Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

" Venus sought to test not only Psyche but her own son, forcing them both to endure the consequences of disobedience. "

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

I sla's drawing room was on the corner of the house, with a bank of windows facing the garden where the servants had gathered earlier and two more windows on the side of the house. The same direction as Simon's bedchamber faced, which meant there was a trellis of creeping ivy. Considering the coolness of the day, and the stiff draught blowing in, there was no logical reason for the window to have been opened. He believed it had been open when they had first entered in search of his mother, but he had not paid it any mind at the time.

Simon crossed over, leaning through to look about. It took a moment, but when he swung his head to the right, he found Roderick clinging to the trellis like a man caught in a terrible storm. The footman was trembling something fierce, and his face was as white as a sheet against his brown hair.

Peering down, Simon surmised his mother had ordered the footman to climb down to John's bedroom below to end his life. So she must have known about John's collapse in the study, but had not come to discover his condition, which was rather telling that she had been expecting it. He was still having trouble reconciling that his mother had been trying to kill his older brother to force a path to Simon inheriting the title. Was she disregarding the heir and spare who would be arriving from Italy?

Considering she had proved herself to be a madwoman, perhaps in her macabre fantasy of grand legacy, she had elected to forget their existence.

Staring into the chasm of lunacy, Simon was disturbed by the knowledge his own mother had been conspiring death and mayhem these past two years. And intercepting mail between his father and Peter for almost as long as she had been married, to prevent reconciliation.

Fortunately for John and Molly in the rooms below, Isla must have been unaware that Roderick was deathly afraid of heights.

"Do you need assistance to come back inside?" It was not the time to interrogate the petrified manservant, despite the horrifying revelations of the past couple of hours.

Roderick shook his head with vehemence, his grip so tight around the bars of the trellis that his knuckles shone white even through the pallor of his skin.

Simon cocked his head, struggling to decide his next move. They were at a stalemate, Roderick frozen just a few feet away, their gazes locked in an uncomfortable challenge.

The footman finally spoke in a tremulous voice. "Where's Isla?"

Trafford chose that moment to lean out beside Simon, jostling him in his impatience to see what was going on. "You seem the right height and size. Are you the one who stabbed me outside my home?"

Roderick grimaced without responding. Trafford took it as an assent.

"What about Miss Bigsby? Did you poison her tea earlier?"

Still no response.

"What of Lord Blackwood? Have you been administering poison to the baron?"

Trafford paused, but no reply was forthcoming.

"Did you, perchance, help Lady Blackwood to kill Lord Filminster?"

Shutting his eyes tight, Roderick's mouth moved as if he were praying.

"Damnation, you scoundrel! Give me an answer! What about hastening Mr. Scott's father to an early grave?"

Roderick's eyes flew open in shock as he exclaimed loudly, "That was an accident!"

Simon's stomach dropped, his breath catching as he whipped around to stare at Trafford, aghast. The lord simply shrugged, his expression nonplussed. "I was only guessing, old chap. With the creeping shroud of death haunting this house … I thought I'd toss it out there. I fully expected him to deny it, I swear."

When Simon turned back, Roderick had crumpled again into a shivering terror. "Where … where is Isla?"

Trafford snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. "Lady Blackwood is dining with the devil in the depths of hell, answering for her sins. If you hurry, you might just catch her there."

Simon sputtered, turning to meet Trafford's strange green-brown eyes again.

His companion shrugged once more without a hint of remorse. "What? It is this or a public hanging for the murders of not one but two barons. And three more counts of attempted murder. Not so, Roderick?"

The footman declined to address the question, instead concentrating on the one thing he seemed to care about.

"Isla is dead?"

"She is."

Roderick swallowed hard, turning his head to gaze down at the ground three stories below. He scrambled up the trellis, and Simon, realizing his intention, made to climb out onto the window ledge to grab him.

Trafford clasped hold of him in a tight embrace. "You will not risk your life for a cold-blooded killer, Simon Scott! Ye gods, if he fights you off, you could fall with him, and for what he has done, the sentence is death. If not today, then soon."

"Dammit, Trafford!"

They struggled against the frame until an unearthly howl caused both of them to pause in their scuffle and spin back to watch as Roderick, having climbed up to the attic level, had released his hold to plummet to the ground. A loud thud from below introduced a deep silence. Both men gazed down at the broken body lying at the foot of the house for long minutes until Simon roused himself.

