Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

" Upon opening the box, Psyche fell into a deathlike sleep, for inside was not beauty, but a sleep that belonged to the underworld. "

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

S imon had thought this day could not get any worse, but opening the door of the family drawing room in search of his mother had revealed a nightmare beyond the tolerance of any man. His love crumpled on the floor.

"Dy … ing," Madeline moaned, curling into a ball.

It was as if time slowed down. Running forward, he dropped to his knees beside her to assess what the hell was wrong with her. Scooping her up, he brushed the hair from her face and noted her skin was red and swollen. There was an odor of orange blossoms, tea, and … He choked in shock. Garlic!

Recalling the symptoms Lady Trafford had called out earlier when attending to his brother, Simon realized Madeline had remained in his home after he left her in the study. Someone must have persuaded her to drink the tea on the table as an opportunity to trick her into consuming arsenic. There was only one person whom it could be, because he had just left Nicholas in his bedchamber. He wished he knew why, but this was not the time to contemplate such things. Madeline needed his help.

"Madeline, it will be fine." Holding her in a tight embrace, he hauled to his feet, fear humming through his veins to weaken his grip on sanity at the very thought of a world without his Psyche. "I am taking you to a doctor. Just breathe, my love. Just breathe."

Simon prayed the Traffords were still here. Last he had seen of their visitors, they had requested their carriages be brought to the front after their guards had arrived to protect John. Hitching Madeline high, while she whimpered in pain, Simon hastened toward the front hall.

With a light-headed relief, he saw Lady and Lord Trafford exiting the front door and shouted out to stay them. The couple spun around at the yelling, Lady Trafford's eyes riveting to the figure in his arms as she raced forward without hesitation.

"Who is this?" she asked, examining Madeline in his arms.

"My heart," was the response Simon could croak out in anguish. "Is it arsenic?"

Lady Trafford tilted her head as she peered down at the moaning slip squirming in his arms. "Current circumstances would suggest it, but a much higher quantity." Lady Trafford turned to her husband, who was hovering a few feet away with an expression of alarm. "Julius, do we still have some of the magnesia mixture left?"

Trafford nodded. "Unless the kitchen staff have thrown it out. We made much more than we used, but it will need to be reheated."

Lady Trafford turned her silver gaze back to Simon. "I suggest we go to the kitchens. Your … heart … needs more urgent care than your brother did, so we should see to her right there."

Simon nodded, spinning on his heel to head toward the servants' staircase. "Madeline is strong. One of the strongest people I know. She will be well. She … must be well."

Despite his assertion, Simon's soul was in turmoil. This was his fault—he should have informed Madeline of what had happened with John. She had not known about the poison, or she would not have drunk the tea he had seen laid out on the table. Tea, which pointed to the culprit more than any other clue to date. She had not possessed the facts to protect herself.

Damn it, why did I not take the time to tell her what was happening?

If she died … God forbid, he could not even think about such an outcome. She had to live, or he would follow her to the afterlife in his despair.

Madeline protested when Simon placed her down on a hard surface, reluctant to be parted as she fought against the gathering shadows. She reached to cling to him, not willing to let him go.

The soft press of lips brushed over her forehead. "Lady Trafford is going to make you better, Madeline."

"Who …"

"She is a physician who helped John this morning."

He released her, and a figure stepped forward to help Madeline into a seated position as a cup was brought to her mouth. "Drink, Miss Bigsby. I know you are struggling to breathe, but you must drink."

Madeline was confused at the presence of an unknown woman instructing her, gulping down the tepid mixture and spewing much of it when she attempted to draw air in her lungs. Half the contents must be pooled on the floor, not to mention her bodice was soaked through, but before she could fall back to the table, she was presented with a second cup.

"Again, Miss Bigsby."

After the second cup, the gagging began, and a bucket was thrust beneath her chin as she began to cast up her accounts, which was an odd combination of shame, agony, and sweet, sweet relief.

Simon and Lord Trafford stood aside, averting their eyes as Madeline suffered the indignity of vomiting. He had ushered the servants out of the kitchen to allow her some modesty but, truthfully, it had given him something to do as he stood about helpless.

"This is the young lady you were with the night of the coronation?"

He swallowed hard, but considering the circumstances, he must pray for Trafford's discretion. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Yes."

"Who is she?"

"The daughter of our next-door neighbor. It was an innocent encounter—that night. Miss Bigsby and I did not … engage in anything untoward. We merely conversed."

Trafford mused over this, taking many seconds to respond. "You … love her?"

