Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

" Her first task was to sort a huge pile of mixed grains—millet, barley, poppy seeds—before nightfall, a feat no mortal could achieve. "

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

OCTOBER 2, 1821

T he family physician was in John's private rooms when Simon joined him to force a serious discussion of developments from the day before. Dr. White was a friendly old man about five feet high, with a balding head framed by a thick fringe of white hair, and he sported a luxurious mustache. His thick eyeglasses pinched either side of his head in their tight embrace, and … Simon eschewed treatment from him.

There was something glib about White's manners, and his propensity for generous prescriptions of laudanum as a cure-all for every complaint of the physical or the spirit was off-putting. Simon preferred to follow good habits and avoid physicians when he could. He missed the doctor who had taken care of his brother Nicholas after his accident, but he had retired years ago and Isla had presented this medicating quack in his place. Needless to say, his family adored him because he kept them in a ready supply of alcohol and opium concoctions—Simon's warnings about the habit-forming nature of such fell on deaf ears.

White packed up his things and left, Simon watching him depart with a belligerent stare. "I do not know why you see him. Your health has not improved under his watch."

John coughed, clearing his throat before rising to ring a bell. "He has an excellent reputation, according to the ladies Isla takes tea with."

Simon ground his teeth, not wishing to start another quarrel, but it was clear the reason for the excellent reputation was that certain people of their set liked to receive their drugs without admonishment from a caring healer. His father had been such an individual. White was unlikely to criticize a patient over their use of medications.

"We need to speak about this heir," Simon stated, deciding to change the subject.

A knock on the door interrupted him, with Duncan entering after John called out to him.

"Milord?"

"Bring me my coffee, Duncan."

The footman's expression shifted to one beleaguered by great troubles. "The doctor, milord."

Simon rolled his eyes. White might be irresponsible dispensing the bottles of laudanum, but apparently he was adamant that John needed to forsake the bitter beverage for tea. A direction which Duncan attempted to remind his master of, but to no avail.

"Bring me my coffee!" John wheezed as he shouted his command again. Isla and John did not see eye to eye on this one subject. Simon, on the other hand, thought it was a ridiculous line to draw in the sand. If the laudanum flowed like wine, what harm could the coffee do?

After a few tense moments, Duncan relented and headed off to fetch the coffee.

"It is a dark day for the Blackwood title."

Simon lifted his gaze with a quizzical rise of his eyebrow, having lost the thread of the conversation.

John gesticulated a vague wave. "The heirs from Italy you are to speak of. It is a dark day for the Blackwood title. Good British blood has run through the veins of our ancestors for generations."

"Be that as it may, there are practical issues to discuss." Simon did not wish to hear about the venerated blood of Scotts, nor the downfall of their line by introducing Italian blood. He had tossed and turned all night, considering what it meant for the management of Blackwood estates, and the tenants and people that it affected. Then there was the immediate family to consider, a thousand trivial details which added up to a muddle of epic proportions.

"What of Nicholas?" Simon had concerns because John's health did not speak to his longevity. "Will the heir continue his allowance … when you are … no longer with us?"

John shook his head, his jowls flapping around to remind Simon just how much his older brother had declined. He had seemed a healthy man at the time he had inherited the title from their father, but within weeks, illness had set in, and just eighteen months later he was a man who looked like he might be a mere handful of years from the grave. It was a chilling reminder to eat well and keep up his routine at Gentleman Jackson's, expending his energies.

"This Italian upstart better not think of changing the arrangements in place!"

Sighing, Simon leaned back in his seat to relax his stance lest he display his irritation. This was not a time for prejudices or emotions. They needed to have a plan for their change in circumstances. "We know nothing about our nephew. When the title is his, he can make the changes he wishes to. My mother is well taken care of by her marriage contract and the entailments attached to her Scottish title, but both Nicholas and I are portioned a small allowance under that document. And what of me? I am to marry Olivia Boyle on the understanding that I was to be a baron with an income. What new arrangements would be needed so I might support my bride in the manner she is accustomed to?"