"Is it over?"

Trafford raked a hand through the mass of wheat curls at the crown of his head, blowing out a shaky puff. "I believe it is. Is it not horrifying to witness a man, a valued retainer of many years, trip and fall out of a third-story window before your very eyes? Discovering the baroness's dead body must have addled his brain with grief to make him so clumsy."

Simon frowned, his thoughts as thick as a heavy downpour as he tried to follow what Trafford had said. "What?"

"Your footman. It was a tragic accident that he stumbled and fell when he discovered Lady Blackwood had expired from an opium overdose."

Thinking he might have imagined the past few minutes, Simon stepped away from the window to fall against the wall, sliding down until his buttocks hit the floor.

"Is that what happened?"

Trafford joined him, sprawling his legs out. "I know Lord Filminster and his bride would enjoy some peace after all they have been through these past weeks. A lengthy inquest which links these deaths to that of his father would be quite a public spectacle to entertain the masses for the months to come. I suggest you take those journals"—Trafford indicated the notebooks that his mother had referred to—"to your study so you might learn what all of this was about, and we summon the coroner to report the dreadful mistake in medication and the terrible accident it instigated."

"Will that work?"

"With the duke's support, it should. Home Office has proven themselves indiscreet, so I would leave it to Halmesbury to explain these tragic accidents away. It will allow your family to heal in private, and Lord Blackwood will need peace to recover his health."

Simon contemplated months of scandal and found that the alternative was far more appealing. The villains had been uncovered and were now dead. There was no specific reason to endure further suffering. "Thank you."

Trafford chuckled, shaking his head in dismay. "I cannot believe this muddle has been laid to rest. Will you inform me of the details? Once you have read the journals?"

Simon nodded. "If the others wish to return, I can brief all of you on the contents in a few days. It is reasonable that you are informed of the details. I … appreciate your willingness to be discreet. With John's health and the potential scandal for Madeline … Thank you."

"Not at all, Lord Campbell."

He blinked. "What did you call me?"

Trafford quirked an eyebrow as he turned his head in query. "Are you not the heir to your mother's titles? Viscount of Campbell, Baron of Lochinver? I confess I do not recall the rest, but it is another reason to not reveal Lady Blackwood's nefarious activities. They might get in the way, and you have people who need you up north."

Simon groaned, dropping his face into his hands as the truth struck him like a clap of thunder. "Stuff!"

His companion burst into gales of laughter, doubling up with tearful mirth. "You and me both, Campbell. Welcome to the peerage."

Madeline was lying in a huddle on the kitchen table, her throat raw from casting up her accounts more times than she could count. There was nothing left to hurl from her digestive system. Not one drop of tea, nor any of her breakfast. Certainly not dinner from the night before.

She lay shivering while Lady Trafford had the servants clean away the last vestiges of illness. All except her soaked gown. She vaguely considered bathing, but she had not the strength for such an endeavor. Falling asleep was inevitable in her weakened state, but she was afraid that she might not awaken, so she kept rousing herself.

Her lids were as heavy as chain mail, but Madeline was resolute in keeping them open a slit to ensure she was still in the land of the living. What if she closed them to never awaken?

She forced them open to find a pair of polished riding boots had come to a stop beside the table she was laid out on.

"Do you wish to go home? To your bed?" Despite her drowsy state, Madeline's heart pounded with joy at Simon's presence.

"If you … stay … with me," she mumbled, her tongue thick in her mouth.

"I shall never allow us to part again, fair Psyche." He gathered her up in his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he lifted her up.

"I … must be … a fright."

"You are always beautiful to me."

"What … about … Lady Trafford?"

"She is following us to settle you in. I have sent word to Mrs. Bigsby to come home."

Madeline's lids drifted closed, despite her resolve. If she were to never wake up, then her last seconds were the happiest she had ever been within Simon's powerful embrace.

Madeline scarcely stirred while her lady's maid undressed and washed her in her bed. At least, that is what Lady Trafford informed Simon of when she reopened the door to the bedchamber.

"Will she recover?"

"It is difficult to say given the quantity of arsenic she consumed, but I believe so."

"Will her health suffer as a result?"

"Miss Bigsby is young and healthy." Lady Trafford failed to elaborate past that, and Mrs. Bigsby chose that moment to appear in the doorway.

