Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

" The voice warned her: 'Do not open the box, no matter what you desire, for it contains only peril. "

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

A fter retching his guts out, John was drowsy and falling asleep in his bed. His color was slightly improved since his collapse in the study, and his breathing had eased. Footmen had removed the evidence of his emptied stomach, and the windows had been thrown open to air out the room.

Lady Trafford had requested lavender water to dispel the noxious odor of illness, and was now instructing Molly on the baron's care.

"You are to keep the door closed at all times. No one must have access to the baron until an investigation has been conducted. I will have meals delivered from our own kitchens, but he is not to eat or drink anything from this house."

Molly nodded, her face pale and earnest while Simon listened on with gratitude that Lady Trafford was a woman committed to the art of healing, and practical about the security of the situation. He had already been informed that he would not have access to John, which he had agreed to. The duke was more than willing to remove John to his own townhouse if there was any balking at Lady Trafford's instructions, but John wished to remain in his own rooms, so he had directed Simon to cooperate fully. Simon concurred, noting that his brother was weak and did not need the undue stress of being moved after such prolonged and violent vomiting.

"A guard from our home will be arriving soon to stand in the hall, so if you do need to rest or leave the room, he will ensure no one else enters while you are otherwise occupied. My husband will introduce you directly, so there is no question that he is the guard we summoned and he, in turn, will introduce you to his replacement for the evening shift."

Simon's cousin bobbed her head in acknowledgment, leaning in to whisper as she glanced over to his brother, "Will he be all right?" John was frail and helpless within the embrace of the canopied bed.

Lady Trafford paused, lowering her voice so that the patient would not overhear. "It will be a long and painful recovery. Arsenic corrodes the organs, but I believe the doses have been minute, likely to persuade a coroner that he suffered from a long illness. I think Lord Blackwood's health will improve without those doses."

Simon realized he had been holding his breath in an effort to overhear the viscountess answer from several feet away. Exhaling heavily, he stroked his beard with a trembling hand. Anger and confusion warred for domination. Who was there to be angry at, without knowing who was behind this? Well … There was one person with whom he was livid—the incompetent Dr. White!

Was the old fool a fellow conspirator to whomever was trying to kill John?

Nay, it seemed more likely White had missed the signs. Nevertheless, Simon was going to demand some answers by sending for the doctor.

Madeline lifted the heavy brass knocker and brought it down on the door, rapping as hard as she could for several seconds. Still there was no response, causing her growing queasiness to increase. Something was wrong—she could feel it in the pit of her stomach.

Why were the servants not answering?

She tried one more time, then gave up to head home. After striding through her home, she exited through the library terrace and hurried down to the shared garden to access the Scotts' property. Making her way up to their terrace, she approached Simon's study to see if he was in.

Peering in the window, while being careful to use the wall as a shield, Madeline experienced the first flush of relief when she caught sight of him at his desk, scribbling with a quill upon a page. Reaching out, she rapped her knuckles on the window. The sound was muted by her glove, but Simon straightened to look over to where she was hiding. Catching sight of her, he rose from his seat to stride across the room and open the terrace door.

"Madeline?" He stood aside, ushering her in with a wave of his hand as he peered about to ensure no one witnessed her entry.

She entered, pausing to glance up at him, noting the telltale signs of strain. The accusations against him were wearing him down—she could see it in the shadows across his face and the rigid set of his shoulders. How she wished she could do more than merely ease his burdens.

"You should not be here." His voice was gruff, but his blue eyes ran over her with appreciation. "You look lovely."

Madeline hesitated, reaching up to check her bonnet and tucking in an errant lock of hair. "Do you know where Molly is? She was to meet me more than an hour ago?"

Simon's face hardened. "Molly is with John. He … has taken a turn for the worse … and …" It seemed as if he wished to say more. "I will have to explain later. Tonight, perhaps? In the garden? I must send for his physician and inform the family to … I … Can we meet after dinner?"

She nodded, blinking in surprise at his vacillating sentences which were uncharacteristic of him. "I shall wait for you."

