Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

" But the ants, moved by compassion for Psyche, came to her aid, sorting the grains one by one. "

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

OCTOBER 3, 1821

S imon had wanted to sweep Madeline into his arms and plant a kiss on her soft lips, but right at the moment of truth, he had realized that he could not drag her into a murder investigation until he knew how serious the situation was. Which was why he had decided to seek counsel from their solicitors. He should have done so already to discuss the ramifications of the new heirs.

Thus, he now sat at his desk with his fingers wrapped around a quill to compose a letter that would be delivered by one of their footmen, but he found himself at a loss for what to write. If Westminster was rife with gossip, it was possible their solicitors might have heard something by now. Nevertheless, Simon could not focus his thoughts. An unknown heir and spare? An accusation of murder?

Shaking his head, Simon dipped the quill in the inkstand and wrote out a request for an urgent appointment. Sprinkling it with pounce to dry the black pigment before reaching for the bell, he was interrupted by a knock on the study door.

Simon called out, and Duncan entered to announce that their contingent of lords had returned to request an audience with Lord Blackwood and himself. Simon suppressed a groan at the news before turning over the letter for delivery. Why had he not sent for legal representation after the first visit? He supposed he had been rather distracted by the news and what it meant for him.

Soon the same party of gentlemen were shown into the room, bowing stiffly in formal greeting. Simon gritted his teeth in irritation. Did they travel together like a pack of wolves? Could they not send two instead of five?

After greetings were finished, the men took up the same positions as they had before, although the windows were closed to keep out the autumn air which had turned chilly overnight. The duke and earl stood in silence with their beavers tucked beneath their arms, and holding their gloves, which must mean they had declined the footman's offer to stow them away. Lord Filminster and the elegant coxcomb, Lord Trafford, sat at attention on the plump leather armchairs facing the desk, their hats and gloves perched on their knees as if to announce their general state of discord, while the youth, Gideon, retreated into the corner to contemplate the wood flooring beneath his feet while they awaited John's arrival. The lad kept his beaver and gloves on, a repeat of his deplorable breach of etiquette that Simon could not make sense of. Perhaps the boy was not familiar with the behavior of the upper classes, despite his fine attire?

All present straightened up with tense alertness when John entered and crossed the room to take a seat behind the desk which Simon had vacated. He supposed he should have requested extra seating, but he was not in the mood to sit, and the two peers hovering at the window did not seem any more inclined to relax than they had two days earlier.

"Do you lot attend each other everywhere you visit … Your Grace?" growled John with impatience, echoing Simon's earlier thought.

Simon observed the oddity of the duke glancing across the room toward Gideon in the corner, again seemingly hesitating for a cue to speak from the youth. Gideon's eyes were fixed on his brother, but he must have been aware of the duke's unspoken question because he, almost imperceptibly, bobbed his head.

Why would a peer of such high rank, second only to the Royal family, seek approval from a lad barely out of short breeches?

"There is a murderer afoot, Blackwood. We will not venture into your home alone, given the circumstances."

John snorted in disgust. "This again! Are you a quivering rabbit, cowering from your own shadow? Must you rely on your cronies to defend you against an old man?"

"Not you." The duke's gaze found Simon, who had to prevent himself from stepping back at the simmering intensity in its depth. John turned his head to follow his gaze before shaking his head in outrage.

"Simon did not kill Lord Filminster! Lady Blackwood confirmed as much when you were here on Sunday!"

"Which has been proven to be a lie. I appreciate that a mother might feel compelled to put forward a false alibi, but Lady Blackwood was at the Forsythe dinner across Town until almost midnight. The night watchmen who serve this street confirmed that they did not witness the return of any Blackwood carriages until well past midnight, nor did any of the grooms from your neighboring homes. We did learn of one carriage that returned at approximately one in the morning, and another shortly thereafter."

"So you have been questioning our neighbors or their servants. Are you officially accusing my brother of this crime?"

