Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

"He tried to live without her, but every thought returned to her face, her voice, her touch—Eros found no peace away from Psyche."

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

AUGUST 31, 1821

S imon entered the breakfast room to find the entire family gathered in the throes of aggravations.

"I am well, I tell you!" John was shouting, heaving as he struggled to breathe. "Give me my damn coffee!"

"You must stop the coffee, dear. It is not good for you. Roderick, bring Lord Blackwood a pot of tea." Isla waved toward the baron with a voice that did not brook argument. This, however, did not deter Simon's older brother. Simon could have foretold it. He had spent years attempting to persuade his family to pursue healthier habits, to no avail.

"I do not want tea! Duncan, bring me my coffee!"

The head footman froze, then threw a glance to Roderick, who was collecting the teapot. The second footman was frozen, too, as the two servants stared at each other in an impasse . Who were they to obey—his lordship or the dowager baroness?

Checkmate.

Simon folded his arms to watch in amusement. Which of the footmen would break first?

"Roderick," prompted his mother.

He had the teapot hovering just an inch above the sideboard. In response, he completed the motion, lifting it to spin on his heel and walk over to the table where he placed it in front of the baron.

John shot a glare at Duncan, whose expression was contrite but helpless. "My lord, your doctor …"

"Grow some ballocks, Duncan! Are you not a Campbell?" The footman's chagrin was palpable. He was a good sort. Duncan Campbell had taken care of John for many years, even acting as the baron's valet when his own man took ill. Which was far too frequent in Simon's estimation. The valet was either a dreadful weakling, or he preferred to stay abed.

Molly offered to pour the tea which earned her a bark from John, who was in a fine state, his skin mottled with fury.

Nicholas paid none of them mind, staring down into his own coffee as if he were nursing regret from a hard night of drinking. He must have been too weary to leave, despite the loud quarreling sure to be driving a knife through his inebriated brain. "Could you please lower your voices?"

"Why are you here?" barked John in a belligerent tone. "Should you not be out drinking with your friends?"

Simon grimaced. The mood was decidedly foul. It happened from time to time, and he never knew what set it off because he was inevitably the last to arrive.

"Hungry," was the singular answer from Nicholas, who must have just returned home. He continued in a plaintive voice, "Even an insignificant spare must eat."

Bloody hell!

Simon wished to turn and leave. His little brother was preparing to spew the multiple reasons he was a victim of circumstances which were never amusing to overhear. Complaining about his situation was a common habit when he had over-imbibed. Simon preferred the supercilious version over the self-pitying Nicholas who blamed all for his circumstances. He suspected his brother's moods were a barometer of what particular spirits he had abused his body with in the past twenty-four hours. Perhaps wine brought out his humorous, if sarcastic, character, while brandy, the miserable defendant of terrible harms visited upon him.

It was a theory, at least.

Molly checked her timepiece, muttering something conciliatory he could not hear, and scraped her chair back to depart. Simon did not blame her. Tensions were rising, and soon Nicholas would break into a dramatic tirade about the unfairness of it all, or John into a rousing speech about being respected in his own household, while Isla interjected her drugged benevolence with platitudes that exacerbated tempers. If he had to hear his little brother complain, it would renew his shame at what he had done to contribute to his injury.

Simon gestured to Duncan, who appeared relieved to stride over. The tall footman, with brawny shoulders and a handsome, square face, doted on the baron and must have been feeling terrible to be the object of his disappointment. "I shall take my breakfast in the study."

The servant nodded, turning to collect a tray together while Simon headed down the hall.

Madeline had found a new routine these past weeks, which suited her. She had rearranged her schedule to rise an hour earlier and breakfast in the walled garden. She would enjoy her meal and a book, which was how she had discovered a wonderful new friend.

Hearing the crunching of gravel as someone entered the secluded space, she lowered her book and grinned. "Molly!"

Befriending the pragmatic young lady from next door had been a happy consequence of changing her routine. She was an amusing and intelligent companion with whom to begin the day.

It took a minute to note that under the shadowing brim of her bonnet, Molly's expression was unhappy.

"What is it? Has something happened?"

Molly approached to settle on the bench beside her.

"I enjoy living in London, for what little I see of it. But the Scotts are … there is something amiss in the household. Lord Blackwood's health declines at a rapid rate, and his physician is useless. I swear that the doctor is naught but a drug peddler. Yet the baron does nothing to improve his own health while Isla overindulges in her laudanum. Not to mention her lack of facial expressions. It is unnatural!"

Madeline made a sound of commiseration. "It was similar with the late baron—their father. I think it is the same Dr. White whom Simon would complain about. He suspected White was over-medicating the old man." It was not her habit to speak of her former love, but Molly needed to air her grievances, and it had slipped out in a moment of sympathy.