Simon's throat thickened. "More than myself. Miss Bigsby is more than I deserve."

Trafford made a snorting sound in commiseration. "As is Lady Trafford, old chap. She has tolerated much botheration from me."

Hearing this somehow helped, and the two men glanced at each other. Simon realized that they had reached a truce, Trafford evidently making a judgment to reconsider his assumption of guilt.

The gentleman cleared his throat. "So … who might have … done this?" He waved a hand toward the table where Lady Trafford was assisting Madeline, the sound of retching making Simon's stomach clench in sympathy. She should not be suffering such torture.

Simon stroked his beard. There was nothing that either he or Trafford could do, so this was as good a time as any to unpack the contents of his mind. "My … mother."

"Lady Blackwood? What reason would she have?"

It was an excellent question, and one he had to contemplate with great attention. His mother had always seemed something of an empty vessel. She never displayed much emotion, and her statements were usually repetitions of his father's thoughts about the topic at hand. There was only one character trait he knew for certain … "Vanity."

Trafford cocked his head. "I do not understand?—"

"I know not the details, but I can assure you that whatever her motive is, it can be summed up in one word as some form of vanity."

"Well, perhaps … I should have my footmen come in to help the ladies while you and I go have a little word with Lady Blackwood?"

Considering how far his mother had taken things, she had to be considered a danger. The time had arrived to confront her before she could wreak more havoc.

"If Lady Trafford believes Miss Bigsby will be all right without us?"

The viscountess was helping Madeline to drink down a fresh cup of the magnesia mixture when they approached the table. She listened to their plan.

"Miss Bigsby has informed me that she received the arsenic minutes before Mr. Scott discovered her, which means we began treatment in good time. Our men can assist me so you can put an end to the danger." Lady Trafford pressed her lips together, frowning as if weighing the gravity of the situation. "A lunatic did this, and their freedoms must be curtailed before another person is harmed. Instruct the kitchen staff to discard all food and drink in the house. It is better to err on the side of caution."

Simon placed a hand on Madeline's shoulder. "Would it be all right if I left you? I promise to return soon."

Madeline's face was pale when she glanced up, her amber eyes red-rimmed and her skin blotchy but less swollen than he had initially found her. She raised a hand to brush it over his, nodding in agreement. "Put … an … end … to this."

He released her to step back, but she shot out a hand to stop him. "My reti … cule."

Simon looked down to find a fat, embroidered reticule dangling from her wrist. He gently unlooped it to set it aside.

"Nay … open it."

Simon tugged it open to find a number of letters jammed inside the bulging fabric. He pulled them out, raising his head in question. Madeline was drinking, but she bobbed her head toward the letters. He looked down, not understanding until he caught sight of the return address inked on the outer fold.

"Bianca Scott? Peter's wife?"

Madeline paused her drinking. "Found … them … mother's … desk."

Simon raked a hand through his hair, staring down at the damning letters. "She did it! She killed Lord Filminster!"

Trafford reached out to grab the stack, leafing through with dexterity. "There are letters from your brother Peter here. You have not seen these before?"

Simon shook his head. "Certainly not."

"I believe we know why no one knew about your nephews. She must have hidden any correspondence that mentioned them. We need to confront your mother, and then find the servant who has been assisting her. There is more than one killer in this house."

"Sodding hell!" He clapped a hand over his mouth, mortified to curse in front of the ladies, but he had forgotten all about the attack on Trafford. Dealing with his mother was indeed an urgent matter. She would have needed a servant to help her intercept incoming mail, which proved there was a manservant involved.

Madeline finished her cup of magnesia, pulling her bucket close to her torso as she began to heave. "Rod … rick … made … tea."

"Roderick!" Simon's mind flashed to various incidents over the years as he pieced together the past. "He has always been rather solicitous to my mother. Perhaps he is infatuated?"

"Perhaps they are engaged in an affair."

Trafford's remark was tossed out in an off-hand tone, but the sentiment had all eyes in the room rivet to him in dismay. He shrugged. "It is not unheard of for a noblewoman to take up with one of the servants. If Roderick is a footman —" Trafford paused to throw Simon a questioning glance. He nodded in acknowledgment. "—they are hired for their height and handsome appearance. Not just noblewomen are drawn to them, but gentlem—" Trafford stopped abruptly, his eyes darting over to his wife and the heaving Madeline who, despite the fact that she had resumed retching into the bucket, was peering at him with wide eyes. "Never mind," he mumbled, evidently remembering at the last second that the ladies present might not be aware of the sort of thing he had been about to mention.