John coughed into his fist, squirming about in discomfort. "Where is that damn Duncan?"

"John?"

His brother huffed, resentment in his eyes when he cast a glance in Simon's direction. "The blood of the Boyles would have made a fine addition to the Blackwood line. We were seconds away from cementing everything Father wanted for this family."

Hearing the news yesterday had freed Simon of some of the restrictions of duty weighing him down. Fate had determined that he could follow his own path, but in a twist of macabre humor, it was to be with a wife not of his own choosing. Bloodlines had never been particularly interesting to Simon, and he was not quite sure how or why he had allowed himself to be convinced to pursue Olivia as a spouse. The gods were mirthful with glee at Simon for his blind adherence to tradition, which had led him to this outcome. He had been trapped in a deep sleep and wakened to discover the entire world had shifted since he had gone to bed—more than ten years earlier!

This was neither here nor there. Simon needed to prepare for a changing of the guard, but John was not one to confront the troubles facing them. He preferred to put them off to another day, which never arrived. It would take persistence to reach an agreement about dealing with the rightful heir's insertion into their lives.

"Be that as it may, we must discuss the future."

If only I had not signed the marriage contract.

Simon pushed the thought away. If only was the journey into the depths of despair. He had signed the contract, and he must bear his responsibilities like a gentleman.

John lumbered to his feet, stalking over to the window to stare down upon the gardens. "I do not know how to say this, little brother, but this investigation of murder is not settled yet."

Straightening up, Simon cocked his head to peer over at his brother. "Do you believe I need to be concerned?"

"You have been accused of killing a peer, albeit unofficially. Once word gets out … At this moment, the unknown heir is not the most pressing issue."

Licking lips which had suddenly gone dry, Simon contemplated this announcement. He had been so preoccupied with ensuring his duties were attended to that he had not considered their contingent of visitors might be unconvinced by his alibi and, at this very moment, seeking to disprove Isla's assertions of their moonlit conversation on the night of the murder. "Should I find an alternative defense?"

John glanced back at him. "Where were you that night? You were not with Isla."

Embarrassed, Simon dropped his head down to examine his fingernails with studious intent. "I was … in the garden."

"With the chit next door?"

"With the young lady from next door."

His brother harrumphed in response. "You are protecting Miss Bigsby's reputation, but it is a matter of time until Isla's true whereabouts are discovered because she was out that night. If they find someone who puts her in a different location than the garden …"

John left the sentence hanging until Simon was compelled to complete it. "The men will be back to question me."

"It is all nonsense, of course. Filminster was an obnoxious little prat. One of his own servants probably clubbed him in a fit of pique. Or perhaps some riffraff who wished to rob his home. The duke and his relations have contrived a murder plot in their heads, but they presented no evidence. The temerity! Accusing a Scott of such a heinous act. Father would turn in his grave over such disrespect."

"This is not going to go away." It was not a question. Their visitors from yesterday were related to the deceased and would not let this rest. Simon had not thought about it much, knowing he was innocent of the crime, but if John was concerned … it cast a new light on the priorities he had set himself. He must be prepared to prove his innocence, and with a marriage contract in place with Olivia Boyle, he could not reveal he was alone with Madeline. If he had been free to wed her, perhaps. But, even then, the scandal would be intense for a woman in her situation.

Nay, Simon must resolve this debacle without dragging her into it.

Madeline was rushing through her breakfast so she might leave for work on time, having tossed and turned the night before, worrying over Simon's predicament. It might not be her problem, but her worry for her friend's troubles was hard to put aside. Simon had worked so hard on behalf of his family since the night Nicholas had fallen from the window, and his distress might be contained deep within his soul, but she had seen the signs of his struggle during their conversation. Molly had done the right thing by fetching her to provide him with some encouragement. It was going to be a long road to discover his new life because Simon was not the sort to enjoy idling away on his allowance, with no purpose to his days.