"It is so frustrating! I have yet to encounter Nicholas sober, and I have been residing here for five months! The only dependable person in the household is Simon, but he is both aloof and—" Molly sought a word for what she wanted to communicate. "—glum."

Madeline dropped her gaze to stare at the book in her lap. She knew the change that had been wrought in Simon Scott over the years, but it was depressing to contemplate. "He was not always so."

Molly paused, shooting her a worried glance which Madeline caught from the corner of her eye. They had not spoken about the former relationship between Madeline and Simon, but Molly was perceptive, and it was clear that she had surmised something from their prior conversations … and the specific person Madeline avoided mentioning.

"I am sorry to burden you with this. It is just … the quarrels have been intensifying. The coronation sparked something off because our meals have grown increasingly strained since that time. I cannot think how that event would create trouble. I just recall that the baron was in an ill humor after the ceremony."

"Things will settle down, and you are always welcome to take a respite at our home if you need to."

Molly reached to pat Madeline with a grateful smile. "I appreciate I can visit with you. I count the days until I am done with this mourning period. My mother would hate to think of me so listless on her account."

"Dear friend, I assure you, I need you just as much as you need me."

It was true. Usually they discussed books they had read, or Molly asked questions about her work. Their burgeoning friendship had been the distraction Madeline needed as she made plans for her future.

She must do something to help her new friend. Something to lift her companion's spirits. Madeline tried to think of activities suitable for a young gentlewoman that would not be considered improper during her time of grieving.

"Perhaps we can go visit a bookshop together? I could ask Mama to escort us."

Simon stared at the contract on his desk. Lord Boyle had finally signed it, sending it with a footman just minutes earlier. All that remained to make the betrothal official was for Simon and John to put their signatures to it. He and Olivia Boyle would be tied into a single legal entity. The culmination of his duty to the Blackwood title.

He was finding it difficult to draw air in his lungs. The walls seemed to be moving closer, and his starched collar and cravat conspired to strangle him. Scraping his chair back, Simon stood up, unable to tear his gaze from the neatly written contract. The desire to run was overwhelming. He wished he could bolt off to the walled garden. So he could breathe. But, alas, the garden was out-of-bounds because he was … about … to be … betrothed!

He could think of nothing other than the horrible truth. He was to wed the wrong woman. When he signed the contract, Madeline would be lost to him forever. Any hopes he had that he was only dreaming this suffocating life, that he would wake up to learn he was still a student at Oxford, and that Madeline was still his intended, slipped away as the pages taunted him with their cruel intentions.

Simon realized he needed to take a respite before his panic turned into hysteria. Leaving the contract where it lay, he stalked off to request his overcoat. Soon he was slipping on his gloves, donning his beaver, folding the morning news sheets under his arm, and heading out the door to a nearby coffeehouse. He sat alone, recovering from the shock of receiving the elusive paperwork from Boyle by reading his sheets and sipping on a mug of coffee. The tightness in his chest gradually eased as he took his time to enjoy some time alone.

Just as he thought he might survive the day, a sense of unease gripped him. He had the sensation he was being watched. Simon raised his head to flick a glance around the establishment as the feeling grew. Across the room, at a corner table, sat two gentlemen. They did not appear to be watching him, but he found it odd that they had kept their hats on. Even their overcoats were on and buttoned up despite their being inside on a warm day. Stroking his beard, Simon considered if he was imagining it, but then the smaller one of the pair, whose soft features spoke to his youth, flickered unusual silver-gray eyes in his direction.

Simon made up his mind. There would be more privacy at his clubs, so there was no need to analyze if he was being watched, preferring to trust his instincts in case someone had noted his trappings of wealth and was planning to fleece him.

He rose, tossing some coins down on the table, and headed out the door, casting a surreptitious gaze back to see if anyone followed him out.

Through the window, he saw that the odd pair in the corner had risen to leave. Simon narrowed his eyes, picking up his pace. He veered at the next corner to enter St. James's Street. His club was nearby, and scoundrels who intended him harm could not follow him in to that guarded dominion.

Inside, he went to the library to find a book, realizing he had left his news sheets behind in his haste to put distance between himself and the men that might be pursuing him.

Settling on a leather settee, he ordered some coffee and stretched his legs out to enjoy the quiet of the oak-paneled room. His nerves were on edge, and likely the entire thing had been a figment of his imagination brought on by the stresses of what awaited him on his desk. Be that as it may, he still needed to calm himself, so it was a pleasure to relax in the cool interior. Thankfully, regardless of how trying his marriage turned out, Olivia and the Boyles' annoying chatter would never find him in this hallowed retreat.