Chapter 14
“Venus sought to test not only Psyche but her own son, forcing them both to endure the consequences of disobedience.”
Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses
Isla’s drawing room occupied the corner of the house, with a wide bank of windows overlooking the garden where the servants had gathered earlier, and two smaller windows along the adjoining wall which faced the same direction as Simon’s bedchamber, toward the creeping ivy that climbed the trellis outside.
Considering the chill of the day and the stiff draught blowing in, there was no sensible reason for the window to be open. Simon was certain it had stood ajar when he and Trafford had first entered to search for his mother, though he had paid it little heed at the time.
Crossing the room, he leaned out to look about.
The breeze tugged at his hair, carrying the faint scent of damp earth.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the glare of daylight, but then he saw him.
The footman clung to the trellis like a man besieged by a storm, his face chalk-white against his dark hair, his limbs trembling violently.
Simon stared in disbelief. He surmised his mother had ordered the footman to climb down to John’s bedroom to end his life. She must have known about John’s collapse in the study, but had not come to discover his condition, which was rather telling that she had been expecting it.
The full horror of her intent crashed over him. She had sought to murder his older brother to clear the way for Simon to inherit. Was she so lost in her delusions that she had forgotten the heirs from Italy altogether?
Staring into that madness, Simon’s stomach turned. His mother had conspired at death for years—intercepting letters, sowing deceit, and spreading poison—while he had remained blissfully unaware. At least her final scheme had failed. Roderick, thank heaven, was too terrified of heights to descend.
“Do you need assistance to come back inside?” It was not the time to interrogate the petrified manservant despite the horrifying revelations of the past couple of hours.
Roderick shook his head with vehemence, his grip so tight around the bars of the trellis that his knuckles shone white even through the pallor of his skin.
Simon cocked his head, struggling to decide his next move. They were at a stalemate, Roderick frozen just a few feet away, their gazes locked in an uncomfortable challenge.
The footman finally spoke in a tremulous voice. “Where’s Isla?”
Trafford chose that moment to lean out beside Simon, jostling him in his impatience to see what was going on. “You seem the right height and size. Are you the one who stabbed me outside my home?”
Roderick grimaced without responding. Trafford took it as an assent.
“What about Miss Bigsby? Did you poison her tea earlier?”
Still no response.
“What of Lord Blackwood? Have you been administering poison to the baron?”
Trafford paused, but no reply was forthcoming.
“Did you, perchance, help Lady Blackwood to kill Lord Filminster?”
Shutting his eyes tight, Roderick’s mouth moved as if he were praying.
“Damnation, you scoundrel! Give me an answer! What about hastening Mr. Scott’s father to an early grave?”
Roderick’s eyes flew open in shock as he exclaimed loudly, “That was an accident!”
Simon’s stomach dropped, his breath catching as he whipped around to stare at Trafford, aghast. The lord simply shrugged, his expression nonplussed.
“I was only guessing, old chap. With the creeping shroud of death haunting this house, I thought I would toss it out there. I fully expected him to deny it, I swear.”
When Simon turned back, Roderick had crumpled again into a shivering terror. “Where … where is Isla?”
Trafford snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. “Lady Blackwood is dining with the devil in the depths of hell, answering for her sins. If you hurry, you might just catch her there.”
“Trafford!” Simon sputtered, turning to meet Trafford’s strange green-brown eyes again.
His companion shrugged once more without a hint of remorse. “What? It is this or a public hanging for the murders of not one but two barons. And three more counts of attempted murder. Not so, Roderick?”
The footman declined to address the question, instead concentrating on the one thing he seemed to care about.
“Isla is dead?”
“She is.”
Roderick swallowed hard, turning his head to gaze down at the ground three stories below. He scrambled up the trellis, and Simon, realizing his intention, made to climb out onto the window ledge to grab him.
Trafford clasped hold of him in a tight embrace. “You will not risk your life for a cold-blooded killer, Simon Scott! Ye gods, if he fights you off, you could fall with him, and for what he has done, the sentence is death. If not today, then soon.”
“Hands off, Trafford!”
They struggled against the frame until an unearthly howl caused both of them to pause in their scuffle and spin back to watch as Roderick, having climbed up to the attic level, had released his hold to plummet to the ground.