She was just forking the last of her eggs when Henri entered.

"There you are!"

Madeline flinched in surprise at the shrillness of her sister's voice, impatience skittering through her mind. Based on the tone, Henri was to launch into some sort of lecture about Madeline's choices.

"Good morning. I was not aware you were here."

"I returned late last night from Uncle Reggie's. Have you heard the news about Simon Scott?"

Madeline stared down at her last bite, which was hovering between the plate and her mouth, her appetite deserting her.

She and her sister did not see eye to eye on the subject of the gentleman living next door. Henri disdained his abandonment of her twin, while Madeline did not like what had happened, but she had understood it.

Simon had battled with the heavy burden of guilt, blaming himself for the accident. It had taken weeks for Nicholas to return from his unconscious state, and Simon had suffered each second of his brother's coma. A fact she had learned when he had reappeared in the garden three months after the incident to inform her that his plans for the future had changed.

She suspected Simon had spent the entire twelve-week period anchored to his brother's side, willing him to return to the living. It was hard to imagine the strain he must have been under, his appearance haggard when she had seen him for the first time.

"There are heirs to the Blackwood title who have been found in Italy." Madeline put her fork down and prepared to rise.

"Well, yes, but I meant the other news."

Madeline paused, sinking back in her seat. One aspect of her sister's work for Uncle Reggie that Madeline did not like was the fountain of gossip. She would brush it off and walk away without hearing it, but if it was about Simon …

"Other news?"

"Home Office is looking into Lord Filminster's death. Word at Westminster is that Simon is considered the prime suspect in the murder."

"That is ridiculous! Simon would never kill a man." Especially not for the Blackwood title, which is the bane of his existence.

"I swear it is true. Uncle Reggie told me that there is some sort of evidence that points to him attempting to hide the late baron's knowledge of the heir from the Continent. It is a mystery how no one knew of the nephews, but people are saying that Simon must have known."

"Does that make any sense? Simon was a babe when his older brother died! How in heaven was he to hide such information when he was a child?"

Henri frowned, considering the question. "Perhaps there was no contact with the family. Perhaps Simon did not know until Lord Filminster visited London, and when he learned of it, he acted out of desperation."

Madeline appreciated that her sister enjoyed her work, but she disliked the rumor trough of Parliament. She found average politicians to be a herd of pompous boars who savored intrigue and on-dits as if snuffling for truffles in the woods, rooting into reputations for their delicious tidbits of gossip with a gluttonous obsession. It was a distraction from their own shortcomings to pontificate about issues they could not comprehend from their privileged points of view.

Madeline far preferred tradespeople who produced actual work for their living.

"We have known him since we were children. Do you think him capable of such villainy?"

Her sister shrugged. "He has changed. How would I know what he might do to hold on to his position?"

"Simon would not commit a crime."

Cocking her head, Henri contemplated Madeline with an expression of sympathy. "I hope so, Maddy. Just … prepare yourself. In case."

Madeline shook her head. It was true that Simon had changed, but not that much. Not enough to kill a man in cold blood. She knew his heart, and there was not a drop of scoundrel in his blood. Not one drop.

"When was the murder?"

"The night of the coronation."

"Well, then. It is simple—I was with him that night until well past midnight."

Her sister groaned, dropping into a seat across the table. "Madeline! Say it is not so! If word gets out, your reputation will be destroyed."

Madeline sank back into her chair in dismay. If Simon needed an alibi, she would not hesitate to provide it, but it was true it would ruin her and likely the manufactory, too. But, more than that, what of his betrothed? Coming forward would create a scandal for Simon and Miss Boyle. The general public would not understand their long-standing friendship. Not to mention, there was a possibility that her testimony as an unmarried tradeswoman could be rejected out of hand. The authorities might think she was a lovesick fool, fibbing on behalf of the object of her infatuation who was far out of her reach!

She nibbled on a fingernail to think. What sort of evidence did Home Office have in their possession?

"Lord Boyle is here to see you."

