Chapter 9 #2
Simon decided it was not the most opportune time to point out that John had revealed the murder victim had been accusatory at the ceremony of him hiding heirs, a fact that he had shared with the entire family before they all departed for their evening arrangements on the night of the coronation.
It was the reason Simon even knew who Filminster was before the news of his murder.
Yet … what was he suggesting? That one of his brothers or his own mother was a cold-blooded killer?
These accusations had him on edge, seeking shadows within shadows. He did not envy Filminster’s family for what they must be feeling under such trying circumstances. It was astounding to consider that a violent brute had attacked a peer, ushering him to meet his maker decades before he was ready.
“Calm yourself, brother. It was a fair question, but I take your point. I do not think anyone in this household committed a brutal murder, but it is unfortunate that MacNaby, Duncan, and Roderick cannot be accounted for when Trafford was accosted.”
John settled back, placated by Simon’s words.
“It would be the men who have worked for us the longest. MacNaby has been our butler for three decades, while Duncan and Roderick have each been here for more than a decade. Why could the three in question not have been retainers we hired in the past few months, to soundly disprove the theory that we have a member of our staff so loyal they would kill a peer for one of us?”
Simon stroked his beard, appalled at what John had pointed out. “Blast! I never even thought of that. Deuce it, John, they grow even more convinced I am guilty. We need to find them another suspect because they are not going to let this rest!”
“Agreed, brother. I see no sign of them backing down.”
Madeline accompanied Molly into the Scotts’ townhouse. She had informed her coachman that she would depart for the manufactory later than usual. There were no pressing appointments this morning, and the need to uncover the truth compelled her to begin their search without delay.
They had worked out the particulars together, and by the end of the day, if fortune favored them, they hoped to have quietly examined the effects of all four Scotts.
It was daunting, daring, and reprehensible, but Madeline had been frozen by inaction after Nicholas had had his accident, and she would not repeat the same mistake.
She would do whatever it took to prove that the Scotts were blameless, or to uncover the fiend who attracted this cloud of trouble to the man she loved.
Molly and she both had reservations about what they planned to do, but deemed it a necessary evil if there was a dangerous assailant lurking in the house. Murder was not a trivial subject.
Molly knocked on the study door, both women glancing at each other in apprehension. They were both in disbelief that they were going to proceed.
“Enter,” came Simon’s voice from within.
He rose in surprise as the door opened and Madeline stepped across the threshold.
“Madel—Miss Bigsby!” He caught himself quickly, darting an uncertain look at Molly before returning his gaze to Madeline.
It warmed her heart to see him, though guilt pricked at her conscience for the deceit she was about to commit.
Madeline approached his desk, spreading her skirts to take a seat on the facing chair, while Molly came to stand by her side.
“I have invited Madeline to dinner.” Molly sounded breathless as she stated what they had rehearsed in the garden.
Madeline suppressed a wince. She did not think either of them were accomplished at pretending, but they were going to do their best in Simon’s best interests.
Madeline had reached the same conclusion as Molly.
There was no reason to burden Simon with suspicions about his family, but nevertheless, someone had to pursue it to a proper end.
Simon squinted, clearly puzzled as to why he was being informed in this manner or why Madeline needed to attend this briefing with Molly. “Ah … yes, of course. You are a member of the family, so I suppose you are at liberty to invite guests to break bread with us.”
He sent a questioning glance toward Madeline, who pretended to be engrossed in the hem of her gown, unwilling to meet his eyes. It was hardly an elegant scheme, but they had contrived it in haste and must now see it through.
“Could I have a word in private, Simon?” Molly asked suddenly.
Simon peered back and forth between them with a perplexed expression. “Do you mean without Miss Bigsby present?”
“Yes, if we could speak about a unrelated topic. I do not want to bother Miss Bigsby with … household matters.”
He stood frozen in bewilderment, clearly at a loss about what a strange interaction he was caught in and not sure what Molly was asking him to do. “Yes, that is acceptable.”
