Chapter 8 #2
“How can you be so calm? I was counting on you being the heir! These new fellows might cast me out. How am I meant to get by on the pittance from our parents’ marriage settlements?”
Simon could not help but snort. “It is far more than most people earn making a living.”
Nicholas straightened up to his full height, his ire obvious in every inch of his body.
There was no sign of the sarcastic twit Simon had spoken with just days ago.
“I am not of the working class. I do not know how to get by on a reduced allowance. You may yearn to work in the trenches of industry, but I … I am meant to be a son of the privileged classes.”
“Considering we do not know what the future holds, you will have to think how you wish to participate in the real world. Carousing with your cronies will not produce the fortune you imagine.”
Simon caught a glimpse of Duncan, but the tall footman with the square face and dark blond hair obviously realized a family squabble was under way and hastily retraced his steps to avoid interrupting.
“Thunder an’ Turf, Simon! You are an obnoxious, self-righteous clot!”
“And you are a lazy, over-imbibing lout who could benefit from honest work.” Simon winced.
They were harsh words, but recent events had him under the pressure of a steam engine about to blow.
As the time approached to welcome the new heirs into their household, and with a murder accusation hanging over—around?
—Simon clasped his neck as he contemplated the possibility of the hangman’s noose.
He had not the patience to mince words any longer.
Nicholas was on a terrible path, and they must engage in mutual cooperation.
John’s health was of grave concern, a transfer in title therefore a pressing possibility, and his younger brother’s days of idle pleasures must end.
Simon needed to chart a course from his present circumstances, and Nicholas was his responsibility to see to.
His brother was seething, his usual supercilious mask long forgotten, as he glared down at Simon. “You are a bacon-brained cur to speak to me so. My head is pounding, or I would take you to task with my fists.”
Simon burst out laughing. “You could not plant a facer upon a fly, Nick. You have not the strength!”
Struggling down the stairs with a pronounced limp, Nicholas came down the hall with his full umbrage on display. “Do not tempt me to prove that I have more than enough strength to fell a grown man!”
Stepping back in surprise, Simon paused to look his brother up and down before responding.
His brother’s eyes were bloodshot and bracketed by black circles, causing Simon’s heart to tweak in sympathy.
He hated that the boy he had known had vanished the night he had fallen three stories from Simon’s window.
“I apologize. I was thrilling at soliciting a genuine emotion from you and got carried away.”
It was true. These past few years, Nicholas had seemed a lost cause. It was almost invigorating to be engaging in an argument. It was more truthful than their recent superficial discussions.
Nicholas relaxed back, placated by the apology. “What will we do?”
“We are hardly indigent, Nicholas. You have an allowance, and Mother has her endowment along with her titled entailments. And I will help you if our purposes do not align with the arriving gentlemen.”
His brother shook his head in dismay. “Is there nothing we can do? You were to be Lord Blackwood. We have nothing in common with these men from Italy.”
“We may break bread with our nephews and form a connection. There is no need to anticipate an eradication of your situation. They may be more than amenable to continue as John and Father have done.”
“That seems unlikely. We know nothing of their thoughts, and I … should … have …” Nicholas trailed off with an anguished expression, hanging his head in supplication.
“Put more thought into what you wanted from your life?”
Nicholas gave a glum nod. “It is true I abuse the spirits, but these dratted injury causes me such pain.”
Simon’s breath froze in his lungs. Lawks! His younger brother had never revealed such intimate information. “It troubles you?”
“It does.”
“Would you …” Simon was almost afraid to ask the question lest his brother retreat back under his glib mask. “If we found a physician who could provide you with real help …”
“It might be time. I am frightened by what comes next. All my life, I knew I had you and John to take care of things, and the prospect of a changing of the guards is terrifying.”
Simon sensed there was more his brother wished to say, but he dared not press.
It was more than enough that Nicholas was willing to speak plainly and consult with a new physician.
Someone other than the laudanum-peddling Dr. White who treated the entire Scott household.
