Chapter 7
“But the ants, moved by compassion for Psyche, came to her aid, sorting the grains one by one.”
Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses
Simon had wanted to sweep Madeline into his arms and plant a kiss on her soft lips, but at the very moment of truth, reason had prevailed.
He could not, in good conscience, draw her into the turmoil of a murder investigation, not until he understood the full extent of the situation.
Which was why he had decided to seek counsel from their solicitors.
He ought to have done so days ago, if only 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 that had turned chilly overnight.
The duke and earl stood in silence with their beavers tucked beneath their arms, their gloves clasped in hand.
Clear evidence they had declined the footman’s offer to stow them away.
Lord Filminster and the ostentatious 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 that 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, nodded 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 failing to send 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 beyond all civility.
“You withheld information?” Simon’s tone was critical.
The duke’s gray eyes fixed on 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, Trafford, stirred at this announcement. “How exceedingly 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.”
At that, Simon’s memory jolted. He recalled the strange missive. Striding to his desk, he rifled through his correspondence, but the letter was nowhere to be found. “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 against the desk lest he fall over in shock at the bizarre denouncement. “Why, in Heaven’s name, 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?”
At that moment, John was seized by 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.