Simon folded his arms in agitation, awaiting the response. Again, the duke glanced to Gideon, whose eerie silver eyes were fixed on John. Something about the boy was decidedly odd, but Simon's thoughts were too occupied with the discussion to work out what it was. Did he know Gideon from somewhere?

"Not officially."

John rose to his feet, leaning on the desk for support with a flush of anger rising up his cheeks. "Unofficially?" he prompted.

Halmesbury stared at him for several seconds before responding. "There is more information than what we disclosed on our previous visit."

It was not an answer. Simon berated himself for not sending for the solicitor first thing on Monday morning. He had managed to convince himself that the situation would dissipate, and perhaps had been too bemused by the news of the heirs in Italy. His lack of foresight now caused him to be uncertain of how to react to this second visit. He could appreciate that the duke had his wife to comfort over her father's death, and that young Filminster might be feeling some resentment that he had been accused of his father's murder, but flinging about incriminations was … uncivilized.

"You withheld information?" Simon's tone was critical.

The duke's gray eyes returned to stare at him across the room. "You allowed your mother to provide false alibi?"

Simon expelled his breath, blushing in unexpected shame at being called out about the lie. "I was … with someone whom I cannot reveal."

The fop in the chair stirred at this announcement. "That is convenient," he muttered to no one in particular.

Lord Filminster, however, seemed unhappy at this news, raking his chestnut mane to announce his lack of composure. Simon recollected reading that Filminster had wed the daughter of a viscount after compromising her the night of the coronation. The alibi she had provided had proven he had not murdered his own father. It was the first signal that anyone in the party might be uncomfortable with accusing Simon of a crime he had no role in.

Simon flickered his gaze over to the strange Mr. Gideon, but, as before, the youth had his eyes fixed on John, paying no mind to the terse discussion taking place. A memory echoed in the recesses of his mind. He could swear he had been on the receiving end of that focused stare at some point in the past, but he could not place it.

"So … what is it?" John's question broke the awkward silence.

Lord Trafford rose to his feet, his lean face stern as he shot a glance to Gideon behind him. The two made eye contact, a strange frisson passing between them until the boy flickered an assent. Trafford turned back to glare at Simon. "I sent a letter to flush out the killer."

Simon frowned, his eyes skittering over to the desk.

"I stated a time and place to meet."

With this, Simon recalled the missive Trafford spoke of. Striding over, he began searching through his things, but the strange letter he had received was not there. "I received a note about a baron last month."

Trafford rolled his eyes. "Let me guess what has happened. My letter has …" He threw out his hands, pausing with dramatic effect. "… disappeared?" His tone was laden with sarcasm.

"Well … yes. What of it?"

"Someone followed me home when you failed to appear—and attempted to hasten me to an early grave with the tip of a sharp knife."

Simon shook his head, his thoughts spinning with the unreality of the moment. "You are saying … I tried to stab you?"

"Not you. One of your servants."

His head was reeling. Simon leaned his buttocks against the desk lest he fall over in shock at the bizarre denouncement. "Why … would one of my servants agree to kill you?"

Trafford shrugged with an insolent nonchalance belied by the fury in his brown eyes. Brown? Simon could have sworn the young dandy had green eyes when he had been here last in his sage attire. "Misplaced loyalty?"

John broke into a fit of coughing, the hacking wheeze of his lungs painful to hear, which pulled Simon's attention away from his problems as he waited for his brother to recover. After a couple of minutes, John drew a deep breath and rose to his feet to face Simon's accusers with a baleful glare.

"I think you overestimate the loyalty of our retainers, gentlemen. I can assure you Simon has informed me of whom he was with the evening of the coronation, and he has good reason to withhold the identity of his companion. In the interests of cooperation, I shall send for my butler, who can assist you with questioning our servants, for I can also assure you that there are no murderous fiends living under this roof. Then I expect you to drop this inquiry into my brother or I will pay a visit to the Home Secretary to complain about these heavy-handed antics. The Scotts have been valued members of the noble class for centuries, and we shall not tolerate any further sullying of our reputation."