Except for himself. Simon was never ill.
“I know of a physician who might be able to help. May I … arrange a meeting?”
His brother inhaled deeply, thinking about Simon’s proposal with tension in his face. Simon perceived that his brother was considering a startling change in attitude and remained silent to allow Nicholas to think it through lest he interrupted prematurely.
“Yes, that is acceptable.”
Simon realized he had been holding his breath while he waited, expelling air in a rush with heady disbelief but careful not to exhibit his elation. Finally! He had been trying to convince his brother for years!
Simon was not going to question him about what had changed, or why Nicholas was willing to take that first step. Nay, the safest course of action was to seize the opportunity to help him, which would set things right between them.
“I believe this is a wise decision.”
Nicholas gave a half chuckle, shrugging it off. “Do not grow maudlin on me, stinker.”
Simon laughed. The urge to embrace his brother was overpowering, but he knew it would be too much, so he kept his arms fixed to his sides and enjoyed the first win he had experienced in days.
Nicholas had agreed to see a doctor other than that medicating fraud, Dr. White.
This was a splendid day despite his numerous botherations.
Madeline hurried along the garden path as swiftly as her skirts would allow, her slippers crunching against the gravel as she nearly broke into a run. Her conversation with Henri had delayed her from meeting with Molly, and it was imperative she speak with her.
She hoped her friend had waited for her, but it was not a formal arrangement that they meet after breakfast. More of a happenstance of their morning routines converging.
Given what her sister had revealed, Madeline was even more determined to learn what she could about the goings-on of the Scott household.
Bursting through the archway, she was elated to find Molly reading a book in the morning light. As she approached, she realized Molly was not reading, but staring at the cover as if she had forgotten what she was about and never opened the book.
“Molly?”
She flinched, raising her head. “Madeline. I am sorry. I was woolgathering.”
Madeline sank onto the bench, worried about her friend because she knew she had been making noise equivalent to a stampeding herd of elephants. It would take a smothering of worry to render Molly so deaf. “Is something wrong?”
Molly’s brow furrowed. “I do not know. I have been thinking about this business with Simon, and … I suppose I feel rather helpless. He is an honorable man, and it is not right that he is in this situation. And …”
A cloud passed over her features, and Madeline had an intuition about what she did not wish to state out loud.
“You are wondering if there is a reason why the evidence points to Simon?”
Molly did not respond for several seconds, her voice weak when she finally answered. “Is someone in my household responsible for the baron’s death?”
Though the idea clearly caused her friend such anguish, Madeline felt a strange relief at hearing the words spoken. She was not alone in her fear. “I confess, sleep eluded me as I turned that very fear over in my mind.”
Molly turned to her with an expression of profound relief. “Truly?”
“I believe that it is not only possible, but that someone must look into it.” Madeline steeled her nerve to say what she had come to say. “We must look into it.”
Her companion’s eyes widened. “Could we not simply tell Simon?”
“I attempted it just yesterday, but Simon is compromised when it comes to the Scotts. He will not admit the possibility that one of his relations may be a cold-blooded killer, and along with all the other issues he is dealing with—”
“We should,” Molly interrupted, intense with earnest interest. “We should look into it without adding to Simon’s burdens.
I so want to assist, and what can it hurt for us to do so?
It would be better to uncover any disreputable secrets without external intervention.
” She sounded emphatic, reaching a decision from only a gentle prod.
It was as Madeline had hoped when her mind had plagued her with the worst outcomes all night.
“Just so. There is scandal brewing, so I do not wish to add to it, which is why I think we are uniquely positioned to investigate. A little. To be sure.”
“So what do we do?”
Madeline grimaced. This was the part that made her feel queasy. It would be such a horrible violation of privacy, and they would need to forget anything they found that did not pertain to the murder or an attempt to hide knowledge of the heirs.
“We search their desks and papers to see if there is any evidence pointing to contact with the late Lord Filminster or his relations, knowledge of the heirs in Italy, or …”
“Or what?”