Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

" The pain of their separation was felt deeply by both, though neither could bridge the distance between them. "

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

JULY 20, 1821

T heir carriage drew up in front of Lord Boyle's townhouse, and Isla made a sound of displeasure. In the afternoon light, Simon's mother appeared almost supernaturally beauteous in her deep blue pelisse, her eyes strikingly vivid even in the dim interior.

"I know your father would be most pleased at the match you are making, and I am all for the improvement of our connections. If only it did not mean spending time with … them."

Simon was aware that the odd noise, and complaining, were in lieu of frowning. Isla Scott did not frown. It marred the face with lines, and she would not tolerate such indignities.

"They are an influential family which ranks above us."

"I am aware, and the match is most pleasing. The Boyle girl is the same age I was when I wed, and the family is known for producing progeny. She should provide strong, healthy heirs." Isla contemplated this fortune with a contented look, which was hard to read, for she would not smile. Smiling was as ill-advised as frowning, she liked to say. "But … do they have to be so silly?"

Simon smiled despite himself. It was an accurate description, and he had lain awake at night thinking about the future with Olivia. The custom of married couples maintaining separate bedchambers, at least amongst the nobility, was something he appreciated given his circumstances. He would have somewhere to retreat to.

Duncan, their strapping head footman, knocked politely on the carriage door before opening it. He stepped aside so Roderick could attach the steps that would allow disembarkation. This was an important day for the Scotts, and John had insisted on pomp, instructing their senior footmen to accompany Simon and his mother.

The two servants stood on either side of the front door, Duncan lifting the knocker to bring it down with a resounding thud. Soon it opened, and Simon and Isla swept in to find Lord Boyle in a state of agitation in the entry hall.

Thin, tall, and attired in a champagne gold suit embroidered with frolicking cupids, Lord Boyle was quite a sight which caused Simon to grow giddy while he attempted to clear his vision of the monstrosity.

"Terrible, terrible news, I am afraid. I should have sent word to postpone our meeting, dear boy!"

Simon gritted his teeth, tearing his gaze away from the nauseating cupids swimming in front of his eyes. "Lord Boyle, allow me to accompany you to your study while my mother takes a moment to rest."

Lord Boyle shook his head of shaggy gray-blond hair. "Of course, Lady Blackwood. Please, my footman will show you to the drawing room where the ladies are enjoying tea. Such terrible news! I am afraid everyone is most upset."

Simon persevered through the sorrowful lamenting, steering Lord Boyle into his study. He might not have spent much time with Miss Boyle, but he had acquired considerable experience in managing her high-strung father over the past weeks during their negotiations. The truth was … Lord Boyle's finances were not ideal. The nobleman had intended a very good match for his daughter, but when the time had come for her Season, the coffers had been a bit bare. Perhaps because he spent outrageous sums on his ostentatious garments.

Consequently, the lord was forced to allow a match inequitable in his estimation. The Scotts might be a rank lower, but they had proved excellent stewards for their holdings over the past two centuries. The coffers were overflowing, which Lord Boyle was in need of.

Thus, Simon had maintained his course through their numerous excruciating meetings. Finding the man in a state was not a welcome development.

Despite his tenuous finances, Boyle was reticent to commit quill to contract, sending notes off to his solicitor for every minor detail they agreed to before he would discuss the next inane demand. It had taken months to reach their current agreement.

Ushering his prospective father-in-law to take a seat, Simon walked over to the drinks cabinet.

"What would you like?"

"A brandy, dear fellow. I must settle my nerves after such unfortunate news."

Simon dutifully poured a drink into a crystal tumbler and brought it over. Lord Boyle accepted it, taking a sip before holding it to his chest with a worried expression.

Gritting his teeth to stay his torment, Simon took a seat and relaxed into a languid pose. It was time to learn what fresh delay the neurotic gentleman had unearthed.

"What news, Lord Boyle?"

