Chapter 4 #2
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 towering 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, 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. The exchange was peculiar, as though a seasoned duke were taking his cue from a lad who could not yet have reached his majority.
From the soft features and the absence of stubble, the youth appeared no older than fifteen or sixteen.
A brother-in-law to an honorary viscount, and yet these men, peers of the realm, were deferring to him.
What possible reason could there be for such deference?
“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.”
Simon’s 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 that had caused him to falter.
With deep gratitude, Simon agreed. “I was … with my mother, Lady Blackwood.”