Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

" Psyche, armed only with her courage, descended into the underworld, passing through the gates of Hades with no promise of return. "

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

OCTOBER 5, 1821

" T he baron's desk held nothing of interest. Old journals, poetry from his youth, correspondence with friends. I found naught to suggest he knew about his nephews."

"What of Nicholas?"

Molly made a face. "I think his life consists of carousing. There were little personal items, at all. Just a few notebooks from his time at Oxford, no correspondence, a few novels, and old textbooks from his education."

"And the baroness?"

"Her room is as immaculate as her icy countenance. I was terrified I would leave evidence of my search, so it took the longest to search. There was a writing desk with four actual locks. I tried to find keys, but there was no sign of them anywhere. I even searched the vases and jewelry boxes, under her mattress … Perhaps she keeps them on her person."

"Hmm … That piques my interest, considering how much it costs to include the locks. She must be fastidious about her privacy." Madeline had not slept a wink all night, impatient to learn what Molly had found. It was a beautiful morning, the sky a crisp blue and the garden resplendent with foliage and twittering birds, but she had no time to pay it mind when such important events were afoot.

"I agree about the locks. They seem to have been added rather than part of the original design. But what motive could she have? Do you think the baroness is capable of hoisting a sculpture to beat a peer over the head?"

"We do not know what the workings of her mind are, and she could have had a servant do it. The duke and his friends have stated that a manservant is involved, so we must not discount it."

"Faugh, Madeline! Must I fear the servants, too?"

"I do not know, but we cannot declare our investigation complete unless we have viewed the contents of her desk. What could the baroness have locked inside that requires it? We must confirm the contents to lay our anxieties to rest."

Molly slumped back against the stone bench, her bonnet obscuring much of her features except for a pensive pout of the lips. "I must claim to be unwell a second time?"

Madeline hated the notion of another night of insomnia while she obsessed about the contents of a mysterious desk. "Perhaps I can visit to distract her. I will tell Mama I will not be going to the manufactory today so I can call on the baroness to thank her for hosting us last night. Might that get you into her rooms a second time?"

"I can try. There is no method to predict when the room will be empty, but I could keep watch and hope for the best. But what will it change if I do not have the keys?"

Madeline growled in frustration, before recalling an incident a few years earlier when the key to the door from the mews to the alley had broken in the lock. She had watched in fascination as her coachman had extracted the pieces out, then picked the lock open so he could replace it with a newer one. Johnson had worked in construction at one time, he had informed her.

It had not seemed too difficult as someone accustomed to carving stone. Perhaps he could show her how to do it. In turn, she could tutor Molly. She hoped the other woman was as handy as she was and that there was some method of relocking it when they were done.

If the contents proved to be benign, she and Molly could stop invading the Scotts' privacy and, at the appropriate time, she could confess to Simon what they had done. Her stomach protested that inevitable moment, but she was determined to proceed.

Their solicitors had sent word that a renowned barrister would be calling in the afternoon to discuss the investigation into the late Lord Filminster's death. The news had been a relief to receive, Simon impatient to call on the duke and offer his assistance so he might do something—anything—to begin making plans for his new life. Everything was stalled until he could settle this thing.

MacNaby's announcement from the door that their visitors had returned was met with a feeling of dread spreading through the pit of his stomach. He wondered if he could send them away until after his meeting with the barrister.

"Have you informed his lordship?"

"Yes, sir. Duncan has gone upstairs to collect him."

With an air of resignation—best to know what fresh and damning information had come to light—he bade the butler to show them in. Recalling Madeline's advice to utilize his skills in communication, he requested that coffee be brought in to combat the brisk chill of autumn.

The five gentlemen entered with their usual somber air. Halmesbury, Saunton, Filminster, the coxcomb Trafford, along with the odd youth Gideon, filed into the room to take up their usual positions.

Simon bowed to each in turn, attempting to conduct himself with the usual etiquette of meeting with such men, but the tension was palpable. Silence fell, Simon struggling for anything to say when outnumbered by five hostile opponents and not coming up with anything. It might have been different if they would speak so he could respond, but this was an unprecedented situation.

Minutes ticked by, the coffee tray brought in by Roderick, who informed him that his mother had requested that John drink his tea that the doctor had recommended, which was in a separate pot. Simon nodded without registering what he had said, as he considered the possibility that he might be arrested for a crime he had not committed.

Could he hang, despite his innocence?

Now that he could wed Madeline, should he allow her to step forward as his alibi? Would them taking vows mitigate the scandal?