Simon reached out to take her hand up in his, lowering his head to press a kiss to her knuckles. "I must speak with my mother and Nicholas about John with some urgency. Can you let yourself out?"

"Of course."

He smiled briefly, crossing the room to fold the page he had been writing on and head out the door. Madeline stood watching as he shut the door behind him and tried to think what to do. She was supposed to show Molly how to pick locks, and despite her agreement to leave, Madeline was still obsessing over the mystery of the writing desk in Isla's bedchamber.

She stared at the door and considered climbing the stairs to the third floor to find Isla's rooms. The floor plan of the Scotts' home was the same as theirs, just reversed. Isla was in the back rooms facing the gardens, which was the equivalent of Madeline's own at the head of the back staircase. She knew this because Simon had mentioned how the family had moved about after his father had died a little less than two years earlier. If he was calling the Scotts together to discuss his brother's health, Isla would not be there, or would be summoned away shortly. It would be so easy to exit the study, find the entrance to the servants' staircase, and race up to the third floor.

Madeline bounced on her toes, impatience brimming through her as she rose and fell with a nervous energy that pressed her to move forward. She reached up to remove her bonnet to aid in her peripheral vision, still debating what she would do.

What if I am caught?

There is so much at stake! I cannot just stand by.

It is a horrible invasion of privacy.

It was. If Isla had nothing of import within the locked drawers, Madeline would feel awful about what she had done.

Then a chilling thought struck her as a slap across the face. Simon had said John's health had taken a turn for the worse. What if he was too ill to defend Simon from the Home Office investigation? She lost her calm as she followed this train of thought.

What if John dies?

There would be no one to shield Simon from an accusation of murder if the baron was gone, and the heir was not yet arrived. A nephew who was a stranger to Simon and who might believe the allegation over Simon's word.

That settled it. Proprieties be damned. If she was caught, she would have to face it. Perhaps she could say she was looking for the necessary. Someone needed to ensure that Simon did not take the blame for this terrible crime.

If one of the Scotts had done it, if he was arrested, and she had stood by and done nothing … Madeline leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling above, panting with anxiety, then fixed her gaze on the door. Right across from the study would be the entrance to the servants' staircase, and all she had to do was cross the room, open the door carefully to ensure no one was about, and dash across the hall. A tingle of nervous anticipation raced through her veins, and she lifted her foot to take a step. And another. And soon she had reached the door and was on her way to Isla Scott's private rooms.

There were no servants upon the stairs, and she could hear clanging from the kitchens below, but no one was about as she quickly began her ascent. She was grateful to be wearing her slippers, making barely any sound at all as she raced up the steps with her skirts in hand. Scarcely believing her good fortune, she reached the third level and placed her ear to the door. Cracking it open, she peered through the crack but saw no movements. If the baron was ill, the servants might be occupied on the second floor where his bedchamber was. Licking lips that had gone dry, Madeline entered the hall and crossed to the baroness's bedchamber door, placing her ear against it to listen for the sounds of occupation. She prayed that Miss Dubois, the attractive but sour French lady's maid, was occupied elsewhere in the grand house.

After waiting a minute, her pulse racing with fear that a servant or Isla would appear, Madeline cracked the door open to reveal an unoccupied room.

She exhaled in relief, entering to shut herself in and look about. It was a boudoir, as elegant as the baroness herself, with blue silk wallpaper, gilt-framed landscapes of lochs and forests, and an intricate rug woven with blues and greens covering the polished floorboards. Positioned near the window was an elegant chaise lounge adorned with blue and green tartan pillows. Somehow, the room managed to be both beautiful and austere, not unlike its inhabitant.

But that was neither here nor there. She had but minutes to contend with the narrow davenport writing desk, with a sloped surface covered in rich leather. Madeline approached, finding the four drawers on the side of the desk that each boasted a keyhole. Molly was right. It appeared the brass locks had been added at a different time.

