Chapter 2
“The pain of their separation was felt deeply by both, though neither could bridge the distance between them.”
Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses
Their 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 well aware that such little complaints, and the endless commentary, were Isla Scott’s substitute for frowning. She would not frown. Frowning 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. “But … do they have to be so silly?”
Simon smiled despite himself. It was an accurate description, and he had lain awake many nights over his future with Olivia.
The thought of marriage no longer stirred anticipation, only weary resignation.
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, he presented such an absurd spectacle that Simon had to blink to steady his vision.
“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 cherubs 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 financial urgency, Boyle had been reluctant to commit quill to contract. Each clause was sent off to his solicitor for review, each agreement followed by a new objection. It had taken every ounce of Simon’s forbearance to bring them to this point.
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 new calamity had arisen to delay the inevitable.
“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 had long suspected Lord Boyle made a sport of finding new reasons for distress.
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.
Among the privileged, there persisted a certain terror of revolt, a ghost of France that haunted them still.
Lord Boyle and his friends had shuddered when the French king had met the guillotine.
Their fear of the mob had outlasted both reason and memory.
Perhaps that same fear explained the viscount’s disastrous finances.
He had long since lost touch with the world beyond his drawing rooms, 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 regarded the revelation with distaste.
The notion of killing for a title struck him as grotesque.
His own inheritance was no prize, but a yoke around his neck—one he would gladly cast off if he could.
Duty had no joy in it, only weight. 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.
Deuce it. 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.
For half an hour, he indulged the viscount’s theatrics, assuring him there was no uprising to fear and no need to fortify the townhouse against imaginary revolutionaries. Only then did he succeed in steering the conversation toward the drawing room.
There, the ladies were at tea.
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, like her bow, rather flighty.
“La! Mr. Scott, we did not expect you to visit us!”
Simon’s jaw tightened. A habit of late.
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 expressing emotions was aging.