And would Mrs. Bigsby testify that Madeline did visit with him in the garden on a regular basis? Even Henri, perhaps, if he was betrothed to Madeline?

The notion of putting Madeline or her family's business at risk was not something he wished to contemplate. Surely there was another resolution to be found?

He was caught in a nightmare. So close to the life he had always dreamed of, only to be thwarted at the final hour. Had he done something to anger their creator so that he would be the butt of some cosmic jest?

The barrister cannot arrive soon enough!

John entered, his appearance bleary and his posture stooped as he walked over to take a seat in Simon's chair. Simon offered coffee around, but the men refused, so he prepared a cup of tea for his brother and passed it to John, who twisted his face when he saw what it was, but accepted it to take a sip.

Halmesbury cleared his throat, straightening from the window. "We regret to inform you that the movements of two of the servants could not be confirmed."

Simon bit his retort back, remaining silent so John could take the lead as the senior man on their side of this dispute.

John coughed into his handkerchief before responding. "Which two?"

The duke glanced to Gideon standing in the corner with his hat and gloves still on, before addressing the baron. "Duncan Campbell and Roderick MacGregor. As you know, Duncan was upstairs, but no one saw him the entire morning. We traced the route to Covent Garden and spoke with the flower seller who could not recollect whether he sold violets to the footman, Roderick, that morning. We also calculated the time, and it should not have taken him more than one to two hours to make the purchase, but he was absent for a minimum of three to four hours."

"What are you saying? That Roderick tried to kill Lord Trafford? That our second footman is willing to commit murder on behalf of Simon?" John sounded weak, taking another sip of tea, and Simon realized his brother was attempting to fortify himself. Shame washed over him to somehow have caused this blight on the Scott household while his brother was ill. Was it not enough that his brother must face the fact that people he did not know were to inherit the family title, while dealing with questions of his own mortality? A surge of anger that these men be so callous of his brother's health followed, as he clenched his fists to glare at the duke.

"Runners have been employed to observe your home and servants. We deem this necessary for the safety of our families. They will be stationed in the street outside. The Home Office has been apprised of the information we have gathered, and a new coroner is being appointed to the case. It is expected that an inquest will be called, and Simon shall be named a suspect. We felt it proper to inform you directly, as a courtesy."

Silence followed, John placing his teacup down on the saucer with a clink while Simon attempted to digest the news that he was to be publicly accused of murder. Seconds later, he noticed that their visitors had riveted their attention to his brother with varying degrees of alarm, and turning about, he found John was panting with a hand to his chest— over his heart!

In a panic, Simon burst forward to catch his brother as he tumbled from the chair, when a band of steel wrapped around his own abdomen to hold him back. The towering duke of nearly seven feet had caught him in an uncompromising embrace while the youth, Gideon, raced forward to kneel by John's side.

"What is this?" His shout broke the eerie silence of the study, but the duke held him back still, despite his struggle to break free. The man was a monster! Simon was a large man himself, but no one could fight off such a giant!

The fop followed Gideon over, standing aside as the youth began to examine the baron. "Calm yourself, Scott. Gideon is a skilled physician. We brought him in the event of a medical incident."

Relief swept over him as Gideon undid John's cravat to pull it loose, before unfastening the buttons of his waistcoat to pull it open. It was hard to believe that such a young lad could be a doctor, but he relaxed, the duke slowly releasing him until he was standing free.

"I need assistance lifting him." The sound of a woman's voice had Simon tensing up again, racing forward to kneel at John's side as, before his eyes, Gideon pulled off his gloves and tossed his hat aside. Time slowed down as Simon watched a heavy coil of plaited blonde hair unravel down his— her —back!

"What the living hell?"

Trafford cleared his throat. "I may have misspoken. I mean to say … Lady Trafford is a skilled physician."

"This is … your wife?"

"No time for this. I need to lift him." The pragmatic tone of the viscountess brought Simon's reeling senses back to the present priority. John was an alarming shade of gray mottled with red that spoke to the urgency of the moment as he wheezed in pained hysteria. Simon slid an arm under his brother's back to lift him to a half-sitting position. Lady Trafford quickly pulled the coat and waistcoat off in sections with Simon adjusting his hold. Finally, she grabbed hold of John's linen shirt and lifted it off in two stages as Simon moved his arm.

"Lower him."

Simon complied, following her gaze to see she was noting large purple and dark brown splotches that marred John's torso. He frowned at the discolorations, which appeared to be chronic. "What is it?"