Trafford opened his mouth to speak, before sinking back into his seat. "Halmesbury?"

The duke stepped forward. "Questioning your servants would do much to set our minds at ease. We thank you, Blackwood."

John nodded, waving to the bell. Simon walked over and rang for MacNaby to make arrangements. Perhaps they could settle this disagreement without further trouble.

Madeline headed to the secluded garden as soon as dinner was over, stopping to pull on a shawl to cover her bared shoulders in her rush to reach the garden. She knew Simon would come, despite his infrequent visits these past years. His absence had never been about them. Rather it had been real life impinging on the romantic world they had created together in the quiet of the foliage and stone.

Henri had given her grief, and her mother had glanced at her frequently throughout the meal, a question in her eyes. She could tell Eleanor Bigsby was worried about the situation with Simon and how it might affect Madeline's plans to consider the matchmaker's recommendations, but Mama had steered the conversation toward forthcoming social events to quiet Henri's misgivings.

Taking up her place on the stone bench, Madeline twisted her fingers as she considered her position. Then she shifted six inches closer to where Simon would take his seat to close the distance between them. Anticipation fluttered like butterflies in her stomach as she observed the half-moon above, fat with portent. It was the past waning away to usher in a new cycle, and Madeline had some hopes, despite cautioning herself that she did not know Simon's desires for the future.

But he is seeking me out again. Surely that means …

The crunch of boots upon the walkway interrupted her musings, and she lowered her gaze to watch Simon approach. She took in his lean form, the wide shoulders and slim hips, before noting he appeared to be crestfallen. Her anticipation rearranged itself into anxiety.

Simon dropped onto the bench without a word, his hip brushing against hers as he bent forward to lean his elbows on his long, muscular legs.

"What is it?"

"I am meeting with our solicitors in the morning. My mother's alibi has been disproven, so I need to explore my legal options in case …"

"This might be a serious problem to contend with?"

Simon nodded, his face glum. "The family of the late baron is convinced I have something to do with his death. The Duke of Halmesbury and his kin. Apparently, Lord Trafford, who is linked to them, was attacked after he sent me a letter last month."

Madeline wrinkled her nose in confusion. "What was in the letter?"

"At the time, I did not know who sent it. It merely stated that the sender knew something about my relationship with a baron and asked me to meet. I thought it was some sort of mistake and forgot about it, but now I cannot locate it amongst my things. This Trafford fellow attended the meeting, and he claims someone followed him home and attempted to kill him. He was most put out when I stated I received the letter, but it has been misplaced somewhere amongst my things in the study."

She considered this information, realizing she needed more information than the scraps she had heard from Simon and Henri if she were to provide any input of use. "My understanding is Lord Filminster is presumed to have been killed because he knew of your nephews living in Italy, who would be the rightful heirs if their existence came to light?"

"That seems to be their hypothesis."

"And Lord Trafford attempted to provoke a response from you to confirm that you might be the killer by sending you an anonymous letter, and he now claims an attempt was made to silence him."

"Which is ridiculous! The silly fop was likely attacked by someone wishing to divest him of his valuables. It is obvious he is moneyed from his clothing."

"What if someone in your household was aware of the Italian nephews?"

Simon frowned, glancing over at her with confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I imagine that these lords have investigated the murder quite thoroughly. Lord Filminster was almost arrested for patricide according to the news sheets, and the baron was killed two months ago. They have had time to explore the different motives for the crime."

"None of my family is capable of murder, Madeline!" His tone was stringent.

Madeline shifted away to the end of the bench, so she might think without the distraction of the heat emanating from his body. Simon was obsessed with his duty to the Scotts, ever since the night of Nicholas's accident. His emotions were too close to the surface. In her view, he must ask some hard questions so he might defend himself appropriately. She decided that as his friend, she must speak the harsh truth, even if it upset him.