Simon suppressed a shudder. Now that Trafford mentioned it, it was conceivable that his mother and Roderick might be engaged in carnal relations. There were numerous opportunities in a household such as theirs, and the day's revelations had proved he did not understand the inner workings of Isla Scott's mind.

Trafford thankfully interrupted his musings, which were repulsive to consider. "Scott, you summon my men from the mews for me, and I shall stand guard until they arrive."

Simon nodded, striding to the kitchen exit that would take him up a short flight of stairs to the garden. Despite the unexpected camaraderie they were forming, he understood that Trafford did not yet trust him sufficiently to leave him alone with the women. Given the miasma of death permeating his home, Simon could not blame the viscount for his prudence.

The kitchen staff were milling in the garden as he crossed, at a loss about what they were meant to do since they had been chased from their posts, as they chattered in nervous groups. Beckoning them over, Simon informed them that Madeline and the baron had consumed tainted food. He wished he could inform them of the truth, but it was best they remain ignorant until his mother and her manservant had been confronted and … arrested … he supposed?

Deuce it! This will prove to be the biggest scandal of the century!

Simon issued orders to the housekeeper to immediately empty the kitchen and wine cellar of all food and liquids. Lady Trafford wanted all the floors to be cleared. Even their liquor in the study and first-floor rooms would need to be destroyed, but he did not wish to send anyone beyond the servants' level, which would be secure with Trafford's men to stand guard.

"Even the tea and coffee, Mr. Scott?" The matron was aghast at such extravagant wastefulness.

"Especially the tea and coffee. All of it is to be discarded. I shall provide you with additional funds to replace what we throw out. We cannot risk anyone's health."

It was true. There was no telling what Roderick and his mother might have done with the arsenic. Lady Trafford had impressed upon him that the poison was tasteless and odorless. It sometimes emitted a mild garlic odor when heated, such as in the tea Madeline had drunk, but this could not be relied upon as an indication of its presence.

Cook was thoroughly discomposed, fretting over how to prepare dinner and feed the staff. Sensing her distress and forcing down his own impatience, Simon drew out a purse and instructed her to arrange for pies to be brought in, sparing her the need to prepare anything for the evening. He suggested she send her most trusted maids to the grocer for fresh breakfast supplies. The kitchen staff bustled back inside, caught in a disordered flurry to carry out their tasks. Simon considered cautioning them against gossip, but in the current state of things, it would only serve to fan the flames.

Simon hurried back with Trafford's footman and coachman who took up stations close by Lady Trafford and Madeline. Yet, he found himself hesitant to leave Madeline's side. His inaction had nearly resulted in her losing her life, and now he was to abandon her again?

She was laid out on the kitchen table, panting from her exertions, and Simon was tortured by her suffering. It should be him, not her, but his mother must be prevented from causing any further injury. "Lady Trafford, you will send for me if you need me. Madeline is my first priority."

The noblewoman looked up, her expression reflecting sympathy for his anguish. "Do not worry, Mr. Scott. We have this well in hand."

Simon walked over to lean down and press a kiss to Madeline's clammy forehead. "I will return soon."

Amber eyes found his, and she blinked hard in acknowledgment, too weak to speak. He and Trafford departed, running up the servants' staircase two steps at a time, with Simon leading the way to his mother's rooms. Surely she must have returned there after leaving Madeline to expire on the floor? He hoped he had the strength not to choke her for what she had done to his fair Psyche, or his older brother on the second floor. The sheer malevolence was incomprehensible to him.

Bursting into his mother's private drawing room without so much as a knock, they found no one there, but Simon noted that the desk Madeline had mentioned was pulled out from the wall and all four drawers were opened in a disarray. It was out of character for his mother to tolerate untidiness, but perhaps she had been angered to find her stolen letters missing. He briefly wondered where Miss Dubois, his mother's French maid, was when he was distracted by a stack of leather-bound notebooks—journals, perhaps—laid out on the chaise lounge.

Hurrying over, he lifted one up to confirm they were filled with his mother's scrawling lettering. He dropped it down, turning to notice the bedroom door was ajar. Striding over, with Trafford shadowing him, they entered to discover Isla Scott sitting against a bank of pillows on her bed. The drapes were drawn despite the early hour. His mother's eyes fluttered open to reveal a deep blue, her pupils almost invisible despite the dim light within the room.

"Simon?"

Her voice was weak and her breathing shallow. He approached with a feeling of dread, noting the empty bottles of laudanum next to the bed with the caps strewn on the floor and her hair which had been loosened to frame her face in a becoming manner. Simon stroked his beard in agitation as he considered the presented nature of the scene.

