Chapter 12
“The voice warned her: ‘Do not open the box, no matter what you desire, for it contains only peril.’”
Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses
After retching his guts out, John was drowsy and falling asleep in his bed. His color was slightly improved since his collapse in the study, and his breathing had eased. Footmen had removed the evidence of his emptied stomach, and the windows had been thrown open to air out the room.
Lady Trafford had requested lavender water to dispel the noxious odor of illness and was now instructing Molly on the baron’s care.
“You are to keep the door closed at all times. No one must have access to the baron until an investigation has been conducted. I will have meals delivered from our own kitchens, but he is not to eat or drink anything from this house.”
Molly nodded, her face pale and earnest while Simon listened on with gratitude that Lady Trafford was a woman committed to the art of healing and practical about the security of the situation.
He had already been informed that he would not have access to John, which he had agreed to.
The duke was more than willing to remove John to his own townhouse if there was any balking at Lady Trafford’s instructions, but John wished to remain in his own rooms, so he had directed Simon to cooperate fully.
Simon concurred, noting that his brother was weak and did not need the undue stress of being moved after such prolonged and violent vomiting.
“A guard from our home will be arriving soon to stand in the hall, so if you do need to rest or leave the room, he will ensure no one else enters while you are otherwise occupied. My husband will introduce you directly, so there is no question that he is the guard we summoned, and he, in turn, will introduce you to his replacement for the evening shift.”
Simon’s cousin bobbed her head in acknowledgment, leaning in to whisper as she glanced over to his brother, “Will he be all right?” John was frail and helpless within the embrace of the canopied bed.
Lady Trafford paused, lowering her voice so that the patient would not overhear.
“It will be a long and painful recovery. Arsenic corrodes the organs, but I believe the doses have been minute, likely to persuade a coroner that he suffered from a long illness. I think Lord Blackwood’s health will improve without those doses. ”
Simon realized he had been holding his breath in an effort to overhear the viscountess answer from several feet away.
Exhaling heavily, he stroked his beard with a trembling hand.
Anger and confusion warred for domination.
Who was there to be angry at, without knowing who was behind this?
Well … There was one person with whom he was livid—the incompetent Dr. White!
Was the old fool a fellow conspirator to whomever was trying to kill John?
Nay, it seemed more likely White had missed the signs. Nevertheless, Simon was going to demand some answers by sending for the doctor.
Madeline lifted the heavy brass knocker and brought it down on the door, rapping as hard as she could for several seconds. Still there was no response, causing her growing queasiness to increase. Something was wrong. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach.
Why were the servants not answering?
She tried one more time, then gave up to head home. After striding through her home, she exited through the library terrace and hurried down to the shared garden to access the Scotts’ property. Making her way up to their terrace, she approached Simon’s study to see if he was in.
Peering in the window, while being careful to use the wall as a shield, Madeline experienced the first flush of relief when she caught sight of him at his desk, scribbling with a quill upon a page.
Reaching out, she rapped her knuckles on the window.
The sound was muted by her glove, but Simon straightened to look over to where she was hiding.
Catching sight of her, he rose from his seat to stride across the room and open the terrace door.
“Madeline?” He stood aside, ushering her in with a wave of his hand as he peered about to ensure no one witnessed her entry.
She entered, pausing to glance up at him, noting the telltale signs of strain. The accusations against him were wearing him down. She could see it in the shadows across his face and the rigid set of his shoulders. How she wished she could do more than merely ease his burdens.
“You should not be here.” His voice was gruff, but his blue eyes ran over her with appreciation. “You look lovely.”
Madeline hesitated, reaching up to check her bonnet and tucking in an errant lock of hair. “Do you know where Molly is? She was to meet me more than an hour ago?”
Simon’s face hardened. “Molly is with John. He … has taken a turn for the worse … and …” It seemed as if he wished to say more. “I will have to explain later. Tonight, perhaps? In the garden? I must send for his physician and inform the family to … I … Can we meet after dinner?”
