Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

" A gentle reed whispered to Psyche, 'Wait until the sheep are resting in the shade, and then collect the wool caught on the branches of the trees. "

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

" Y ou should wed Olivia Boyle."

John's declaration was met by the loud ticking of the mahogany clock on the shelf. Tick, tick, tick, it said while Simon considered how best to respond to his older brother's absurd recommendation.

Simon pondered the possibility that he was still abed, dreaming this bizarre conversation in the comfort of his sheets. He would much rather dream about Madeline, tucking her soft body to his as they slipped into slumber together. But perhaps the lamb from dinner the night before had been tainted to bring on such odd proclamations. He tapped the arm of his chair with drumming fingertips just to confirm it was daytime, and he had indeed dressed with the help of his valet just an hour earlier. The leather-clad padding was solid enough to the touch. He must be awake, then.

"Why on earth would I do that?" It was a serious question. Simon could not think of a solitary reason he would want to do such a thing. "Her father is making arrangements for her to marry Lord Clutterbuck."

"It would elevate the Blackwood legacy to align with such an ancient family, and Clutterbuck is old enough to be her grandfather. You would be doing the featherbrained chit a service."

Simon did not often drink, and when he did, it made his head feel muddled. Not unlike how he was feeling at this very moment. Did John have a legitimate reason to suggest such folly, or was this more of the legacy foolishness that had held Simon fast all these years while his real life slipped away?

"I do not wish to wed Miss Boyle. She is a ridiculous flibbertigibbet who would eventually drive me stark, raving mad. She and Lord Clutterbuck are suited in every aspect other than age."

One of the privileges of not being the heir to the Blackwood title was that Simon was no longer beholden to his father or his older brother. He could do what he wished, and as soon as he worked out what that was, he would begin. First, however, he needed to find some method of proving he had not murdered a peer, which he would be doing if John had not sidled in to take a seat at Simon's desk. After Simon had quickly vacated his seat to make way for his brother.

Simon wondered if he should look into moving into one of his clubs. The minor irritations of playing second to first his father, and now his brother, were growing into significant annoyances with the news that he was to seek his own fortune. Not least of those aggravations was, despite all the work he had done these past years to oversee the Blackwood holdings, he still had to spring to his feet like a private secretary each time the baron visited the study.

He did not mind paying his respects, but it was he who did all the work, while John signed documents with barely a glance. Simon hoped that the new heir, Marco Scott, would be as fastidious to details as he had been because the baron was in too much physical discomfort to worry about details such as their tenants' leases, or advising them about managing their crops for maximum profits. John did not pay attention to representing his district at Lords, relying on Simon to determine the votes he cast to protect the combined interests of the people of Blackwood.

The thought of all he needed to teach the incoming heir gave him a headache.

I hope Marco allows me to orient him to this role.

"You must consider the bloodlines, Simon. These … curst Italians … will sully centuries of Blackwood's legacy if their claim turns out to be legitimate."

Simon suppressed the impulse to grimace. "The people of Italy have bestowed upon us architecture, art, and sculptures so exquisite that they inspire faith itself at their divine perfection. I am certain that Marco, being half-English, will bring a fresh perspective to the Blackwood title, one that shall only strengthen all you hold dear. Furthermore, Italian culture is renowned for its devotion to kin, so he will undoubtedly honor those that come before him."

"Word is that this Marco is a bear leader. Were you aware of that?"

"He tutors young Englishmen on their Grand Tour?"

"That is correct. What have you to say to that? How can such an individual be qualified to be the next baron?" John's tone was plaintive and challenging, a combination which grated on Simon's nerves. Did his brother not recall that Simon was under suspicion for a violent crime? Perhaps there was a better time to discuss the inanity of Marco Scott's prior occupation, but John must have been obsessing over his mortality this morning.

"So he is familiar with our English ways, an accomplished academic, and a gentleman who appreciates the importance of preservation."

"You make it sound an asset."

"It is. How did he come to be in such a role?" Simon acknowledged to himself with some shame that he had not displayed any interest in the relations who would arrive from the Continent, but his thoughts had been otherwise occupied.

"Apparently he is from an important family in Florence. Merchants! "

The last was hissed in disgust. Simon suppressed a smile at this. John would be most displeased when he learned Simon planned to enter into industry. He would deem it worse than the merchant class. It had always been Simon's plan, ever since he had learned Eleanor Bigsby's story as a young lad and been fascinated that someone he knew had created such success in the span of years. What it must be like to build wealth and employ people with the sweat of one's brow rather than being born into it.

Granted, she had some coin to purchase the business when she arrived in London, but she had multiplied that initial investment many times over since then.

"Faith! The merchant background means he likely has a head for the business of managing property. Along with his interest in the grandeur of the past, he possesses the perfect skills for a future baron."

"Blast it, Simon! You almost seem pleased at this unfortunate turn of events."