Crouching down onto her knees, Madeline pulled the desk forward on the casters, wincing at the creaking. She reached into her reticule to pull out the pins that her coachman had fashioned for such a purpose. Resting her face against the wood of the desk, she began to work the first lock while listening for the click.

It turned out to be rather simple, and soon she had the top drawer ajar and was rifling through the contents. There were some writing supplies, quill nibs, pencils, and blank pages, but at the back was a stack of folded letters tied with a ribbon. Madeline reached deep to grab hold of them, pulling them out to read the address written on the outer folds.

Her fingers were shaking as she leafed through them, terrified a servant might walk in at any moment. Struggling to focus on the writing, she gasped in surprise, forgetting about the risk of being caught as she comprehended what she was holding. When Molly and she had discussed their plan, it had been the move of a desperate woman willing to do anything to help the man she loved. She could not attest that she had expected to find something, but what she now beheld was the most damning of evidence.

The top letter was addressed to Lord Blackwood in faded ink, so likely the father and not the current baron lying ill on the floor below. The return address was noted as Bianca Scott of Firenze.

Madeline leafed through the stack, which was about an inch thick, the pages yellowed with age. The letters at the bottom were from the same address but from Peter Scott. These had been written nearly three decades earlier, before he had died in Italy!

It was what she had been looking for, but not expecting to find. Had the late baron Blackwood received these and given them to his wife? Or had Isla somehow intercepted them and hidden them away all these years? Either led back to the fact that the baroness had been well aware of Peter Scott's nuptials, and therefore the children born from that marriage.

I must make haste to read these letters in the safety of my own home!

Madeline pushed the drawer shut, fiddling with the long brass pins to lock the drawer while her fingers trembled something fierce. It was horrifying to contemplate the significance of what she had found. Stuffing the letters into her reticule, she scrambled to her feet, pushed the desk back into place, and made for the door.

Listening carefully, she heard no sound, so departed to cross the hall and enter the back stairs just as the door swung open to reveal one of the footmen. Roderick, she thought was his name, froze in surprise, then glanced over her shoulder to the door of Isla's rooms.

It was a big house, with countless rooms, so Simon did not know if Nicholas or his mother had heard about the incident with John. He was aware the servants must be in an uproar, Duncan having brought the bedsheet that the lords had used to carry his brother up to his rooms on the second floor. MacNaby had arrived, only to be turned away by the duke and his friends, with an instruction that the servants were not to access the hall to John's rooms. The butler's amiable demeanor had splintered, as he had dashed away to inform those belowstairs.

Simon was sure the kitchen was agog to have Molly and Lord Trafford invading the recesses of the basement to prepare the magnesia mixture that had been fed to John.

Their visitors were still upstairs awaiting the guards, but when John had slipped into sleep, Simon had decided it was the time for answers.

After inking the note to summon Dr. White, Simon had left Madeline in his study. He wished he could tell her what had transpired, but the words had not come. It was not something to blurt out as he raced away, so he thought that by this evening, he could gather his wits to explain what had happened. How his brother was being—he choked at the thought— poisoned into his declining health of the past eighteen months. Barking out such incredible information while he was in a hurry seemed ill-advised.

Then, too, he wished to break the news to Nicholas himself posthaste. His younger brother was the most likely culprit. He stood the most to gain after Simon, and to discover if he were involved, Simon would disclose the events so he could gauge Nicholas's reaction.

Climbing the main staircase to the third floor, Simon headed to the front bedroom, which faced the street, and knocked on the door. Two wings of the house were accessed down long corridors leading away from either side of the landing, and he supposed after he had spoken with his brother, Simon might check to see if his mother was in her bedchamber.

"Who is it?" The tone was both belligerent and morose. Nicholas had not had a drink for two days, and his mood was both sour and miserable. Simon paused, wondering if his younger brother's change of heart could have been brought on by a bout of guilt. Had Nicholas bludgeoned the Baron of Filminster to death in a drunken rage? Was that the reason he was reconsidering his abuse of the liquor?

Simon gave a quick shake of his head to clear his thoughts before reaching to open the door.

