Chapter 9
“A gentle reed whispered to Psyche, ‘Wait until the sheep are resting in the shade, and then collect the wool caught on the branches of the trees.’”
Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses
“You should wed Olivia Boyle.”
John’s declaration was met by the loud ticking of the mahogany clock on the shelf. Tick, tick, tick, it said while Simon considered how best to respond to his older brother’s absurd recommendation.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether he was still abed, dreaming this peculiar conversation in the comfort of his sheets.
He would far rather dream of Madeline—of drawing her close, her warmth soft against him as sleep claimed them both.
More likely, the lamb from dinner had been ill-seasoned to provoke such nonsense.
He tapped the arm of his chair with drumming fingertips just to confirm it was daytime, and he had indeed dressed with the help of his valet just an hour earlier. The leather-clad padding was solid enough to the touch. He must be awake, then.
“Why on earth would I do that?” It was a serious question. Simon could not think of a solitary reason he would want to do such a thing. “Her father is making arrangements for her to marry Lord Clutterbuck.”
“It would elevate the Blackwood legacy to align with such an ancient family, and Clutterbuck is old enough to be her grandfather. You would be doing the featherbrained chit a service.”
Simon blinked, half-wondering whether his brother had taken leave of his senses.
He rarely drank, but if he had, he suspected the fog in his head would feel much the same.
Did John truly believe this? Did he have a legitimate reason to suggest such folly, or was this more of the legacy foolishness that had held Simon fast all these years while his real life slipped away?
“I have no wish to wed Miss Boyle. She is a frivolous flibbertigibbet who would drive me stark, raving mad. She and Lord Clutterbuck are suited in every aspect other than age.”
One of the few benefits of no longer being heir to the Blackwood title was that he was no longer bound to bow to his father’s will … or his brother’s. He could finally make his own choices, once he had determined precisely what those choices should be.
First, however, he needed to prove his innocence in the matter of Lord Filminster’s death. That would be far easier to accomplish if John had not just settled himself into Simon’s chair at the desk.
Simon resisted the childish urge to sigh.
He truly ought to consider taking rooms at one of his clubs.
The habit of rising to make way in his own study for whichever Blackwood held the title had grown insufferable.
He had spent the better part of a decade doing the family’s work, while John merely scrawled his signature across documents he scarcely read.
Simon hoped that the new heir, Marco Scott, would be as fastidious to details as he had been because the baron was in too much physical discomfort to worry about details such as their tenants’ leases, or advising them about managing their crops for maximum profits.
John did not pay attention to representing his district at Lords, relying on Simon to determine the votes he cast to protect the combined interests of the people of Blackwood.
The thought of all he needed to teach the incoming heir gave him a headache.
I hope Marco allows me to orient him to this role.
“You must consider the bloodlines, Simon. These … curst Italians … will sully centuries of Blackwood’s legacy if their claim turns out to be legitimate.”
Simon suppressed the impulse to grimace.
“The people of Italy have bestowed upon us architecture, art, and sculptures so exquisite that they inspire faith itself at their divine perfection. I am certain that Marco, being half-English, will bring a fresh perspective to the Blackwood title, one that shall only strengthen all you hold dear. Furthermore, Italian culture is renowned for its devotion to kin, so he will undoubtedly honor those that come before him.”
“Word is that this Marco is a bear leader. Were you aware of that?”
“He tutors young Englishmen on their Grand Tour?”
“That is correct. What have you to say to that? How can such an individual be qualified to be the next baron?” John’s tone was plaintive and challenging, a combination that grated on Simon’s nerves.
Did his brother not recall that Simon was under suspicion for a violent crime?
Perhaps there was a better time to discuss the inanity of Marco Scott’s prior occupation, but John must have been obsessing over his mortality this morning.
“So he is familiar with our English ways, an accomplished academic, and a gentleman who appreciates the importance of preservation.”
“You make it sound an asset.”
“It is. How did he come to be in such a role?” Simon acknowledged to himself with some shame that he had not displayed any interest in the relations who would arrive from the Continent, but his thoughts had been otherwise occupied.
