Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

" As he flew away from her, Psyche called after him, but her cries could not reach his ears. "

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

OCTOBER 1, 1821

" T hat is when I told Miss Simmons that as a lady to marry a handsome future baron, I outrank so she must enter behind me!" Olivia's voice grew high-pitched and mirthful as she completed her story with a giggle of triumph.

"Brava, daughter! Well-done of you!"

Simon shot a glance over at Lady Boyle, uncertain if she was serious in her congratulations or being facetious. His heart sank. It was genuine pride.

His spirits dropped even further than they had been. The Boyles were visiting for a Sunday meal after joining his family for church services, and Simon was considering going down to the local docks to join any merchant ship setting sail. He would be a hardworking deckhand, dodging scurvy and terrible storms rather than eating at the dining table with this ridiculous family.

There are things to like about her. She is … a pleasing songbird.

Or, at least, rumor had it. Simon had yet to hear her sing because he found an excuse to keep their visits short each time they met.

His mother was seated across from him, barely touching her meal, with a vacuous expression as she stared over his shoulder into the distance and fanned herself. Perhaps Simon should try laudanum himself, as it evidently got Isla through these encounters.

"It is quite the social advantage, being the betrothed of a handsome future baron!" Olivia's shrill voice was grating on his nerves. They had been at lunch for a good half an hour, and the conversation had been dominated by the joys of a woman betrothed.

"I could have secured you a viscount if you had but waited," Lord Boyle replied with a sour tone, still put out that he had had to settle for Simon.

I wish you had.

"Do not be silly, Papa! Lord Clutterbuck was the only viscount who displayed any interest, and he is older than you! No, a handsome future baron is quite sufficient to make Miss Simmons ill with envy!"

Simon had become aware of Olivia's habit of stating everything as a dramatic declaration. One could hear the exclamation mark that punctuated the end of every sentence. It was one of the most irritating idiosyncrasies he had cataloged as he sat in silence. Thus far. One did not have much opportunity to speak when the Boyles were talking about themselves, and he was not inclined to contribute to the inane bickering.

"That is correct, Lord Boyle! That fire ship was quite put in her place!" Simon cringed at Lady Boyle's interjection, and even Isla roused a little with an astonished blink. Molly was sitting beside his mother, and choked. She put her fork down to compose herself. Simon gritted his teeth lest he burst into laughter. He did not know what the viscountess had intended to say, but it could not have been a fire ship —a terrible insult which referred to a wench with venereal disease.

Next to him, John was not so composed, breaking into a wheezing cough so he might cover his smile and disguise his amusement. Simon raised his wine to hide his own grin as he grappled with the threads of his self-control.

Then the hilarity was over as Olivia brought the conversation back to what really mattered. "It is true! Miss Simmons is well aware she has lost our clash of wills and that I have emerged the victor … because of my betrothal to a future baron!"

Simon's spirits plummeted again as he fidgeted in his chair at the uncomfortable warm weather. The aspect of himself that he disliked the most was that his future had been chosen for him, and he was on a path that the fates had set upon him in the manner of mythological gods conspiring to shape his destiny into one of tragedy and denial. The fact that Olivia harped on about his lack of free will served as a constant reminder of his discontent.

Mother said her personality will mature.

He was regretting his commitment to duty, but it was too late. A contractual betrothal was as good as married, except for the final step. Almost impossible and financially ruinous to end. There was no doubting Lord Boyle would sue them for every penny of the Blackwood fortune if they attempted to break the contract. Nay, Simon's matrimony was a fait accompli .

A wedding was being planned for late October, and with each passing minute, the sensation that he was drowning in a circumstance of his own contrivance increased in teeny tiny increments until he was a heartbeat away from hysterical panic.

He had heard tell of a form of torture they practiced in China. Lingchi , or slow slicing. A victim was executed by a thousand cuts so that he suffered greatly until he eventually expired.

Dabbing a handkerchief over his face to counteract the heat of the day, Simon felt he had stumbled into a form of intellectual Lingchi in which he was sliced by a thousand bacon-brained comments until, at last, his ability to think intelligently would leak out his ears to leave him a gibbering fool.

