Chapter 6 #2
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.
Madeline remembered how pale and hollow-eyed he had been when, months later, he appeared in the garden to tell her that his plans for the future had changed. He had looked like a man who had spent weeks in the valley of shadow, praying for a miracle
“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.
In her estimation, the average politicians resembled 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 truly believe 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 you are right, 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 roared outside, making it difficult to hear, but he caught MacNaby’s news, pronounced 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 nine circles of hell, and Boyle was certain to fling the gates open wide to reveal the tenth.
“What is terrible, my lord?”
Boyle paced, 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, waiting 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, which, Simon supposed, was precisely what had occurred.
Then the full import of Boyle’s words struck him. Was the man 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 not to 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.”