She nodded, blinking in surprise at his vacillating sentences, which were uncharacteristic of him. “I shall wait for you.”
Simon reached out to take her hand up in his, lowering his head to press a kiss to her knuckles. “I must speak with my mother and Nicholas about John with some urgency. Can you let yourself out?”
“Of course.”
He smiled briefly, crossing the room to fold the page he had been writing on and head out the door.
Madeline stood watching as he shut the door behind him and tried to think what to do.
She was supposed to show Molly how to pick locks, and despite her agreement to leave, Madeline was still obsessing over the mystery of the writing desk in Isla’s bedchamber.
She stared at the door and considered climbing the stairs to the third floor to find Isla’s rooms. The floor plan of the Scotts’ home was the same as theirs, just reversed.
Isla was in the back rooms facing the gardens, which was the equivalent of Madeline’s own at the head of the back staircase.
She knew this because Simon had mentioned how the family had moved about after his father had died a little less than two years earlier.
If he was calling the Scotts together to discuss his brother’s health, Isla would not be there or would be summoned away shortly.
It would be so easy to exit the study, find the entrance to the servants’ staircase, and race up to the third floor.
Madeline bounced on her toes, impatience brimming through her as she rose and fell with a nervous energy that pressed her to move forward. She reached up to remove her bonnet to aid in her peripheral vision, still debating what she would do.
What if I am caught?
There is so much at stake! I cannot just stand by.
It is a horrible invasion of privacy.
It was. If Isla had nothing of import within the locked drawers, Madeline would feel awful about what she had done.
Then a chilling thought struck her as a slap across the face. Simon had said John’s health had taken a turn for the worse. What if he was too ill to defend Simon from the Home Office investigation? She lost her calm as she followed this train of thought.
What if John dies?
There would be no one to shield Simon from an accusation of murder if the baron was gone and the heir was not yet arrived. A nephew who was a stranger to Simon and who might believe the allegation over Simon’s word.
That settled it. Proprieties be damned. If she was caught, she would have to face it. Perhaps she could say she was looking for the necessary. Someone needed to ensure that Simon did not take the blame for this terrible crime.
If one of the Scotts had done it, if he was arrested, and she had stood by and done nothing …
Madeline leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling above, panting with anxiety, then fixed her gaze on the door.
Right across from the study would be the entrance to the servants’ staircase, and all she had to do was cross the room, open the door carefully to ensure no one was about, and dash across the hall.
A tingle of nervous anticipation raced through her veins, and she lifted her foot to take a step.
And another. And soon, she had reached the door and was on her way to Isla Scott’s private rooms.
There were no servants upon the stairs, and she could hear clanging from the kitchens below, but no one was about as she quickly began her ascent.
She was grateful to be wearing her slippers, making barely any sound at all as she raced up the steps with her skirts in hand.
Scarcely believing her good fortune, she reached the third level and placed her ear to the door.
Cracking it open, she peered through the narrow slit but saw no movements.
If the baron was ill, the servants might be occupied on the second floor where his bedchamber was.
Licking lips that had gone dry, Madeline entered the hall and crossed to the baroness’s bedchamber door, placing her ear against it to listen for the sounds of occupation.
She prayed that Miss Dubois, the attractive but sour French lady’s maid, was occupied elsewhere in the grand house.
After waiting a minute, her pulse racing with fear that a servant or Isla would appear, Madeline cracked the door open to reveal an unoccupied room.
She exhaled in relief, entering to shut herself in and look about.
It was a boudoir, as elegant as the baroness herself, with blue silk wallpaper, gilt-framed landscapes of lochs and forests, and an intricate rug woven with blues and greens covering the polished floorboards.
Positioned near the window was an elegant chaise lounge adorned with blue-and-green tartan pillows.
Somehow, the room managed to be both beautiful and austere, not unlike its inhabitant.