"I like John, but your brother is frail. Men who are ill can behave out of character, and he might be concerned with legacy as his mortality beckons. Nicholas overindulges in spirits, which tend to limit one's morality, and might be worried about a stranger inheriting. He has two doting brothers who enable him in his habits, but who knows what your nephews might do. And your mother—" Madeline faltered. She had not the faintest notion of what Lady Blackwood might think about the situation. According to Simon's past anecdotes, the countess often repeated the opinions of her late husband with no emotion to indicate whether she agreed with the sentiments expressed or not. "—might have … reasons … we are unaware of."

Simon shook his head, tensing into a position of umbrage as if he would leap to his feet, yet he remained perched on the bench's edge as if contemplating it but not quite decisive. "This is ridiculous! John is too unwell to go about bludgeoning men to death. As you pointed out, Nicholas is too soused to talk his way into a stranger's study at midnight. And my mother has her own money and resources, so the situation affects her not at all. These lords have got this into their heads when there is an obvious explanation. I heard one of Filminster's footmen was killed in August. Perhaps he did it because he was caught pilfering when the rusticating baron arrived and found things amiss at Ridley House."

Madeline was silent for several seconds, thinking about his arguments. "Be that as it may, I am merely pointing out that you should attempt to find out more about the evidence they possess."

"We allowed them to question our servants, so John hopes that will put an end to it."

"Why did they wish to question your servants?"

"I … do not know. Trafford seems to think one of the servants attacked him."

Turning over what she knew in her mind, Madeline reached a conclusion. Simon would not like it, but?—

"You are a skilled negotiator, Simon. I believe you need to learn more about their investigation so you might help them to resolve their problem. The duke has an excellent reputation and is attempting to do right by his family. Approach him without resentment, and offer to assist so you might end this."

Simon rose, ambling over to gaze up at one of the gods in the moonlight. It was Athena, holding her spear in hand and with a helmet on her head. The goddess of wisdom.

Madeline had always been a good friend, listening to his troubles and offering quiet words. Too often he had not heeded her advice, and he did not wish to continue as he had.

He supposed he might call on Halmesbury, where the duke might feel more at ease in his own home, and Simon could offer his assistance. Months of contending with Lord Boyle's fickleness had taught him tolerance, which he could apply to his own troubles. Somehow it was easier to execute his duty when he put his own wishes aside, but since the liberty to pursue his own goals was at hand, he acted like a vacillating simpleton. Madeline was right. It was time to apply his talents to his defense. It was the final remaining obstacle to beginning a new life.

Simon reached a conclusion, Athena staring down at him in approval. "I shall speak with our solicitors and then approach Halmesbury to offer my assistance. It must be a terrible experience to have a family member so brutally murdered. To think of someone to whom I am so intimately tied dying alone, with only a foe to witness his untimely exit from the world—it is chilling."

Madeline smiled. "Excellent. The duke is logical. Once he notes your sincerity, it will cast doubt on their theory, then you can pursue your own plans."

"And what would those be?" Simon was startled to hear the suggestive tone of his voice. It was not subtle, but his thoughts had shifted to the woman he had admired these many years. They had been practically children when they were forced apart by circumstances beyond his control, but since the obstacles had been removed one by one, his mind was never far from the fact that they were children no longer.

Madeline's smile faded and her gaze fell to his lips as she swallowed hard in the pulsating quiet. Simon could hear the blood coursing through his veins as he watched her. She rose from the bench, and his eyes were drawn to the sweet curve of her bosom, which rose and fell as if she had been exerting herself.

She approached him, coming to a stop a mere foot away to raise her face and peer up at him. She was a silver beauty in the night, and Simon could feel heat stealing across the surface of his skin in response to the tension which hung suspended between them. Reaching up, he extended a finger to draw it down the curve of her cheek. Madeline inhaled in surprise, her eyes fixed on his as he traced a path down her throat and down to her décolletage with agonizing patience.