“Apparently, he is from an important family in Florence. Merchants!”
The last was hissed in disgust. Simon suppressed a smile at this.
John would be most displeased when he learned Simon planned to enter into industry.
He would deem it worse than the merchant class.
It had always been Simon’s plan ever since he had learned Eleanor Bigsby’s story as a young lad and been fascinated that someone he knew had created such success in the span of years.
What must it feel like to build lasting wealth, employing people with the sweat of one’s brow rather than being born into it.
Granted, she had begun with some capital when she arrived in London, but she had multiplied it tenfold since then.
“Faith! The merchant background means he likely has a head for the business of managing property. Along with his interest in the grandeur of the past, he possesses the perfect skills for a future baron.”
“Blast it, Simon! You almost seem pleased at this unfortunate turn of events.”
I am. If I can settle this murder investigation, I will be able to court Madeline.
He was not going to inform John of that.
He would fight that battle at the appropriate time, which was not while he awaited the arrival of this Marco, nor while he needed to persuade the Duke of Halmesbury that he had not brutally clubbed the His Grace’s father-in-law to death.
How grisly to consider the late baron bleeding out on the floor of his own study!
He looked away, his gaze landing on the expanse of rich navy, gold, and ivory carpet, the intricate weave too easily replaced in his mind’s eye with dark stains. He shook his head sharply. He must remain focused.
Recalling his promise to speak with Halmesbury, Simon shook his head to clear his thoughts. It would have to wait until he met with their legal firm, but he wished he could call on the duke to clear the air and offer his cooperation.
“I am merely pointing out it might not be so dreadful to welcome them into our lives.”
“Personally, I wish we had never learned of their existence and could have continued in ignorant bliss.”
John rarely spoke of Peter. Simon glanced at his oldest brother, for just a second wondering if he might have done something to keep their nephews from being uncovered, but dismissed it as disloyal.
John was not a bad person, even if recent illness had made him more inconsiderate this past year.
It must be difficult for him as the baron that he had never been able to produce heirs, only to discover his late brother had had two healthy boys.
It was odd to consider that Simon himself had had a brother he had never met, considering how much he liked the two he had grown up with.
Perhaps a change of subject was in order. “What of the questioning of the servants?”
“From what I gather from MacNaby, three of the servants cannot confirm their whereabouts at the time of Lord Trafford’s attack. Do you think his letter had something to do with it, or did some ruffian follow him home to relieve the fop of his valuables?”
Simon growled in disappointment at this news. “Which three?”
“MacNaby, Duncan, and Roderick. MacNaby said he went to the market after a botched delivery left Cook without ingredients for breakfast. She apparently has arthritis in her knees and did not trust the kitchen maids to make purchases on her behalf. Duncan said he was in the attic to stow away furniture from the guest bedroom, which is being refurbished, but no one saw him for those hours, while Roderick was sent by your mother to Covent Garden to purchase violets.”
“Devil take it! All the way to Covent Garden?”
John shrugged at the vagaries of women. “She favors a specific flower seller there that sells the best blooms, and she had an urgent need to make violet water to freshen her handkerchiefs.”
“Do you think any of the three are involved?”
John straightened in horror, staring at Simon from across the desk with his mouth agape. “What are you asking? You wish to know if one of us—a Scott—instructed a servant to run off and kill this Trafford fellow while they were running errands? Have you lost your mind?”
Simon rose, walking over to the window that faced the garden. “I do not know. Is it possible that someone in our household killed the baron? These lords seem so utterly convinced I am guilty, which does give one pause, does it not?”
“Who, then? You think I went to dinner and decided to kill Filminster on the drive home because he irritated me at the ceremony? Or perhaps it was Nicholas who somehow learned of this baron he has never met and pretended to go out carousing, so he might stop over and murder Filminster for upsetting his older brother. No! It must be your mother, because Filminster is an obnoxious old goat, and she thought it would be aesthetically pleasing to rid the world of his ugly mug.”