"Mother?"

"She broke into my desk … the little tart."

Trafford came to stand beside him, flickering his eyes from the bottles and back to Simon with a raised brown eyebrow.

"We have … both … paid the price …"

Simon's suspicions were correct. His mother had taken an overdose, believing Madeline was lying dead two floors below. He stepped forward, thinking to lift her and race her down to the kitchen for help, but Trafford put out a hand to stay him.

Leaning in, his companion lowered his voice. "She will be arrested. Face public trial and be hanged at the Tower. Perhaps this is … humane? A painless departure?"

Simon swallowed hard, tears springing into his eyes as he considered the devastation his mother had created in so many lives, while facing the fact that his only remaining parent was expiring in front of him.

She had attempted to kill Madeline. He wished he understood why.

"My journals are … my confession … to clear your name."

Simon approached the bed, still trying to decide what was the right thing to do. "Why, Mother?"

"You will be baron … the greatest Campbell … Papa would … be so proud."

Simon frowned, attempting to unravel the words. "You mean my father?"

His mother's face creased into a euphoric smile. "Lord Campbell … My papa … I disappointed him so … but … not anymore. My son … will be Baron … of Blackwood."

"Mother, there are other heirs."

Her eyes drifted closed. "I … have … taken care of …" With that, his mother slipped into unconsciousness. Rushing forward, Simon attempted to rouse her, but to no avail. Lifting her up in his arms to discover she weighed barely anything at all, he strode toward the door to take her to the kitchen so that Lady Trafford might … He did not know. His mother was hardly breathing, a curtain of rich brown hair cascading over his arm, and he knew she might quit long before he reached that destination. Trafford might be right about allowing her to pass, but his integrity required he at least attempt to wake her.

They descended three flights of stairs, but by the time they reached the servants' level, Simon knew it was too late. Isla Scott was no more, and he thought she might be pleased if she had known she had never looked more beautiful than she did in mortal repose.

Halting, Trafford understood without him stating it. The lord removed his glove to feel for a pulse, glancing up at Simon with a shake of his head. It was at that moment that Simon noticed the odd detail that his companion's moss-green eyes were marred by large brown spots, musing that it was strange how tragedy such as this could focus one's attention on insignificant minutia.

"I should … take her back upstairs?"

"Agreed. There is no reason to upset the ladies with a corpse while your Miss Bigsby is so ill."

"What did she mean … do you think? At the end? Did she imply she had taken steps to get rid of the heir from Italy?"

"I could not tell if she knew what she was saying, but we do have Roderick to find."

Simon groaned. This day was turning out to be far worse than he had ever experienced.

"I suppose it is a mercy she is gone."

Trafford licked his lips. "I know it sounds cruel, old chap, but I believe it is for the best. The duke and his family can rest assured that justice has been done, and your household can avoid much of the upheaval this would have caused so that your brother can recover his health in peace. Lady Blackwood's final act is a kindness to all concerned."

Simon turned around and began to climb the steps back to his mother's rooms. "How bad will it be?"

"I think the duke can convince the authorities to settle Lord Filminster's death without an inquest. Rumors may fly, but I see no cause to involve the public in something that is settled. Home Office might be amenable to allowing the matter to fade away. Perhaps we can have this declared … an accidental overdose?"

It would indeed be a boon to the Scotts if the duke would assist them to quiet the scandal sure to be unleashed. They continued their climb in silence, ascending much slower than their hasty descent as a sign of respect to the dead. He was not sure if his mother deserved it, but he was grateful that nothing more was said until they reached her drawing room to lay her out on the chaise lounge after Trafford had removed the journals. Simon took the time to pose her as she had been in the bedchamber, guessing she had taken pains to look her best for when her body was discovered.

Stepping back, he studied her for several moments with a numb sort of sadness before collecting a blanket from her room to cover her up. He would need to make arrangements, but first —first they must find the footman who had assisted her in her deadly mission to secure the title on Simon's behalf.

It made him ill to think about it. They had not known each other very well. Isla Scott had risked everything, murdered a man, tried to murder his brother and Madeline, to ensure Simon inherited, while he had long wished for another life without duty to a title and entailments to take care of. He would choose Madeline over inheritance under any circumstances, and it was his dearest hope that she would be all right, his fears for her health persisting despite Lady Trafford's assurances. She had consumed a considerable quantity of arsenic.

"So where would a crazed, infatuated footman hide after he has poisoned an innocent woman?"

Trafford pointed. "Well … should that window be open?"