The rain roaring outside made it difficult to hear, but he could make out that MacNaby pronounced this news from the study door with the slightest hint of reproach. What had his prospective father-in-law done to shake the butler's poise?

He rose, coming around his desk. "Show him in."

Boyle entered, rake thin in a damask burgundy suit swimming with floral ornamentations, which made Simon blink rapidly lest he lose his balance.

"Lord Boyle."

"Dear boy, I am afraid I had to visit unannounced. Terrible circumstances. Just terrible!"

Simon gritted his teeth, wondering what fresh torment was to be revealed. Dante had been incorrect in his narrative poem. He had already visited the first seven circles of hell, and Boyle was certain to fling the gates open wide to reveal the eighth.

"What is terrible, my lord?"

Boyle stalked up and down, ignoring Simon's gesture toward a chair. Rubbing his hands together in agitation, Boyle continued to mumble about the horrors of some unnamed distress. Simon firmed his jaw and folded his arms to wait him out.

"You are a gentleman, Mr. Scott. I am certain you understand that my Olivia—she had her heart set on being a baroness."

Simon rolled his eyes as Boyle continued wearing a frenzied path into the expensive Aubusson rug beneath his buckled shoes. He spoke about acquiring the title as if it were shopping for a pair of gloves or slippers at a milliner's shop. Which, Simon supposed, it was of a sort what had occurred. Seconds later, realizing what Boyle had said, he narrowed his eyes to consider the viscount's mutterings. Was Boyle going to beg off their contract?

Please, God, let it be so!

"My lord, do you wish to inform me of something?"

Boyle paused mid-pacing, his back turned to Simon and his shoulders coming back with sudden tension.

"We learned of the heirs, my boy. Olivia is fond of you, but you must understand that she had her heart set on a title."

"Are you requesting that I allow your daughter out of the marriage contract?"

He could hear the viscount's audible inhalation. "Lord Clutterbuck informed us of the news from Westminster about these Italian heirs. What a disaster! He has made it clear that he is willing to wed Olivia if she so wishes."

"Does she?"

Silence followed Simon's question, and he waited for the answer without drawing air. His heart pounded so loud in his ears, he was worried he would not be able to hear Boyle reply. Simon had not prayed so hard for mercy since the night his brother had fallen from his third-floor window and he had set himself on this current descent into misery.

Boyle turned about, his eyes downcast while he licked his thin lips and swallowed. "It is nothing personal, Mr. Scott. Olivia would consider it a benevolent boon if you were to agree to destroy the contract."

Simon was light-headed, but he cautioned himself to not appear too eager lest he insult the viscount at the moment of his release from the gaol he had signed himself into. Boyle was a temperamental coxcomb who could change his mind in a heartbeat if he took offense. Months of negotiations had taught Simon to be cautious. "I am … gravely disappointed."

Boyle gave a nervous twitch at this pronouncement. "It would be a selfless act, Mr. Scott. I beseech you to grant Olivia forbearance."

"Not so small, Lord Boyle." Simon's mouth was dry, as his thoughts raced to calculate the right amount of reluctance to display to achieve this unexpected outcome he desired with every iota of his being.

A flush spread up the viscount's neck. He raised his gaze to implore Simon, his washed-out blue eyes desperate. "It would be an act of grace and honor for which I would be eternally grateful, young man."

Simon considered him carefully, turning to walk to the cabinet behind his desk. Opening the doors, he pulled out a key to unlock the safe and retrieve the signed contract before turning back to Boyle. "How do you propose to do this?"

Boyle exhaled in a rush, his eyes fixing on the pages in Simon's grasp. Reaching inside his coat, he pulled out a thick wad of papers and approached Simon's desk. "We shall each tear it up and burn the pieces."

Simon gave a nod of assent. Grabbing his sheaf at the middle, he prepared to rip the documents in half while pausing to ensure Boyle did the same. Then, at the same time, they tore with a loud rending, walking over to the small fire banked in the hearth to toss the contract into the coals. They each watched intently as the pages curled and charred, dissolving into ashes while Simon breathed his first hint of true freedom in over ten years. Olivia was no longer his burden to bear, and the last remaining barrier left between him and a future of his choosing was the accusation of murder.

