at him, his contempt for the question obvious. “I asked around. What do you think I have been doing since the murder? Trimming my nails?”
Brendan snorted. “More like having your valet bleach your hair with lemon juice.”
Trafford straightened in his seat, his face falling as his hand shot up to finger his blond hair. “It is not …” He shook his head without finishing. Brendan felt a twist of guilt, realizing that he had touched on a nerve.
Trafford continued, “As you are aware, I have a wide circle of acquaintances. I asked around to confirm the late baron did not attend any social events within the few days he was in London.”
Abbott snorted. “You cannot know that. There could have been a small gathering at someone’s home. A dinner, perhaps.”
Trafford shook his head in disbelief, shooting an accusatory glance at Brendan without responding.
Brendan sighed. “Trafford means he checked with above and below stairs alike. He does not discriminate when it comes to seeking information. I should state that he is very thorough in gathering information about members of theton.”