She tilted toward him, and Simon submitted to his long-buried desires to lean down and capture her soft lips with his. They remained frozen, their mouths pressed together in bliss. When he reached the limits of his tolerance, he brought his arms up to pull her into a tight embrace, groaning at the exquisite joy of her body against his.

His hands trembled with the desire to slide down and explore her womanly curves, his blood thickening at the thought that if he could resolve this fuss, he could finally claim his prize. And there could be no greater prize than a naked Madeline in his bed every night for the rest of their lives.

Desperate craving took hold, as their lips dueled for hungry domination. When her mouth parted for air, he stole his chance to lock his tongue with hers in an intricate dance of mating as the seconds stretched out and Simon gave himself over to his long-held desires to feel and taste his Psyche and to experience the joy of letting his inhibitions go. Discovering that she was far sweeter than he had imagined in the darkness of his bedchamber, panting as if they had run a mile together when they broke apart.

Honey and fruit lingered when he lifted his head to stare down at her in wonder. "You waited for me? All these years?"

There was a long silence, her eyes moistening with tears. "I … almost gave up. But you are my Eros. I would do anything to reunite with you."

Simon swallowed hard, overcome by the thought of how close he had come to losing her forever—how he could still lose her, even as they were inches from finally uniting. But he had hurt her enough. He must come to her as an unburdened man and not drag the productive Bigsby household into his chaos. It was imperative that he prove he had not committed this gruesome crime without damaging her reputation.

"I am so sorry for abandoning you. And that I have nothing to offer you."

"You are enough," she whispered back, into the still of the night.

"Yet I must ask you to continue your wait because I cannot make any promises until I put an end to this firestorm."

She reached up to caress his cheek, a brush of butterfly wings to quiet the despairing beast within. "I will be here."

"I do not deserve your patience."

Madeline pulled a face, tugging on his heart with the ironic humor reflected there. "Regardless, you have it."

Patience be damned. I have been patient for far too long!

Why had she allowed more than ten years to pass without taking a bloody stand for herself? For Simon? For them!

Madeline stomped along the garden path after Simon's departure with a tempest in her chest.

He was emotionally compromised by this situation he was in. By his neurotic family, who swilled spirits and walked through their days in the haze of laudanum and self-absorption.

While he insisted that no one in his clan could be capable of the flare of passion that had led to the death of the Baron of Filminster, Madeline had no such compunctions. She had witnessed the Scotts take advantage of Simon's guilt over Nicholas's accident for these many years, and could well imagine one of them bringing down a sculpture onto the head of a so-called foe who stood between them and their selfish pursuits.

Especially one who threatened their imagined comforts.

Personally, she thought the Scotts were something of a miserable bunch, and that Simon was the only selfless member of the family, to a fault. How he had escaped the personality flaws of his brothers—who would put Narcissus himself to shame—his imperious father, and his passionless mother was a question for the great philosophers.

As much as she liked John, and even Nicholas when he was sober, Madeline did not trust that they were incapable of doing wrong, given the right motive. She could like them without trusting them, as Simon should do.

Fortunately, Simon had agreed to speak with the duke after he met with his solicitors, but in the meanwhile, she was vexed. Vexed that destiny had seen fit to almost bring them back together, yet he was still out of reach.

And since Isla had already provided a false alibi that had been disproved, it would be even more impossible for Madeline to come forward in Simon's defense. She would be met with disbelief and scandal. Simon's mother was a vacuous doll who had ruined the only genuine advantage Simon had possessed in the aftermath of this heinous murder.

She could not believe that Simon—a competent manager of the Blackwood estates—had been so stupid as to allow a false alibi that could be disproven so easily. It was likely he had gone along with it in a bid to protect Madeline, but it was stupid nevertheless.