Madeline found her feet walking to the garden without a conscious approval from her brain. The sun was setting, and the evening air cool on her skin as she adjusted her shawl to prevent a chill. She hoped that, perhaps, Simon might appear. She had been thinking about the murder investigation, and musing about why he had not informed her of that detail. Was he aware? If he was not, it was of pressing concern to alert him to the Westminster gossip. He might need to take measures to protect himself or obtain legal representation.

When she reached the garden, it was in shadows, but her spirits soared to see him waiting for her. His legs were sprawled out, and he had his arms folded as he contemplated the firmament of shimmering stars above. Hearing her approach, he turned to grin in greeting. Madeline paused in surprise. He appeared … happy?

"Simon," she greeted, moving to perch on the other end of the bench but noting that he was not sitting on the far edge as he had been wont to do this past decade.

"Miss Boyle found herself a title to take my place."

Madeline tensed in surprise. "You are … free?"

He blew a happy sigh. "It would appear so. No longer the heir to a baron, and no longer betrothed. I do not know what I wish to do with my future, but it is mine to decide."

"That is wonderful news!" Madeline wondered what it meant. It had been years since they had had an understanding, but was it possible he might consider … She squashed the thought, not wishing to put pressure on a person who had been constrained by obligations for a third of his life.

Simon glanced at her, then focused on one of the gods staring at them in the evening light. Hermes, with his winged sandals and blank expression, looked down as if he listened closely to collect news to impart to the Olympians.

"Are you …? Would you …?" Simon's voice faltered, his expression clouded. "It's too soon. My life is … still complicated."

Madeline knew what he wished to say, and it was a struggle to repress her hopes. Still, she reminded herself that he had his troubles to face before they could consider the future. The boy she had known was slowly reappearing, but Madeline understood that the journey back to his former vitality would require patience. He was shedding the rigid, unnatural formality of recent years—piece by piece—while contending with unprecedented pressures.

"Because of the baron who was killed?"

"You heard?"

"Henri is a veritable aqueduct to the salacious whisperings of Westminster."

He was silent for a few seconds. "Apparently Home Office is unofficially investigating whether I may have murdered a peer to hold on to the title." Simon laughed, the sound hollow as it echoed against the statuary. "I would have thanked Lord Filminster for bringing our nephews to light because I have been released from the drudgery of expectations and given the opportunity to discover what I want as a man. Who I am as a man. Without the blighted title tying me down, I can forge my own way in this world. Once these issues are resolved."

"I will come forward to clear your name."

He shot to his feet, spinning to face her. "You must not attempt such a thing! The damage it would do to you … to your family and the manufactory … No!"

Madeline blinked, disconcerted by his abrupt shift of mood.

Simon stepped back, relaxing his stance with a contrite expression. "This is my problem to solve, Madeline. A misunderstanding. The baron was the unfortunate victim of a villainous scoundrel who wished to rob him, or he caught his steward diverting funds from his books. It will be sorted. Promise me you will not risk your reputation?"

She had no intention of ignoring his wishes, but she would not hesitate to raise the subject with him again if the investigation headed toward an arrest. "My offer stands, but I shall not take any action without your consent."

"Your offer is appreciated, but Isla told our visitors that she was with me here in the garden that night. If you stepped forward, it would complicate the situation."

Madeline blinked again in surprise. It was a generous gesture from the baroness whom Madeline had always struggled to read. She had not thought Isla Scott to be a doting parent, but perhaps that was just her own reaction to the older woman's lack of expressions, which had always put her on edge. Simon had few criticisms about his mother, but he had once explained to her that the lack of emotional manifestation was due to her vanity. Lady Blackwood was as beautiful as one of the stoic goddesses peering down at them, without a line to mar her angelic face.