Did all members of their class consider the minutia of precedence to be of such vital importance?

Sometimes his mind would float away so that he was sure he was living in a waking dream, but, unfortunately, he would never awaken. This was his life now. Soon they would all be united by matrimony and … and … Dear God, perhaps laudanum is not such a terrible idea after all?

Madeline was reading in the walled garden, enjoying a tea in the shade and fanning herself to dispel the unseasonable heat, when she heard hurried steps approaching. Looking up, she found Molly entering through the arch with a hunted expression.

"I had to escape the house," she offered as her explanation, dropping onto the bench with a heavy sigh. "I used you as an excuse, I am afraid. I did not know if you would be here, but I claimed I had made arrangements in order to leave our lunch."

"I do not mind."

"It is the Boyles. Lord Boyle is a blunderbuss. His wife is a bufflehead who throws words about without a sensitivity to their meaning, and Miss Boyle … she is obsessed with her station. Every sentence ends with a mention of her betrothal. I actually imagined stabbing my palm with a knife just so I might have an excuse to leave mid-meal."

Madeline bit her lip in sympathy, her thoughts on Simon, who would hate such an interaction, despite his adherence to duty. He enjoyed intelligent conversation and fine things. When she had begun to sculpt artworks for him more than a decade earlier, he had become quite enthused, asking detailed questions about the craft. Conversation such as Molly described would pain him to his very core.

It is not your concern.

"Then I am glad you thought of using me as an excuse instead," she murmured, diverting her thoughts from the gentleman she must forget.

A crunching of gravel had both women turning their heads back to the archway in surprise. Simon appeared in a fine, blue wool coat and gray trousers. Madeline's heart leapt at the sight of him, drinking in the sight of the beard she had yet to see in proper daylight with a direct view. It suited him, the blue of his eyes ever more vivid because of it.

"Oh! I apologize. I was … seeking a moment of respite."

Molly rose to her feet. "Are the Boyles still here?"

Madeline remained seated, suppressing a smile at her friend's alarmed tone.

"Are you bringing them to the garden?"

"Uh … no. They are taking their leave as we speak. I … should be … there." With that, Simon spun on his heel and was gone.

Madeline suspected he might have hoped to see her, knowing this was where she liked to spend her Sunday afternoon. The presence of Molly must have frightened him off. She wondered what he had wanted to say.

Simon was not sure why he had gone to the garden. His feet had led him there after pacing the walkway to the side of the house. Perhaps a moment with Madeline would restore his sanity. Or, if she had not been there, he could have sat on the bench to find his bearings and capture the happiness of his youth for just a fraction of a second.

Striding back to the house, he remonstrated his faithless behavior. He would never cheat on his betrothed, but he had been desperate to recapture the calm pleasure of Madeline's presence. They might no longer be prospective lovers, but this did not alter their long history of friendship.

The worst part about his reaction to his betrothal was he could not air his concerns so he might appease his misgivings. John thought the match to Olivia both appropriate and amusing. Isla thought it the natural state of affairs for a future lord. Nicholas was always drunk. Which left Madeline as a confidante who could understand the torture he was experiencing as a result of complying with his duties. She would have listened to him gripe, then made some suggestions to help him gain perspective. A good friend who would have made his situation more palatable, somehow, despite any disagreement she might have.

He gritted his teeth at his selfish nature. She was Molly's confidante now, not his. Which was as it should be. Molly must be bored in their home, and Madeline was the perfect companion to enliven her day. Madeline deserved a friendship with someone of equal footing instead of with him and the burdens he bore. The possessive feeling that sprung up at finding them together was uncalled for, and must be beaten down.

As he approached the house, the butler, MacNaby, appeared in the doorway leading into the main hall. "Sir, Lord Blackwood has requested you join him in the study."

"The study?" Simon worked out of the study. John rarely entered it unless there was a large amount of documentation to sign.

MacNaby bobbed in acknowledgment. "There are some unexpected guests. His lordship had them shown into the study for privacy."

The butler turned and disappeared before Simon could clarify. Unannounced guests on a Sunday afternoon? It seemed rather untoward. Pulling out his handkerchief, he dabbed his face dry. It was a hot day, and venturing outside had been a mistake.