What a dunderhead!

Patience had led to lost time, and far too many mistakes to count. While Simon met with his legal firm, Madeline was determined to speak with Molly in the morning. There must be more that she could do than be patient!

Madeline had two problems to overcome. To protect Simon against the accusation, she needed to know if anyone in his household had perpetrated the crime. And, of higher concern, if one of Simon's mad relations had killed a person two months earlier, he could be in danger.

Molly was the one person she could think of to speak to. She seemed to have a good head on her shoulders, an intimate knowledge of the eccentric Scott household, and no agenda other than to set things right.

If Madeline attempted to discuss these complications with her mother, Eleanor would be far too concerned that Madeline could be hurt, or about losing her agreement to work with a matchmaker.

Talking with Henri would be useless—she was far too concerned with what the denizens of Parliament might have to say about this affair rather than Madeline's personal desires or her integrity as a woman to support the man she loved.

Simon was waking from an intoxicated slumber, and she was going to be here to assist him back to his personal quest to find his place in the world. Their place in the world. Together. As soon as she could overcome the last remaining obstacle to their happiness.

She entered through the library, shutting the terrace doors and turning to cross the room when she came face to face with her mother. Madeline shrieked in surprise, clapping a hand over her racing heart.

"Mama?"

"You have taken to visiting the garden after dinner again."

It was not a question. Eleanor towered over Madeline, six feet of worried mother staring down at her with palpable disappointment. Her handsome face was composed in the light of the oil lamps that the servants had yet to extinguish, but her eyes contained a swirling mixture of emotions in their amber depths.

Madeline was disoriented by the sudden mental shift. She knew this conversation was inevitable, but she had not expected it this night while she was contemplating bloodshed and lifelong dreams almost within reach. "I have."

"Why?"

She considered the events of the past few days. There was much that had happened, but Eleanor did not need all the gruesome details. Her mother wished to know what her plans were.

"Simon … is free from his obligations."

"Henri says he is a suspect in a murder?"

"Simon is not capable of unwarranted violence."

Eleanor stared down at her, bemused as she folded her arms. Madeline's stomach tightened as she awaited her response until her mother finally sighed. "No. He is not."

Relief surged through her in a wave. Her mother's opinion was important to Madeline. They had worked together at the manufactory since her youth, with Mama apprenticing her in varying facets of their stone empire with patience and detail. There were few people on this earth who Madeline respected more than the exceptional woman who forged her way in the world of business with daring and confidence.

Eleanor had developed artificial stone that held up to the elements, developed a client list that included the King himself. Uncle Reginald had opened doors for Eleanor as a young widow, but her mother had done the work to bring her kingdom into fruition. A vote of confidence from her was priceless.

"Simon is no longer tied down by his duty to the Blackwood title. When this accusation is settled, he will court me."

Her mother dropped her gaze to the rug beneath their feet as if lost in thought. "I hope he sees it through to the end. He has cost you much time."

Madeline was no longer the girl who had let her beau go in her youth, helpless as he slipped away due to his perceived culpability in Nicholas's injuries. Since that time, she had taken her place in the Bigsbys' business, negotiated orders and payments with their clients. Managed men. She knew what she wanted. Life was not going to rip her hopes and dreams away a second time.

Madeline drew herself up to her full height, still several inches shorter than her intimidating mother, but she had found her fire and she was confident in what she wanted.

"I learned my lesson. I will not make the same mistakes again. This time, I will be the one who sees it through to the end."

Madeline was proud of the firmness in her voice. Eleanor raised her head, a gleam of approval lighting her eyes as her lips curled into a wide smile. "A woman must fight for what she wants in this world."

"Precisely."

"Then when the time comes to hand over the reins of Bigsby's, I shall be proud to do so, daughter."

Madeline warmed at these words. It was high praise, indeed, coming from Eleanor Bigsby.