I am. If I can settle this murder investigation, I will be able to court Madeline.

He was not going to inform John of that. He would fight that battle at the appropriate time, which was not while he awaited the arrival of Marco, nor while he needed to persuade the Duke of Halmesbury that he had not brutally clubbed the nobleman's father-in-law to death. How grisly to consider the late baron bleeding out on the floor of his own study!

Simon glanced over to the open area, which was adorned by a rich rug of navy, gold, and ivory, with a shiver of repulsion at the imagined bloodshed. Recalling his promise to speak with Halmesbury, Simon shook his head to clear his thoughts. It would have to wait until he met with their legal firm, but he wished he could call on the duke to clear the air and offer his cooperation.

"I am merely pointing out it might not be so terrible to invite them into our lives."

"Personally, I wish we had never learned of their existence and could have continued in ignorant bliss."

John rarely spoke of Peter. Simon glanced at his oldest brother, for just a second wondering if he might have done something to keep their nephews from being uncovered, but dismissed it as disloyal. John was not a bad person, even if recent illness had made him more inconsiderate this past year. It must be difficult for him as the baron, that he had never been able to produce heirs, only to discover his late brother had had two healthy boys. It was odd to consider that Simon himself had had a brother he had never met, to his knowledge, considering how much he liked the two he had grown up with.

Perhaps a change of subject was in order. "What of the questioning of the servants?"

"From what I gather from MacNaby, three of the servants cannot confirm their whereabouts at the time of Lord Trafford's attack. Do you think his letter had something to do with it, or did some ruffian follow him home to relieve the fop of his valuables?"

Simon growled in disappointment at this news. "Which three?"

"MacNaby, Duncan, and Roderick. MacNaby said he went to the market after a botched delivery left Cook without ingredients for breakfast—she apparently has arthritis in her knees and did not trust the kitchen maids to make purchases on her behalf. Duncan said he was in the attic to stow away furniture from the guest bedroom, which is being refurbished, but no one saw him for those hours, while Roderick was sent by your mother to Covent Garden to purchase violets."

"Bloody hell! All the way to Covent Garden?"

John shrugged at the vagaries of women. "She favors a specific flower seller there that sells the best blooms, and she had an urgent need to make violet water to freshen her handkerchiefs."

"Do you think any of the three are involved?"

John straightened in horror, staring at Simon from across the desk with his mouth agape. "What are you asking? You wish to know if one of us—a Scott—instructed a servant to run off and kill this Trafford fellow while they were running errands? Have you lost your mind?"

Simon rose, walking over to the window that faced the garden. "I do not know. It is possible that someone in our household killed the baron? These lords seem so utterly convinced I am guilty, which does give one pause, does it not?"

"Who, then? You think I went to dinner and decided to kill Filminster on the drive home because he irritated me at the ceremony? Or perhaps it was Nicholas who somehow learned of this baron he has never met and pretended to go out carousing, so he might stop over and murder Filminster for upsetting his older brother. No! It must be your mother, because Filminster is an obnoxious old goat, and she thought it would be aesthetically pleasing to rid the world of his ugly mug."

Simon decided it was not the most opportune time to point out that John had revealed the murder victim had been accusatory at the ceremony of him hiding heirs—a fact which he had shared with the entire family before they all departed for their evening arrangements on the night of the coronation. It was the reason Simon even knew who Filminster was before the news of his murder. Yet … what was he suggesting? That one of his brothers or his own mother was a cold-blooded killer?

These accusations had him on edge, seeking shadows within shadows. He did not envy Filminster's family for what they must be feeling under such trying circumstances. It was astounding to consider that a violent brute had attacked a peer, ushering him to meet his maker decades before he was ready.

"Calm yourself, brother. It was a fair question, but I take your point. I do not think anyone in this household committed a brutal murder, but it is unfortunate that MacNaby, Duncan, and Roderick cannot be accounted for when Trafford was accosted."

John settled back, placated by Simon's words. "It would be the men who have worked for us the longest. MacNaby has been our butler for three decades, while Duncan and Roderick have each been here for more than a decade. Why could the three in question not have been retainers we hired in the past few months, to soundly disprove the theory that we have a member of our staff so loyal they would kill a peer for one of us?"

Simon stroked his beard, appalled at what John had pointed out. "Blast! I never even thought of that. Deuce it, John, they grow even more convinced I am guilty. We need to find them another suspect because they are not going to let this rest!"

"Nay, brother. I see no sign of them backing down."

Madeline accompanied Molly into the Scotts' home. She had instructed her coachman that she would be leaving for the manufactory later than usual, having no pressing appointments this morning and the need to learn the truth compelling her to begin their search. Molly and she had worked out the details, and the hope was that by the end of the evening, they would have searched through the things of all four Scotts.

