Page 36 of Lord Trafford's Folly
“I think you will fly soon, little Flapper,” she whispered in the quiet of the room. The thought made her eyes sting with the threat of tears. Nostalgia that the time was ending between her and the little creature was definitely not an allegory for her strange friendship with the dandy down the hall, she assured herself.
Putting the bird in the cage, Audrey went to lie upon her bed to rest. Their hours had been long, and her melancholy must be brought on by fatigue, she decided. In a couple of hours, she was to serve watch from the grooms’ room above the mews, ensuring no one was following Julius’s friends when they entered the property. She should take the opportunity to sleep while she could, to have her wits about her when she stood sentry later.
At the prearrangedtime in the letter that Lady Abbott had delivered, Julius opened the door to the alley to find two grooms standing about, waiting for him. They rushed in through the open doorway, glancing around to ensure no one was watching them. Without a word, all three men entered the mews, Julius leading them into the tack room, which displayed neat leather straps and shining metal in the low light. Some hooks were empty of the tack that had been used when Aunty Gertrude and Lord Hays had left for the country.
All three of them were quiet, careful that their voices did not carry, until Julius shut the door behind them to seal them into the room.
The grooms swept their coats and hats off to reveal Brendan Ridley and Lord Aidan Abbott. Brendan shook his head, his chestnut locks bouncing in disarray as he looked Julius up and down. “It is good to see you, old chap.”
“I missed you, too, Ridley.”
Abbott, whom Julius had met a few weeks earlier when his sister had married Brendan, narrowed his brown eyes. “Not with this again. He is Filminster, now! A baron of the realm, you … you …!”
Julius smirked with deliberation. Provoking the rather humorless laddie was a personal crusade. Abbott needed to approach life with more flippancy, and Julius was the man to see to it.
“Better a clown than a fool.”
Abbott clenched his jaw.
Brendan suppressed a smile, well familiar with Julius’s tactics. “What happened? How did you get injured, and how did you reach the conclusion that the killer was one of those three men?”
Julius wished to twist his ring, but he was wearing gloves, so he clasped his hands behind him. Walking away from his chums, Julius admitted to himself that his stupidity embarrassed him. He could have been killed, which was not a desire of his, and Audrey had already taken him to task for his limited planning. These friends were going to be far more vocal about their outrage than she.
“I may have sent each of the suspects a blackmail letter to learn which of them would be drawn out.”
“Thunder and turf! You bird-witted chucklehead!” Brendan cursed.
Silence ensued from behind his back until Abbott exclaimed in a low bark, “So, which one did it?”
Julius pulled a face at the wall. This was the mortifying part, where his plan had fallen apart.
“I do not know. The letters pointed to three different locations, all of which I visited on the same morning. Someone followed me from one of those locations to my father’s home and attacked me in the street. Fortunately, Miss Gideon came running out with a sword to frighten him off, but I was stabbed during the scuffle with the ruffian.”
Silence fell again until, suddenly, Abbott exploded. “You fool! You could have been slaughtered in the street!”
Julius puffed in rejection. At the notion of being killed, not the statement which was accurate.
“Better a fool than a clown.”
The inane remark was thrown out without thought, a habit of his to arouse Abbott from his proper behavior. His response was a snarl. When Julius turned back around, he found Brendan raking his hair in agitation and Abbott had stalked over to glare at the polished tack, his shoulders tense with anger.
No one spoke for several seconds, each seeking composure, until Abbott spun on his heel and came rushing forward to where Julius stood. Julius stepped back in alarm—he could scarcely credit that the very proper Abbott would punch a chap who had just been stabbed a few days earlier. He stepped back again, discovering his reaction time still slowed by his recovery, just as Abbott’s arms wrapped around him in a powerful embrace, lifting him off his feet.
Ye gods—what is this?
As his feet dangled in the air, his lungs crushed against Abbott’s broad chest and his sutures twinging in protest, Julius came to a realization. The other heir was strong!
He did not consider himself a weakling, perfectly able to defend himself, but no one had ever lifted him up in the air in this manner.
“I am glad you are well, Trafford,” Abbott growled. Julius glanced over at Brendan, who shrugged his shoulders as if to say it was just as unexpected to him. Julius patted Abbott on the back in awkward response, his arms trapped to his sides.
“Thank … you.” He was oddly touched by the sentiment, if not by the hug. He had grown rather fond of Abbott during their interactions, and he was helping Julius protect his dear chum, Brendan, after all.
Abbott lowered him back to his feet, turning away with a fierce flush blazing over his cheeks. Julius did not think the other heir made a habit of demonstrative gestures, so he appreciated the depth of sincere emotion that must have led to it.
“We were all anxious after the note. When Gwen returned with news you were alive …” Abbott shook his head, overcome.
Brendan nodded. “It is true. We had runners trying to find what happened to you, but we were afraid of putting you in danger, so our activities were limited. The blood on the note … Bloody hell, Julius, I thought I had gotten you killed!”