Madeline perched on the edge of the settee, too embarrassed to look the baroness directly in the eyes as she fidgeted about. Her shame was made worse by the knowledge that her reticule was stuffed full of correspondence she had stolen from the baroness.

"Roderick, bring us a tray of the … Ceylon tea."

Madeline glanced up at the strange pause to find Isla staring at her, her face expressionless in the midday light shining through the windows of the family drawing room.

The footman hesitated, before responding in a halting voice, "The … Ceylon … tea?"

Lady Blackwood's eyelids fluttered as if she were mildly irritated. "That is correct. Hurry it along."

"The same tea as Lord Blackwood drinks?"

"That is correct. And, Roderick, make it strong. Miss Bigsby has the appearance of a young lady who enjoys a strong cup of tea."

Madeline flushed, mortified that the servant had escorted her to the baroness to explain he had found her in the hall by her bedchamber. Ever since that announcement, Madeline had been waiting for a rain of questions, but Lady Blackwood had simply ordered tea. Lifting her shaking hands, Madeline wrung them together until she noticed the baroness flicker her eyes down to the agitated movement. Not wanting to draw attention to her overstuffed reticule, Madeline laid her hands on her lap and commanded them to remain still.

"My mother always said a cup of tea could grease any social interactions. It makes all parties feel at home." Isla Scott's tone was as modulated as her expression, giving nothing of her thoughts away as it clawed through Madeline's belly and set her heart hammering. She had not thought her pulse could race any faster than it had been when she had had the temerity to invade the baroness's chambers, but there was a hitherto unknown speed it could accelerate to. Madeline could barely contain the flight of panic, but did through sheer force of will. The noblewoman sitting before her might be a cold-blooded killer, and Madeline must maintain her composure until she could speak with Simon. She suspected she would unravel when that moment arrived, babbling out what she had done and what she had discovered as a consequence. How angry would Simon be when she revealed her sneaking about to find the letters for him?

"Tea is a most hospitable offering," mumbled Madeline, her thoughts scattered into the wind as she attempted to pull herself back together.

"What were you doing on the third floor?"

"I was looking for Molly. I realize it was most improper to enter your home, but I was worried about her. She was to meet me this morning. When no one answered my knock at the front door, I … thought … I … um … would try to find her."

The baroness narrowed her eyes just a fraction. They were a deep and fascinating blue in the afternoon light. Madeline could not make out the black of her pupils, which were mere pinpoints to disrupt the expanse of vivid color. Perhaps Isla Scott was sensitive to the bright light?

"You are friends with Miss Carter?"

"We chat after breakfast."

"I see."

The conversation came to a halt, and Madeline waited in frustration until she realized that Lady Blackwood was awaiting the tea. Perhaps she needed it to grease their interaction. Madeline waited in silence, drowning in a swirl of emotions, while she commanded her eyes to remain fixed on the room.

Do not draw attention to the reticule!

The silence drew on for several minutes, the only sound the ticking of a clock on the mantel and the sound of Madeline's heart thumping loud enough to wake the dead.

"I wanted …" Madeline attempted to recollect what she had been about to say. "Thank you for a lovely dinner. You run a gracious household, Lady Blackwood."

The baroness stared back at her without comment, ratcheting Madeline's nerves until she was dizzy with distress.

"Do you … have plans for this evening?"

Lady Blackwood continued to regard her without speaking. Madeline was enthralled by the incandescent blueness of her gaze, feeling the tug of hidden riptides pulling her beneath the surface of the endless ocean reflected in their depths. With a surge of relief, Madeline heard the door open, and Roderick entered with a tea tray.

Soon the tray was settled on the table between them, and the baroness had poured two cups, offering one to Madeline. The baroness held the saucer and cup on her lap but did not take a drink.

"Try it, Miss Bigsby. It is an exceptional blend from the shores of Ceylon."

Madeline looked down into her cup, trying to think what to say. "I thought they grew coffee in Ceylon?"

"They do, but I discovered these delightful tea leaves from the region. I blend it with premium Indian leaves. Please try it and tell me what you think?" The baroness bobbed her head in encouragement, her expression remaining stoic.