The viscountess failed to respond, leaning down to sniff at John's skin. "Lord Blackwood, it is rather early in the day. Did you consume garlic at breakfast?"

John's eyes displayed his terror as he continued to wheeze, but he shook his head.

She turned her silver gaze to Simon. "Was dinner heavily seasoned with garlic?"

"No. John does not much care for it, so Cook only applies light quantities to our meals. What is it?"

She leaned down to peer into John's eyes. "My lord, what medicines do you take?"

"Some … laudanum … Nothing …else."

"Any skin creams?"

John shook his head, his confusion evident. Lady Trafford pulled back to address Simon.

"And, Mr. Scott, to your knowledge, does anyone else in your home suffer from the symptoms of his lordship? Chest pains, coughing, shortness of breath, the odor of garlic, changes in skin pigmentation on the front, back, limbs, soles, or palms?"

Simon shook his head. He was still in shock to see the state of John's skin beneath his clothes and frantic that his brother had not informed him of how poor his health was.

"Pins and needles, abdominal pain, swelling or reddening of the skin, or white spots?"

"No ill health, to my knowledge. My younger brother has issues from old injuries, but nothing else."

"And Lord Blackwood has a physician?"

Considering the emergency, Simon thought it would not be the time to mince words. "White is an ancient, drug-peddling quack. I doubt he can diagnose an illness which requires any judgment." It was true—the evidence was bared. Dr. White was useless if his brother was in this condition, and the physician had never asked such specific questions.

Lady Trafford cocked her head, staring down at the discoloration. "I am afraid we need to empty his lordship's stomach with some urgency. It will not be … pleasant."

John reached up to grab her wrist, staring up with terror in his eyes. "Wh … why?" he croaked out.

"You have been poisoned, Lord Blackwood. Gradually and for some time, by my estimation."

Simon's jaw dropped open as he leaned back on his heels to rake his hair in anguish. "What?"

"Lord Blackwood has consumed arsenic for some time. See how some of the discolorations appear older than others? If you lean down, you can smell the odor of garlic seeping from his pores. If no one else in the household has any of these symptoms, it would suggest that Lord Blackwood consumes something that the rest of the family does not. We will take him to his rooms, and he must drink large quantities of tepid water with egg white, sugar, and magnesia, which will cause him to … empty his stomach. Who can prepare it while I attend him?"

Simon shook his head in confusion. "One of the servants. I shall call for them."

Lady Trafford stayed him from rising. "Nay, Mr. Scott."

Trafford dropped down on his knees beside his wife. "You wish it to be someone who has not been in residence too long?"

Lady Trafford nodded.

"How long, Audrey?" Trafford asked.

"Less than six months."

Simon threw up his hands in question. It was as if an entire conversation had been conducted and he had missed the discussion. "What are you talking about?"

Across the room, the Earl of Saunton stood observing. "Mr. Scott, someone needs to assist your brother, who cannot be the one guilty of poisoning him. Someone who has been in your household for less than six months."

The implications filtered in, and Simon realized the truth. "I—we—have a poisoner living under our roof? Someone is trying to kill my brother?"

"It would appear so, Mr. Scott. Someone has been trying to kill your brother off. Lady Trafford will treat him, but someone needs to help. Someone we can trust. Someone who has been here no more than six months. You do not meet these criteria."

Simon raked his hair again as his spinning thoughts swirled with the ramifications of John's poor health. He recalled Nicholas's lament over their change in circumstances just the day before. His little brother would not attempt to clear a path to Simon inheriting, would he? It seemed too terrible to consider, but perhaps his guilt over Nicholas's injuries had blinded him to his brother's true character? "His issues began more than a year ago, not six months." Simon knew there would be a time when he needed to make sense of all this, but right now, with his brother wheezing with panic on the floor, he must answer the immediate question. "I do not know the specifics of the maids in the kitchen, but Molly Carter joined our household less than six months ago. Four or five at most."

"Then Miss Carter must be summoned. We need her help to brew the water and ingredients. And we need a sheet so we can help you carry Lord Blackwood to his bedchamber."

Simon nodded, springing to his feet to ring the bell. John needed treatment as the first priority. Questions would have to wait.

Madeline waited in the garden, but Molly did not return at the agreed time. Checking her timepiece did nothing to speed up the passage of time, each second ticking at the pace of a snail crossing over a leaf.

It was quite unlike her friend, and Madeline knew something was wrong. Perhaps Molly was caught in a conversation from which she could not escape? Or, perhaps, some fresh hell had broken loose in the Scott household and her friend could not get away to inform Madeline of the latest development.