"What happened?"

Simon held up a hand, shooing the lady's maid from the room and shutting the door behind her. "We have informed the servants that your daughter ate tainted food. Madeline has been too ill to inform us precisely what transpired, but she drank tea with the baroness who dosed it with arsenic. Lady Trafford is a trained healer who helped relieve her of the contents of her stomach. Now she is resting."

Mrs. Bigsby firmed her jaw, walking over to the bed to examine Madeline herself for several seconds, leaning over to brush the hair back from her face before straightening with a mixture of grief and anger upon her features. "I have questions, but let me begin with, where is Lady Blackwood now?"

Simon swallowed. "She has suffered an overdose of laudanum. The coroner has been summoned to examine the body."

"Good."

The simple acknowledgment made Simon wince, and he supposed his mother's decision to depart this world had been circumspect. Mrs. Bigsby had the appearance of a vengeful angel, and he could picture her tearing the much smaller Isla apart limb by limb with her large hands if she had had the opportunity to do so.

Over the next half an hour, Simon and Mrs. Bigsby discussed what had happened, Simon revealing the details that he knew until the moment arrived for him to express his tremendous regret.

"I beg your forgiveness, Mrs. Bigsby."

"What for?"

"This … for what my mother did."

Madeline's mother rose from her seat, walking over to the window to gaze out over the garden as if she were lost in thought. Simon waited for her reply, the drumming of his fingertips belying any attempt at composure.

"You are not your father—the one who tried to ruin my business. You took steps to rectify that when you gained control of the purse strings." It was true. When his father's declining health had forced him to hand over the financial reins, Simon had discreetly placed several large orders with Bigsby's for the Blackwood estates. It was his way of making amends for any harm his father had caused, which John had concurred was the right thing to do.

"It was the least I could do after he campaigned against your business," Simon replied quietly.

Mrs. Bigsby nodded. "The gesture was unnecessary, but it was appreciated. And you are not your mother, who … did this." Her eyes drifted to her pale daughter, lying still on the bed. She shook her head, as though to banish the dark thoughts. Then, turning her gaze back to Simon, she continued, "You are you. I hold you accountable for your own actions. The sins of your parents belong to them alone."

"That is generous."

"It is how I would wish to be treated. We all have our own mistakes to answer for, so I cannot hold you responsible for the actions of others; otherwise, we would never find peace. Thank you for acting so swiftly to ensure Madeline received help. Lady Trafford tells me that the timing was crucial."

"I was fortunate to catch her when she was leaving."

"And what would you have done if she had already left?"

Simon paused, considering the events of the day, grateful to Mrs. Bigsby for her generosity despite his cloying sense of shame. "I would have repeated what was done with John. Assisted her to evacuate her stomach while sendingsomeone to summon theviscountess back."

"So it was not luck. Lady Trafford's presence is a comfort, but I believeyou would have done the same after witnessing what happened with your brother earlier in the day. What has happened to Madeline, and to your brother, is unspeakably evil, but you took decisive action when you were needed. For this, I thank you."

Simon exhaled deeply, profoundly relieved that Eleanor Bigsby had always been a just person who had treated him without prejudice as a boy, despite his father's blackguard behavior during his childhood.

"However—"

Simon straightened up in alarm.

"—expect Henrietta to be rather more excitable than I. I believe she will arrive home soon."

The perceptive mother was proven right. Henri arrived within minutes of her announcement, bursting into the bedchamber with a shriek. "What is this?"

Mrs. Bigsby quickly drew Henri out of the room to inform her of the day's events out in the hall. Simon could hear the emotional replies from Henri, interspersed with Mrs. Bigsby's low murmurs, for several minutes until Henri grew quieter. When they reentered, Henri scowled at him with an accusatory glare and took up the seat next to Madeline's bed. She stared down at her twin in anguish, brushing Madeline's hair aside as if to confirm with her own fingertips that she yet lived.

Simon watched in silence, the guilt that had dissipated during his conversation with Mrs. Bigsby returning to claw at his gut.

Henri exhaled sharply. "Will she be well?"

"It would seem so," Mrs. Bigsby responded from the window. "Lady Trafford thinks Madeline is in good health and will make a full recovery."

"Lady Trafford? The doctor's daughter who married the Earl of Stirling's heir?"