Madeline tentatively took a sip. It had a pleasant flavor with a rich aroma. The fragrance of exotic lands along with just a hint of … She frowned, trying to place it—garlic?

"It is delightful."

Lady Blackwood bestowed her with a hint of a smile. "The taste matures. Drink it up and you will see."

Madeline politely sipped more, putting the cup back on the saucer when the cup was half empty. Her heart rate had picked up again after having calmed to a more sedate pace, and she was too warm. Perhaps the day was too hot for such a hot beverage.

The baroness leaned forward to peer into Madeline's cup, settling back with a satisfied air. Perhaps Simon's mother took inordinate pride in her tea blend?

"Miss Bigsby, you must forgive my impudence, but are you hoping to make a match with my son?"

Madeline's throat closed up in frantic reaction. She did not know how to respond, her heart pounding so loud she could not hear her own thoughts. "I … My mother has hired a matchmaker to seek a suitable gentleman."

"Someone appropriate to run your little stone business?"

Madeline picked up her tea to drink some more, attempting to calm the anxiety racing through her body. Her breath was coming in alarming pants. She was accustomed to dealing with difficult conversations but, for some reason, she was struggling to maintain her calm as her body reacted with alarming oversensitivity.

Finish this conversation and leave!

She could feel a flush stealing across the surface of her face, and Madeline tried to think what the shortest path to departing would be.

"I … Yes." Madeline could no longer disguise her panic as she wheezed to draw air. Her throat was closing up and spots were appearing before her eyes. Desperate to maintain the appearance of calm, she grabbed the cup to drink again, hoping the hot liquid might provide solace to her raging anxiety.

"I do not think so. I think you have plotted to raise your station in this world by attempting to trap my boy into a wedding. Is that not why you were sneaking through the house? You wish to force his hand, perhaps, by causing a scandal so you might join the nobility?"

Madeline frowned, dropping the cup with a clatter onto the floor as she gripped her stomach. Searing pain had her doubling over. The baroness ignored all of it, continuing to speak as if nothing were out of place.

"My son was meant for greater things. He has a destiny to fulfill, and I shall not permit you to interfere. I thought I had rid us of you once, but here you are again, like a pernicious weed determined to ruin his life. It took considerable persuasion, but my husband finally heeded my warnings to keep Simon from meeting you. That night … it was as if destiny itself intervened, pushing Nicholas from the window and driving the two of you apart. A dreadful time, having my youngest son so near death, but I admit to a certain euphoria that Simon eventually came to understand his duty. He shall be the first of my line to ascend to an English title."

Madeline could not follow the rambling threads, crumpling onto the floor as she struggled to focus on the room. Black shadows were filling her vision as she gasped for air, and with growing horror, she realized it was not her emotions causing such high-strung reactions—she had been poisoned!

Isla Scott rose to her feet and crossed the room, gazing down at Madeline from her imposing height. She stood, poised like a murderous china doll, her contempt radiating in waves of malice. "This will end soon, Miss Bigsby. You ought to have known your place. You are but a lowly trade rat, while Simon … Simon is a god, descended from a noble Scottish clan. He shall be the greatest Baron of Blackwood ever to grace this earth. It is his destiny. And yours … is to be cast out with the refuse."

With that, the baroness stepped over Madeline's writhing body and left the room, closing the door behind her. Madeline could feel a darkness reaching up to pull her into the abyss, pain racking through her abdomen as she tried to claw her way to the door for help. Her reticule was a cannonball roped around her wrist, but she was determined that the letters be found. She had loved Simon for so long, and she refused to allow death to claim her when they were so close to uniting. He was her Eros. They were destined to live for an eternity in their celestial garden, united by mutual love and respect. It could not end this way.

The door might as well have been seven miles away, each inch of progress a battle of will against her perishing body as she heaved and moaned. Then the door began to swing open, and fate itself intervened with a miracle as Simon appeared.

"Dy … ing," she panted, clutching her stomach to quell the pain.