All she knew was, the more minutes that passed at a terrible and painful pace, the more butterflies settled in her stomach to make her queasy with worry. She suffered a dreadful feeling of unrelenting doom until she could no longer stand it. She wanted to squeal at the sheer, insistent frustration that was building up to consume her. Somehow, despite her patience this past decade, she no longer possessed an iota of forbearance. There must be some method of resolving this mess.

She wished she had signaled Simon the night before to meet in the garden after dinner, but her guilt over searching his study was sure to spill from her lips if she was not careful, so she had remained at home after the meal.

A full hour later than the time she and Molly had agreed to, Madeline stood up to return inside. Paying a call on Lady Blackwood would at least reveal if the Scotts were amid a worsening crisis. She might even steal a minute conversation with Simon to ensure he was well.

Simon and the men stood in the hall, the sound of retching from John's bedchamber producing a somber air as they waited. Lady Trafford, her husband, and Molly were inside assisting his brother to empty his stomach after the mixture and a tub had been brought up, along with clothing from Trafford's carriage so his wife could change. Evidently, they did not wish the servants to observe that Lady Trafford had been dressed as a gentleman.

He winced in sympathy when he heard John cast up his accounts yet again. The young baron, Filminster, gazed at the closed door with a pained expression, while the duke had walked away to gaze out the window at the end of the corridor.

The Earl of Saunton, however, stood leaning against a wall with a nonchalance that seemed oddly out of place. As the sound of vomiting receded, Simon frowned at the earl, irate at the nobleman's composure while he tried to come to terms with the knowledge that someone had been attempting to murder his brother for a year or more.

Horror and impatience merged, and he could no longer withhold a rebuke. "You seem unnaturally calm under the circumstances."

"I have some experience with the ill, and I have recently dealt with death, Mr. Scott. I am more prepared than most for such a moment."

Simon gritted his teeth. "Fair enough."

The earl studied him with emerald-green eyes that glowed in the half light shining in from the window. "You understand that this will result in further investigation?"

Simon cursed, dropping his chin despite the crisp edges of his collar digging in. Did they suspect him of this, too? It was damning that the man who held the title that Simon was suspected of killing the Baron of Filminster for was now proven to be the victim of foul play, too.

From down the hall, the duke's baritone interrupted his torment. "Your anguish for Lord Blackwood appears sincere, Scott. I had to use all my strength to hold you back when you panicked at his collapse."

Simon let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Huzza! You do wonders for my self-esteem with such a declaration. I was naught but a feeble milksop, struggling to fend you off."

"Not at all. I had the advantage of gripping you from behind. My apologies, but I did not know your intentions, and Lady Trafford needed freedom to act."

"And now? Do you think me capable of engaging in violent crime?"

The duke turned to gaze at him with a solemn expression, filling the window with his large form. "Your distress for his health appears genuine, but it does result in questions given the cause of his illness."

"Who would want to poison John, you mean?"

"Indeed. It also implies that we were correct in our theory that my father-in-law was murdered by someone in this household. If not you, then who?"

"Poisoning is an act of premeditation. Your father-in-law was killed in an act of passion. Would that point to two different perpetrators?"

"Nay, Mr. Scott. You describe the problem from the wrong angle. Poison is the weapon of patience, while clubbing someone to death in a fit of rage suggests that the killer had run out of time. The late baron was persistent … and annoying. If the killer believed he had to act in haste, he might choose a vastly different method than his nature dictates."

Simon shook his head in disbelief. "I cannot say who may have done it. There has been no indication of violence from members of this household. Perhaps Lady Trafford is incorrect about the cause?"

"Perhaps, but Lady Trafford searched through your brother's things while she was waiting to begin the treatment. She could not find anything that contained arsenic to explain his symptoms. You should think about how he could have received it … and who might have given it to him."

Memories of Nicholas and Duncan flashed through his mind. Duncan spent a significant amount of his time committed to John's well-being, but the head footman had also assisted with Nicholas after his accident. They had become friendly, as close to friends as a servant and child of the nobility might become under such circumstances. But the servant had always seemed intelligent and practical to Simon. The thought that Duncan might be coerced into murder by his younger brother seemed incongruent with his affable character.

Simon shook his head. "I cannot believe anyone in this household could be a cold-blooded killer."

The duke shrugged. "Unfortunately, your belief, or lack thereof, does not signify. If not you, then who?"

It was a rhetorical question, the duke shifting his gaze back to the window as Simon's thoughts scattered in every direction as leaves in a strong wind.