A loud thud from below introduced a deep silence.
Both men gazed down at the broken body lying at the foot of the house for long minutes until Simon roused himself.
“Is it over?”
Trafford raked a hand through the mass of wheat curls at the crown of his head, blowing out a shaky puff.
“I believe it is. Is it not horrifying to witness a man, a valued retainer of many years, trip and fall out of a third-story window before your very eyes? Discovering the baroness’s dead body must have addled his brain with grief to make him so clumsy. ”
Simon frowned, his thoughts as thick as a heavy downpour as he tried to follow what Trafford had said. “What?”
“Your footman. It was a tragic accident that he stumbled and fell when he discovered Lady Blackwood had expired from an opium overdose.”
Thinking he might have imagined the past few minutes, Simon stepped away from the window to fall against the wall, sliding down until his buttocks hit the floor.
“Is that what happened?”
Trafford joined him on the floor, stretching his legs out with a weary groan.
“Indeed. I imagine Lord Filminster and his bride would enjoy some peace after all they have been through these past weeks. A lengthy inquest that links these deaths to that of his father would be quite a public spectacle to entertain the masses for the months to come. I suggest you take those journals”—Trafford indicated the notebooks that his mother had referred to—“to your study so you might learn what all of this was about, and we summon the coroner to report the dreadful mistake in medication and the terrible accident it instigated.”
Simon hesitated. “Will that work?”
“With the duke’s support, yes. The Home Office has bungled enough this season. They will be eager to let the matter rest. Halmesbury can smooth it over and ensure your family’s peace. Lord Blackwood will need quiet to recover.”
Simon contemplated months of scandal and found that the alternative was far more appealing. The villains had been uncovered and were now dead. There was no specific reason to endure further suffering. “Thank you.”
Trafford chuckled, shaking his head in dismay. “I can scarce believe it either. What a muddle. Will you inform me of the details? Once you have read the journals?”
Simon nodded. “If the others wish to return, I can brief all of you on the contents in a few days. It is reasonable that you are informed of the details. I … appreciate your willingness to be discreet. With John’s health and the potential scandal for Madeline … Thank you.”
“Not at all, Lord Campbell.”
He blinked. “What did you call me?”
Trafford quirked an eyebrow in mild amusement.
“Are you not the heir to your mother’s titles?
Viscount of Campbell, Baron of Lochinver?
I confess I do not recall the rest, but it is another reason not to reveal Lady Blackwood’s nefarious activities.
They might get in the way of you inheriting the titles, and you have people up north who need your representation. ”
Simon groaned, burying his face into his hands as the truth struck him like a clap of thunder. “Stuff!”
His companion burst into gales of laughter, doubling up with tearful mirth. “You and me both, Campbell. Welcome to the peerage.”
Madeline lay curled upon the kitchen table, her body trembling, her throat raw from retching until there was nothing left to bring up. Not a drop of tea, not a morsel of breakfast, and certainly not the dinner of the night before.
She lay shivering while Lady Trafford had the servants clean away the last vestiges of illness.
All except her soaked gown. She vaguely considered bathing, but she had not the strength for such an endeavor.
Falling asleep was inevitable in her weakened state, but she was afraid that she might not awaken, so she kept rousing herself.
Her lids were as heavy as chain mail, but Madeline was resolute in keeping them open a slit to ensure she was still in the land of the living. What if she closed them to never awaken?
She forced them open to find a pair of polished riding boots had come to a stop beside the table she was laid out on.
“Do you wish to go home? To your bed?”
Despite her drowsy state, Madeline’s heart pounded with joy at Simon’s presence.
“If you … stay … with me,” she mumbled, her tongue thick in her mouth.
“I shall never allow us to part again, fair Psyche.” He gathered her up in his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he lifted her up.
“I … must be … a fright.”
“You are always beautiful to me.”
“What … about … Lady Trafford?”
“She is following us to settle you in. I have sent word to Mrs. Bigsby to come home.”
Madeline’s lids drifted closed despite her resolve. If she were to never wake up, then her last seconds were the happiest she had ever been within Simon’s powerful embrace.