It was daunting, daring, and reprehensible, but Madeline had been frozen by inaction after Nicholas had had his accident, and she would not repeat the same mistake. She would do whatever it took to prove that the Scotts were blameless, or to uncover the fiend who attracted this cloud of trouble to the man she loved. Molly and she both had reservations about what they planned to do, but deemed it a necessary evil if there was a dangerous assailant lurking in the house. Murder was not a trivial subject.

Molly knocked on the study door, both women glancing at each other in apprehension. They were both in disbelief that they were going to proceed.

Simon called out for them to enter, rising in surprise when he caught sight of Madeline in the doorway. "Madel—Miss Bigsby!" He caught himself at the last second, flickering his gaze to Molly before returning to find her. It was good to see him, even if she felt rather guilty about the subterfuge they had planned.

Madeline approached his desk, spreading her skirts to take a seat on the facing chair, while Molly came to stand by her side.

"I have invited Madeline to dinner." Molly sounded breathless as she stated what they had rehearsed in the garden. Madeline suppressed a wince. She did not think either of them were accomplished at pretending, but they were going to do their best in Simon's best interests. Madeline had reached the same conclusion as Molly—there was no reason to burden Simon with suspicions about his family, but, nevertheless, someone had to pursue it to a proper end.

Simon squinted, evidently perplexed as to why he was being informed in this manner or why Madeline needed to attend this briefing with Molly. "Ah … I … yes, of course. You are a member of the family, so I suppose you are at liberty to invite guests to break bread with us."

He shot a questioning look to Madeline, who made as if she did not see it, fidgeting with her skirts. It was not a sophisticated plan, but neither she nor Molly had a knack for lying, so it was the best they could do on such short notice.

"Could I have a word in private, Simon?"

Simon peered back and forth between them with a perplexed expression. "Do you mean without Miss Bigsby present?"

"Yes, if we could speak about a disrelated topic. I do not want to bother Miss Bigsby with … household matters."

He stood frozen in bewilderment, clearly at a loss about what a strange interaction he was caught in and not sure what Molly was asking him to do. "Yes, that is acceptable."

"In the library."

"Uh … yes." Simon gave a short bow of respect to Madeline, following his cousin from the room and pausing to close the study door behind them. Left to herself in the room, she rose and rushed over to the other side of the desk. She needed to search for the letter with lightning speed, so she dropped to her knees to start with checking the floor. Sometimes pages from her desk at work would vex her by falling into tight crevices or flittering away with annoying speed to land under a piece of furniture. Bringing her cheek down against the flooring, she peered under the shelving but saw no pages there, although she could confirm the servants cleaned thoroughly by the lack of accumulated dust. She stood back up to search a pile of correspondence on the desk but found nothing but letters from the various Blackwood estates.

Her gut tightened with suspense, knowing that Molly would keep Simon from the room for a few minutes at most. The hope was that they would find the blackmail letter from Trafford to disprove that someone in the house had taken it from his things, but so far …

Madeline sucked in a rush of air for courage and began to open Simon's drawers. The first held quill, nibs, extra inkstands, sealing wax along with a seal, and blank pages. Shutting it, she reached for the second drawer. This one held correspondence, which she leafed through but noted nothing but neatly organized notes from the stewards at the respective estates. She fanned the pages, which were tied together with string, but no loose pages fell from the stacks.

Realizing she was running out of time, Madeline shoved the drawer shut and tried another. This one was mostly empty with only a leather journal, which she opened to fan the pages again, careful not to read any of the sentences inked upon them because she did not wish to violate his privacy.

The other drawers were similar. Madeline straightened up and spun around to face the shelving behind the desk. Hastily grabbing the account books one at a time, she fanned those too, but no letter had been accidentally caught amongst their pages. Checking about her, but out of ideas, she raced back to take up her seat before Molly and Simon returned.

Attempting to calm herself, the disappointment was cloying at her stomach. She had so hoped to find it, the first step to confirming that the Scott family was innocent of any wrongdoing.

She supposed it was possible that Simon had already attempted to find the letter—he kept a neat work space—and it would be much simpler to ask him if he had done so. But he had been disturbed at the idea of suspecting one of his relations, and if Madeline raised the issue of the letter, it would lead back into a discussion about the murder. She was not sure she could hold her tongue when she was so anxious for his freedom and his safety, so this was the best she could do at such short notice. Perhaps Molly would find something this evening while the family was at dinner.

Simon stood in the library, struggling to articulate his thoughts to the young woman who had been living with them these past months. He wished his step-cousin to feel at home in … her new residence—Simon scoffed at his inability to order his reasoning—but it was a grievous breach of etiquette to have an unmarried young lady attend dinner, especially given the marked differences in their stations.

"Molly, you and I both appreciate Miss Bigsby, but …" Simon rubbed his beard, hoping that the second time he opened his mouth, eloquent words would pour out. "You do understand … it is unusual?"