“In the library.”
“Uh … yes.” Simon gave a short bow of respect to Madeline, following his cousin from the room and pausing to close the study door behind them.
Left to herself in the room, she rose and rushed over to the other side of the desk.
She needed to search for the letter with lightning speed, so she dropped to her knees to start with checking the floor.
Sometimes pages from her desk at work would vex her by falling into tight crevices or flittering away with annoying speed to land under a piece of furniture.
Bringing her cheek down against the flooring, she peered under the shelving but saw no pages there, although she could confirm the servants cleaned thoroughly by the lack of accumulated dust. She stood back up to search a pile of correspondence on the desk but found nothing but letters from the various Blackwood estates.
Her gut tightened with suspense, knowing that Molly would keep Simon from the room for a few minutes at most. The hope was that they would find the blackmail letter from Trafford to disprove that someone in the house had taken it from his things, but so far …
Madeline sucked in a rush of air for courage and began to open Simon’s drawers.
The first held quill, nibs, extra inkstands, sealing wax along with a seal, and blank pages.
Shutting it, she reached for the second drawer.
This one held correspondence, which she leafed through but noted nothing but neatly organized notes from the stewards at the respective estates.
She fanned the pages, which were tied together with string, but no loose pages fell from the stacks.
Realizing she was running out of time, Madeline shoved the drawer shut and tried another. This one was mostly empty with only a leather journal, which she opened to fan the pages again, careful not to read any of the sentences inked upon them because she did not wish to violate his privacy.
The other drawers were similar. Madeline straightened up and spun around to face the shelving behind the desk.
Hastily grabbing the account books one at a time, she fanned those too, but no letter had been accidentally caught amongst their pages.
Checking about her, but out of ideas, she raced back to take up her seat before Molly and Simon returned.
Attempting to calm herself, the disappointment was cloying at her stomach. She had so hoped to find it, the first step to confirming that the Scott family was innocent of any wrongdoing.
She supposed it was possible that Simon had already attempted to find the letter—he kept a neat work space—and it would be much simpler to ask him if he had done so.
But he had been disturbed at the idea of suspecting one of his relations, and if Madeline raised the issue of the letter, it would lead back into a discussion about the murder.
She was not sure she could hold her tongue when she was so anxious for his freedom and his safety, so this was the best she could do at such short notice.
Perhaps Molly would find something this evening while the family was at dinner.
Simon stood in the library, struggling to articulate his thoughts to the young woman who had been living with them these past months.
He wished his step-cousin to feel at home in her new surroundings—Heaven help him, the words still felt peculiar on his tongue—but it was a grievous breach of etiquette to have an unmarried young lady attend dinner, especially given the marked differences in their stations.
“Molly, you and I both hold Miss Bigsby in the highest regard, but …” Simon rubbed his beard, hoping that the second time he opened his mouth, eloquent words would pour out. “You do understand … it is rather unusual?”
This was true. Madeline had never dined in the Scott household despite their close connection. He would hate to inflict his family’s aristocratic disdain on the lady he had admired so ardently.
“As long as she has a chaperon, it should be acceptable. If anyone witnesses her arrival, there is nothing untoward to infer because both I and your mother are in residence, so she could be invited to dinner by one of us.”
Deuce it! What on earth was Molly thinking? She had shown a nuanced understanding of what was de rigueur in polite society up until now.
“That … is true.”
“So it is acceptable? As long as she has a chaperon?”
It was not acceptable, yet Simon’s better instincts forbade him from chastising her. Molly had lost her mother this year, and they were family, if not by blood, at least by marriage. He did not wish to embarrass her when she had made so few requests for herself since joining their household.
“I … suppose that would be permissible,” he said carefully. “However, it would be wise to inform my mother. She may not approve, so it is best to give her notice rather than risk a display of displeasure.” Simon paused, tilting his head as he reflected on the woman in question.