Entering the hall, he stopped in front of a mirror to check his collar and cravat were in order. Tugging his cuffs, he strode toward the study, then paused in the doorway to swivel his head about in surprise.

MacNaby had understated the guests. Several gentlemen were gathered, seats having been brought in from the library. The windows had been opened to allow for a cooling draught, and some of the men were standing near to the windows in a bid to find relief from the heat. If they were anything like him, they wished to remove their wool coats, but it was not the done thing.

Taking stock, he realized he did not know any of the gentlemen present, but he recognized the huge blond Viking who was unmistakable. The Duke of Halmesbury. Next to him, with his arms folded as he peered out at the garden, it appeared to be the Earl of Saunton. The rest of the men were strangers, but there was a young lad with them with his hat still on, standing in the corner and staring back at him with unusual silver eyes that seemed vaguely familiar. Simon could have sworn he had seen those fascinating irises somewhere in the past few weeks, but he could not bring it to mind.

John rose from an armchair, his posture weary, and Simon experienced a pull of anxiety. His brother was pale, gray, and flushed all at the same time. He should be resting after so much exertion from the day, which he confirmed by signaling Simon to speak on his behalf.

"What is this?" The question was directed at the duke, the highest-ranking peer present and, as such, the leader of the assembled men.

Simon counted five.

His Grace swung his head around, his gray eyes assessing him. "Mr. Scott?"

"That is correct, Your Grace. What can I do for you?"

John broke into a paroxysm of coughing, hacking into a handkerchief and prompting Simon to rush over and coax him back into his seat. "Gentlemen, perhaps you could state your business and we can set an appointment for another day. Lord Blackwood is in need of his rest."

His Grace approached, pausing a couple feet away to address him. "I am afraid this cannot wait, Mr. Scott. This is a matter of … mortal importance."

There was a pause.

Mortal?

That seemed unduly ominous.

"They have news, Simon. Of Peter. We must hear them out."

Simon glanced down at his brother, whose breathing had eased and who was looking up at him with worry on his face. "Are you sure? They can come back another day."

"I need to hear what they have to say."

Simon nodded, and His Grace took it as his cue to make introductions.

As he had thought, it was Lord Saunton he had spotted at the window. To his surprise, a younger gentleman was introduced as Lord Filminster, which was a name that had come up a few times in recent weeks. Presumably the son who had inherited the title from the murdered baron, but Simon did not ask. Then he was introduced to a coxcomb with hair in startling contrasting tones and a luxurious suit that could have been dreadful but had turned out to be a creation of sartorial genius. Sage green with a gold brocade waistcoat. Too lavish for Simon's tastes, but the buck had a flair for it which Lord Boyle could only hope for. It turned out to be Lord Trafford, whom Simon had heard about—he had been something of a disreputable rogue until the news sheets had reported he had wed last month.

The duke gestured to the corner. "And this is … Mr. Gideon. He is … brother-in-law … to Lord Trafford." Halmesbury seemed hesitant in introducing the lad, who bowed his head politely but said nothing. His beaver was still on, as it had been when Simon had entered.

They took their seats, Simon first ringing a bell. Duncan entered and Simon ordered tea for his brother, whose well-being still had him worried. Glancing about, he asked if their guests would care for some, too, but they shook their heads, and Simon did not wish to encourage them to remain longer than necessary. Despite their polite demeanor, there were undertones of resentment in the room. John needed to retire to his rooms to recover from his outing to church, and the interminable meal with the Boyles.

"We represent several lords, and I have been authorized to speak with you by the Home Secretary in the interests of keeping this discussion unofficial."

The duke's voice was calm, but Simon's unease was rising. He could not think what was of such import that these peers would interrupt their day of rest. The single notion to enter his head was that John had mentioned something months ago about the late Filminster raising the subject of Peter's issue. But, surely, it could not be that?

"This morning we received confirmation from Florence that Peter Scott sired two children with his wife, Mrs. Bianca Scott, before his death." The duke paused. " Male children."

Simon jumped to his feet in bewilderment. "What?"