"You have not heard? The entire ton is speaking of it!"

Simon shook his head. "I have been with a steward from one of our estates all morning."

"A peer has been found murdered! Here in London. His skull bashed in by his own statuary in his private study. His inner sanctum! What is the world coming to?" The alarmed tone and general demeanor of the viscount made it clear that there would be no contract signed today. Perhaps he had been a close friend of the deceased?

At best, all Simon could accomplish today was to calm him down in order to set a new appointment.

"That is dreadful. Who is it?"

"The Baron of Filminster. An odd little coxcomb from Somerset whom no one has seen in twenty years."

Not a close acquaintance, then. Simon could swear Lord Boyle made a sport of seeking out issues to be upset over.

A bell rang somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Had he heard about Lord Filminster recently?

"Who would want to kill him? Do you think it is the start of an uprising?"

Simon restrained a roll of his eyes.

Certain members of the privileged class, gentlemen of a certain age, were petrified of a revolution such as the one in France three decades earlier. Lord Boyle and his friends must have been terribly shocked when the French monarch had lost his head at the guillotine. Lack of understanding or skills in leading his own people would explain part of Boyle's financial woes. The lord had long since lost touch with the common man … if he had ever had such contact at all.

Simon had to respond out of politeness, to mollify the viscount so he could arrange a new meeting.

"It sounds to me like an act of passion. Who is the coroner investigating for the crime?"

Lord Boyle leaned forward. In a low voice to announce the melodramatic intrigue, he whispered what he knew. "Word is that his son might have … compelled his inheritance."

Simon considered the revelation with antipathy, as one who could not relate to this notion. His looming inheritance, the Blackwood title, was an anchor around his neck, dragging him into the pits of despair in his nightmares. He would do anything to avoid such an event, so he might follow his own path. Alas, duty was why he was here now—to wed the lord's daughter so he could fulfill his obligations to his family. Certainly not to himself.

"That is not all. Rumor at my clubs is that the heir is not the baron's boy. The mother was betrothed to the baron's older brother, who died before the wedding."

Simon wanted to shake his head in irritation. He did not abide gossip, a character trait he would not expose to the simpering Boyle who loved it. The fact that his own plans were delayed because of some unrelated event that Boyle had already confessed had no bearing on his life, other than to serve as a source of aristocratic melodrama … This entire affair continued to be frustrating.

Worse, despite his lack of momentum, Simon was still required to perform a visit with Olivia and her family before he left. The thought of insipid small talk and dainty biscuits made his head ache.

Lud. He knew where he had heard the name before. Just last night, he had agreed to avoid the baron from Filminster when his brother had complained about his behavior at the banquet.

What a bizarre coincidence.

It took a further half an hour to calm the anxious Boyle, assuring him there was no uprising from the lower classes to prepare for, before they joined the ladies in the drawing room.

Olivia Boyle had the light blonde hair of her father and a fondness for pink bows. One topped her coif now, so large it could have been mistaken for a hat. The sheer size of it dwarfed her head. Miss Boyle was an attractive creature, quite proper by polite society standards … and rather flighty.

"La! Mr. Scott, we did not expect you to visit us!"

Gritting his teeth was becoming a habit.

Miss Boyle was seated next to his mother, who did not stop herself from rolling her eyes in his direction. One of the few facial expressions that she allowed herself because there was no risk of forming wrinkles. The problem with Miss Boyle was, she was proper without judgment. She had assessed that feigning surprise at his visit was the correct gambit, despite Lady Blackwood being seated at her very side, sipping on their fine tea and looking bored, which disproved Miss Boyle's declaration.

But, to be fair, his mother always appeared to be as stoic as a china doll. Simon knew she was bored because of their conversation in the carriage and his ability to read the minuscule shifts of her expression after years of experience. Her habit of adding laudanum to her day assisted with her aversion to lines on her face. A mixture of opium and alcohol, she claimed she needed it for female disorders, but Simon suspected it was more of a beauty treatment. Laudanum helped her to remain composed because emotions were aging.