This was true. Madeline had never dined in the Scott household, despite their close connection. He would hate to inflict his family's aristocratic disdain on the lady he had admired so ardently.

"As long as she has a chaperone, it should be acceptable. If anyone witnesses her arrival, there is nothing untoward to infer because both I and your mother are in residence, so she could be invited to dinner by one of us."

Deuce it! What on earth was Molly thinking? She had shown a nuanced understanding of what was de rigueur in polite society up until now.

"That … is true."

"So it is acceptable? As long as she has a chaperone?"

It was not, but Molly had lost her mother this year, and they were family. If not by blood, at least by marriage. He did not wish to embarrass her when she had made so few requests for herself since joining their household.

"I … suppose that is acceptable, but I think it would be wise to inform my mother. She may not approve, so it is best to give her warning to avoid any display of displeasure." Simon paused, tilting his head as he reflected on the woman in question. Isla Scott would hardly make a display. He continued, choosing his words with care. "I mean, voice her displeasure. Both Lord and Lady Blackwood might have remarks about … Miss Bigsby's … rank within their cloistered world if they are not given sufficient time to prepare for such an event."

Molly pursed her lips, appearing to think about his suggestion. "Hmm … it might be an awkward dinner."

"Just so." He did not wish to subject Madeline to the more temperamental behavior his family was capable of. They were all rather on edge about the strangers who would arrive from Italy, so the probability of them saying something rude was vastly increased.

"Can you inform them of the dinner arrangements?"

"I would rather not." It came out instantly, as a reaction. Simon had a lot on his mind, and coaxing his brother and Isla into behaving themselves, or attempting to answer their inevitable questions about why Madeline was coming to dinner would be subdued if Molly was the one to present it. They were still mostly on their best behavior because none of them knew her all that well, while with Simon, their full displeasure would be expressed.

"I would appreciate it. You see, I cannot be at dinner this evening."

What the living hell?

Simon almost cursed out loud. Up until now, Molly had appeared pragmatic, a trait that Simon had appreciated when compared to the characters living under this roof. It was clearly a facade. She was as eccentric as any member of the Scott household!

"I am sorry. You are saying you invited Madel—Miss Bigsby to dinner, but you shall not be attending?"

"That is correct."

Simon gave up on proper behavior. If she was to make such odd demands, proper behavior be damned. He would be direct.

"Why?"

"I … am not feeling well. I have a tickle in my throat, and I think I should rest until it passes."

"Then why, for the love of heaven, have you invited Madeline to dinner?" Simon could hear that he sounded irate, but this conversation made him feel like he was on a visit to Bedlam to speak with the lunatics. Molly, whom he had believed to be a sensible person, was proving to be an egregious disappointment as a pragmatist.

Molly turned her gaze to a gilt-framed painting over the fireplace, licking her lips. Simon had the impression she was seeking a reply, which made him narrow his eyes. Was she up to something? Why was Madeline involved?

"At the time I invited her … I was feeling well, but am no longer. I do not wish to retract the invitation, so perhaps she can come as your guest?"

Simon raked his hair and wondered if it was possible he was dreaming this entire conversation. "My guest?"

Molly gave a firm nod at this, but Simon sensed she was feigning bravado.

"Are you attempting to matchmake us?"

She blinked, her expression confused until settling into a hopeful smile. "Yes?"

"Are you asking me a question or answering mine?"

She squared her shoulders into a more confident stance. "Answering you. I think that … you and Madeline would make quite a pair."

"Why is Madeline going along with this?"

"I … told her … that … I needed the company … so … she does not know I am attempting to matchmake?"

"Is that a statement or a question?"

His cousin bit her lip, hesitating for a fraction of a second. "A statement!"

"So you are requesting that I have an unwed woman over for dinner, and that I inform my brother and mother of it while you take a tray in your bedroom?" It sounded so absurd he could scarcely believe he had uttered such a sentence.

"I would appreciate it greatly."

Simon repressed a groan. He wished he knew Molly better so he could make sense of why she was doing this to him. Snubbing Madeline by retracting the invitation was too dreadful to consider, particularly after all she had done for him the past few days, despite his years of neglect.

"What of the chaperone?"

"What chaperone?"

His nostrils flared with irritation. Was Molly woolgathering? She did seem distracted. "The one she needs to appease etiquette? If you are not to be at dinner? My mother will not be pleased as it is. I cannot deceive her into thinking Madeline is here at her request, and she is not the sort to volunteer for such a scheme. Announcing this will be complicated enough without explaining her lack of companion and, if I am to pretend I invited her, there must be a chaperone."

"Oh. I suppose she might bring her mother or her sister."

Sweet heaven! Eleanor Bigsby setting foot in Lord Blackwood's home? He supposed he should be thankful his father lay in his grave or this dinner would have sent him there.