John gasped, clutching his chest, and began to pant. Simon immediately forgot about the incredible news, rushing over to his brother in alarm. The baron waved him back, concentrating on his breathing. After a few minutes, he had recovered, the guests waiting in silence. Then he gestured to Simon, a cue to continue the discussion. He looked back at their guests, who were waiting with an expectant air. All except the youth, Gideon, whose silver-gray eyes were scrutinizing his brother with unwavering interest.

"We have … nephews?"

Despite his need to focus on the answer, to ask discerning questions, and to ascertain if any of it was true, it was as if his thoughts were floating away. He listened to the revelation from a far distance while he sorted through a variety of reactions. Two nephews! That meant he was relegated to third in line to inherit! He was not the future Lord Blackwood, but rather it was some boy living in Italy. Which meant …

Am I free?

Heady elation followed this thought until a second intruded to bump him rudely back into reality.

He was betrothed to Olivia Boyle.

An act that could not be undone.

He was to wed Miss Boyle despite this turn of events. He might not be the heir, but his duty still bound him. She could not be deserted without ruining her, and he would never do that to a lady vulnerable to censure. He was in the seventh circle of hell, and there was not a solitary reason to be there if he had no obligation to the title.

"Misters Marco and Angelo Scott are making plans to travel to London to meet with you," the duke responded, oblivious to the turmoil raging in Simon's mind.

"I shall … expect confirmation of … this news." John's panting declaration drew Simon back to the present, his gaze returning to his brother, whose pallor had worsened.

The Earl of Saunton leaned in to speak to the duke in a low voice. The duke nodded, eventually responding to John's request. "Perhaps we should finish this conversation tomorrow, Lord Blackwood? I had heard you were not well?—"

"Is there more to be discussed?" John's voice was firm.

The duke's eyes flickered back to Lord Saunton before he turned to look at Mr. Gideon, who was still standing apart in the corner of the room with those silver-gray eyes fixed on Simon's brother. Mr. Gideon, noting the silence, shot a glance to where His Grace was waiting and gave a slight nod of authority.

"There is … more," replied Halmesbury.

Simon was perplexed. It appeared that the duke had just deferred to a lad who could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen, from the soft features and lack of stubble. The brother-in-law to an honorary viscount. Why the blazes would such a high-ranking peer obey the direction of such a green youth, whose gaze had focused on John once more?

"There is evidence to suggest that the late Baron of Filminster was murdered to conceal knowledge of your rightful heir."

"What?" John straightened up in surprise, then an expression of horror crossed his pallid face. "Are you … accusing one of us?"

The duke looked at Simon. This meeting had ventured into territory that was wholly inappropriate.

"We would like to know where you were the night of the coronation, Mr. Scott? At around midnight?"

His jaw dropped in amazement. They were here to accuse him of a heinous crime! It was beyond the pale! He would set them to rights so they could take their condescension and barbed indictments to be on their way.

Smiling with smug satisfaction, he declared, "Of course. I was in the walled garden with?—"

Simon shut his mouth, realizing too late the trap he was in. Their families might be aware that he had been alone with Madeline on countless occasions, but he could not state such a fact to hostile opponents without them inferring the worst possible—they would conclude Madeline was his mistress!

He would ruin his dearest friend because the caper-witted denizens of the upper classes would never accept a public friendship between a common tradeswoman and the son of a baron. There was no possibility he would ever risk her reputation. Madeline might not be of the gentry, but the Bigsbys were a well-respected family who relied on business from polite society. Such scandal could destroy them.

Simon licked his lips. "I was with?—"

The night Nicholas had fallen from his window had been the worst experience of his life, but if he dragged Madeline into his muddle, it would rival that event, so he scrambled for an alternate alibi—and reached the awful conclusion that he would have to refuse to provide one. Which meant this accusation could expand into an official investigation. Had the duke not mentioned the Home Office?

"He was with me. We drank wine in the moonlight in our walled garden to celebrate the ceremony, although the moon was waning so visibility was compromised. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful night."

All heads spun to the open door where his mother was framed, and Simon could have wept with relief at her intervention. Isla must have realized his conundrum after he had announced where he had been, guessing that Madeline was the alibi which had caused him to falter.

With deep gratitude, Simon agreed. "I was … with my mother, Lady Blackwood."