Simon noted he was focusing on his mother in an effort to avoid the young lady seated at her side. It was difficult to stop himself from comparing Miss Boyle to Madeline, but he must refrain from such disloyal ideas.

He bowed in greeting. "Lady Boyle. Miss Boyle, you are ravishing."

It was true. She was a pretty girl with a slim elfin face, a little button nose, and large blue eyes framed by lush blonde lashes. The perfect foil to his own darker appearance. It was the contents of her head that were … questionable.

"Oh, Mr. Scott! You are so kind."

Simon seated himself on a spindly, rose-pink chair with a gilded frame. The entire room was decorated in pink and gold, causing his ballocks to retreat in protest.

It was his sincere hope that Miss Boyle would not attempt to cultivate her parents' sensibilities in the Scott home—their extravagant tastes were difficult on the eyes. Perhaps his mother could rein her in and teach the young lady about elegance. Simon's eyes fell on the cupids dancing across Lord Boyle's clothing, prompting him to say a silent prayer.

"I was just telling Lady Blackwood that we went shopping a few days ago! I found a pair of kid gloves in the perfect shade of pink! Are they not beautiful?" Miss Boyle held up her hand for Simon to see. He leaned forward to peer at them before smiling in response.

"They are." They were not. A peach-pink color, which suited her, so that was not the issue. It was the well-to-do couple, attired in the style of a century earlier, embroidered in intricate detail, which made him wish he was riding in the park. Anywhere but in this pompous parlor of pageantry. He longed for the rich red walls of his study, with neat white trim and skillful paintings of Italian masters within gracious frames. Visiting the Boyle home brought out his priggish inclinations. He supposed he was something of an art enthusiast—these rooms assailed his senses until he was dizzy from distaste.

"Have you and Papa reached terms?"

He smiled. "Of course."

"So we are betrothed?"

Lord Boyle coughed into his hand, his eyes darting away to stare sightlessly into the center of the room, which contained nothing but a pink and gold rug on the floor.

"I am afraid not. Your father assures me that tomorrow we shall be so."

"Oh, Papa! What is it this time? I so look forward to informing my friends that I am to marry!"

Lord Boyle tugged on the cuff of his sleeve, unable to face his daughter's disappointment. Lady Boyle scowled at her husband. Apparently, she did not adhere to Isla's strict code of living frown-free. "Lord Boyle! Olivia was hoping to inform Miss Simmons she is to wed. That little chitterling has been lauding it over our dear girl that she is betrothed for weeks now!"

Simon kept a straight face, but Lady Boyle had a habit of misusing jargon. He thought it likely she had meant to say chit, but instead had referred to the innards of a pig. He heard his mother's sharp intake of air, her sole reaction as she sipped on her tea. When he looked over at her, he could see the mirth dancing in her eyes as she stared back at him with a challenging glint. He quickly glanced away lest he burst into laughter.

He decided it was time to remind himself why this was a good match, while the sound of the Boyles' unbecoming family squabble continued on for several minutes.

Olivia is lovely.

From a good family.

Her eccentric tastes will mellow within the elegance of Blackwood House.

The lady is young and will form a more interesting personality over time.

As a married woman, away from her parents, she will find her own voice.

As I grow to know her, she will turn out to be quite delightful.

His tension eased. This was not what he had envisioned his life would be, but duty demanded a reckoning, and Simon had vowed to obey. His family was counting on him to do the right thing.

When they finally left the Boyles', Simon shared his assertions with his mother on the drive back home. It took some time because the streets were congested, and Simon appreciated the opportunity to air his thoughts. He found himself desirous of reassurance.

His mother bestowed him with a rare smile, leaning forward to pat him on the knee until her face fell back into its customary benign expression. "It is true, dear. It is fashionable for young ladies of the ton to appear empty-headed. Once they wed, their true personalities are revealed as they mature. I hear Miss Boyle possesses quite a musical gift, which implies discipline, so I know her strength of character shall come to light after you wed."