Isla Scott would hardly make a display. He continued, choosing his words with care. “I mean, voice her displeasure. Both Lord and Lady Blackwood might have remarks about … Miss Bigsby’s … rank within their cloistered world if they are not given sufficient time to prepare for such an event.”
Molly pursed her lips, appearing to think about his suggestion. “Hmm … it might make for an awkward dinner.”
“Just so.” Simon sighed. He did not wish to subject Madeline to his family’s unpredictable moods. They were all rather on edge about the strangers who would arrive from Italy, so the probability of them saying something cutting was vastly increased.
“Can you inform them of the dinner arrangements?”
“I would rather not,” he replied quickly.
Coaxing his brother and Isla into behaving themselves, or attempting to answer their inevitable questions about why Madeline was coming to dinner would be subdued if Molly was the one to present it.
They were still mostly on their best behavior because none of them knew her all that well, while with Simon, their full displeasure would be expressed.
“I would appreciate it. You see, I cannot be at dinner this evening.”
What the living hell?
Simon almost cursed out loud. Up until now, Molly had appeared pragmatic, a trait that Simon had appreciated when compared to the characters living under this roof. It was clearly a clever deception. She was as eccentric as any member of the Scott household!
“I am sorry. You are saying you invited Madel—Miss Bigsby to dinner, but you shall not be attending?”
“That is correct.”
Simon gave up on proper behavior. If she was to make such odd demands, proper behavior be damned. He would be direct.
“Why?”
“I … am not feeling well. I have a tickle in my throat, and I think I should rest until it passes.”
“Then why, for the love of heaven, have you invited Madeline to dinner?” Simon could hear that he sounded irate, but this conversation made him feel like he was on a visit to Bedlam to speak with the lunatics.
Molly, whom he had believed to be a sensible person, was proving to be an egregious disappointment as a pragmatist.
Molly turned her gaze to a gilt-framed painting over the fireplace, licking her lips. Simon had the impression she was seeking a reply, which made him narrow his eyes. Was she up to something? Why was Madeline involved?
“At the time I invited her … I was feeling well, but am no longer. I do not wish to retract the invitation, so perhaps she can come as your guest?”
Simon raked his hair and wondered if it was possible he was dreaming this entire conversation. “My guest?”
Molly gave a firm nod at this, but Simon sensed she was feigning bravado.
“Are you attempting to matchmake us?”
She blinked, her expression confused until settling into a hopeful smile. “Yes?”
“Are you asking me a question or answering mine?”
She squared her shoulders into a more confident stance. “Answering you. I think that … you and Madeline would make quite a pair.”
“Why is Madeline going along with this?”
“I … told her … that … I needed the company … so … she does not know I am attempting to matchmake?”
“Is that a statement or a question?”
His cousin bit her lip, hesitating for a fraction of a second. “A statement!”
“So you are requesting that I have an unwed woman over for dinner, and that I inform my brother and mother of it while you take a tray in your bedroom?” It sounded so absurd he could scarcely believe he had uttered such a sentence.
“I would appreciate it greatly.”
Simon repressed a groan. If only he understood her better, perhaps he could make sense of this madness. He could hardly rescind the invitation now. That would be a slight to Madeline, after all she had done for him in recent days despite his years of thoughtless neglect.
“What of the chaperon?”
“What chaperon?”
His nostrils flared with irritation. Was Molly woolgathering?
She did seem distracted. “The one she needs to appease etiquette? If you are not to be at dinner? My mother will not be pleased as it is. I cannot deceive her into thinking Madeline is here at her request, and she is not the sort to volunteer for such a scheme. Announcing this will be complicated enough without explaining her lack of companion and, if I am to pretend I invited her, there must be a chaperon.”
“Oh. I suppose she might bring her mother or her sister.”
Sweet heaven! Eleanor Bigsby setting foot in Lord Blackwood’s home? He supposed he should be thankful his father lay in his grave or this dinner would have sent him there.