Mrs. Bigsby nodded. "She apprenticed at her father's side. It was she who treated Madeline when she collapsed."

Henri rubbed her face. "There are rumors she treated Lord Trafford, too. After some sort of attack that he suffered. Then he married her to abate the scandal."

Simon raised his brows, but remained silent. He had seen how Trafford admired his wife, and he did not believe that deterring her ruin was the sole reason the buck had wed the intriguing healer who had saved both Simon's brother and Madeline this day.

After a while, Henri left, shooting him another scathing glare as she departed the room with her mother which left Simon to resume his seat at Madeline's bedside and wonder how much Eleanor Bigsby had revealed to Henri out in the corridor.

A couple hours later, Madeline stirred from her fitful sleep. "Thirsty."

Simon held her head up to assist her to drink the broth that had been brought up on a tray, Lady Trafford having left instructions to have her consume as much fluid as possible to replenish what she had lost. Madeline drank down two cups before falling asleep again, Simon noting she was more peaceful than before.

Mrs. Bigsby came to relieve him at dinner time, and he rushed home to complete the arrangements for the bodies and to check on John. The guards were still standing in the hall, but John's rooms were no longer locked and Duncan was assisting Molly when he entered.

After Duncan left to collect broth from the kitchen, John beckoned for Simon to sit beside his bed as he struggled into a sitting position.

"Molly tells me the mystery has been solved."

"My mother."

"Do we know why?"

"To clear the way for me to inherit."

His brother blinked profusely as he considered this. "Was Isla … mad?"

Simon huffed a humorless laugh. "My mother refused to allow an emotion to cross her face. I think it is safe to assume that she was addled in the head. I shall read her journals to learn more, but I suppose we should have known something was amiss."

John shook his head, and Simon was pleased to note his pallor had improved somewhat since his collapse that morning. "It will not help to mull on that. When you interact with someone on a daily basis … it would be difficult to notice a descent into gradual madness over a period of time. Not to mention, Isla being so undemonstrative."

Simon stroked his beard, thinking about the horrors of the day. There was much to discuss with John, but for today, his brother must be allowed to rest. "I am so sorry."

His brother frowned. "For what?"

"For bringing this on our household."

"Do not be ridiculous. You are my brother. Isla's actions are her own. How were you to know she was a potential Bedlamite?"

"I do not know … but I should have."

"While Father was a terrible bigot. He harassed Mrs. Bigsby to an extent which was far beyond the pale. Am I to be blamed for that?"

"I do not think his dreadful behavior had anything to do with you. And Mrs. Bigsby does not seem to hold it against us."

John lifted a hand, palm up. "There it is. In the best of all worlds, you or I would have noticed something was wrong. But she was your mother, and I do not think it a good idea to dissect your conscience over it. Learn from it, but move on. You are a good man, and I regret that I have not shown more appreciation for the work you have done in my stead. I suppose you are a Scottish viscount now?"

Simon raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Can you believe it? I thought my mother would live a hundred years. She could have been mistaken for my sister. It never struck me that I would become Lord Campbell. I never wished for a title, but now I possess four or five. I still have to find our Debrett's to see which ones. The irony is, I have never been to Scotland."

John chuckled, before coughing into a handkerchief. "What will you do?"

"I do not know. I do not wish the titles to define me. I wish to follow my own path, but this has become complicated. Again."

"I can attest that a close brush with death has made me rethink my priorities. Even more so when I discovered my ill health has been part of a vindictive plan. See to the people and responsibilities attached to the titles and, then, perhaps you can find a way forward that allows you some liberties."

"I hope so."

Next, Simon visited Nicholas in his bedchamber, his brother still contending with the physical miseries of casting aside drink, to inform him of what had transpired since they had spoken earlier. His younger brother was morose, having heard the news that their mother was dead.

"I am not sure how to feel about it," Nicholas admitted in a dull voice. "We were not close, and I did not know her well. I think she did not have much time for me as the youngest."

"That might be the case, but I do not think Mother was close to anyone. John and I have just spoken about how we each had a poor sense of who she was. She, in the most literal sense, wore a mask to hide not just her emotions but her thoughts."

"I suppose we are safer without her."

It was a sad truth that they were.

Simon departed soon after to return to Madeline's side, with the infamous journals tucked under his arm. He had promised Madeline they would remain together, and he planned to do just that as long as he could.