"What of our attachment? The young lady seemed more concerned with boasting to her acquaintances than our connection as husband and wife."

"If you are honest, Simon, you are more concerned with duty to the title than the young lady's heart."

He grimaced. "True, but I intend to work on building a genuine marriage."

"And I am sure she will be committed, too." It was Isla's last word on the subject. She folded her hands neatly in her lap and put her head back to doze off while the carriage trundled on.

Madeline checked her pocket watch as her carriage pulled to a stop in front of her home. Her footman opened the door to set the steps in place. As she was alighting from the dim interior, she caught sight of Simon with his mother walking up to their front entrance. Madeline paused, watching him for a moment as he disappeared inside. She had been thinking of her daily routine on the drive home, of how much she enjoyed the walled garden. But the memories and hopes it evoked were troubling.

She wondered if there was some method to continue her respites there without associating the secluded oasis with the past and with Simon, and she believed she had come up with just the thing. A test of her developing theory was in order.

But, for tonight, she was going to deliver the news to her mother that she was willing to consider courtship. Perhaps Mama could engage a matchmaker while there was still a possibility of Madeline being able to bear children. She knew Mama would be pleased. Legacy was important to her and, with no sign of interest from Henri, Eleanor Bigsby was facing a future without grandchildren unless Madeline pursued marriage. The clock was ticking, and the process of finding the right man would be complicated, given a wife's lack of legal rights and that the endurance of the manufactory must be assured for decades to come.

Entering the house, Madeline located the news sheets and headed to the library for a read. Soon tea was brought in, and she perused the articles. It was too soon for word of Simon's betrothal, but she found herself committed to skimming all the headlines despite herself.

She was just finishing her cup when Henri entered.

"Good evening."

"Oh, excellent! I am in need of a cup." Her sister walked over to flop onto the settee beside her, then poured out her tea and added milk and sugar.

Settling back with a blissful sigh, Henri took a cautious sip to verify the temperature and put it on the table to cool down. "Did you hear the frightful news?"

Madeline's brow puckered. She could hardly claim she did not want to hear the latest on-dits while holding news sheets. Gossip made her weary, and she rarely read them except for the stock and business news. She could not admit to the embarrassing truth—that she was scouring the small print for an announcement about Simon Scott and Olivia Boyle.

"Has something of import happened?"

"A baron was found murdered. This morning! He had not visited London in more than twenty years, but he was here for the coronation. All of Westminster is talking about it."

Madeline squashed a surge of irritation. In her opinion, Henri was far too enamored with the celebrity of Parliament and high society. She supposed it was appropriate—her sister acted as a social hostess for their great-uncle Reginald, who had been widowed nigh fifteen years ago and displayed no inclination to remarry. It was just that Madeline found it dull. Perhaps exposure to the Scotts next door had made her weary of class distinctions. However, a significant portion of their clients fell into the categories of people her sister and Uncle Reggie dealt with, which had led to orders for Bigsby's, so she could hardly dissent.

Nevertheless, she needed to consider her idea about the walled garden. She found her peace there, away from the family business and social gossip.

"Which baron?"

"Lord Filminster. People are saying that the coroner suspects that his estranged son did it to hurry his inheritance. They have not spoken in years, but the son lives here in their London townhouse."

Madeline considered this surprising turn of events. A nobleman murdered? Such a heinous act was unheard of.

"Well, then … I hope the heir is guilty, or his reputation is being destroyed without cause."

"I did not think of that. It would be terrible for him if he is innocent."

Nodding in agreement, Madeline hoped that her sister would reconsider her propensity to gossip. Henri spent far too much of her time with people who were willing to ruin the credibility of their acquaintances for their own entertainment and, perhaps, from hidden envy of the people in question.