Page 11 of The Trouble With Titles
Despite his tenuous finances, Boyle was reticent to commit quill to contract, sending notes off to his solicitor for every minor detail they agreed to before he would discuss the next inane demand. It had taken months to reach their current agreement.
Ushering his prospective father-in-law to take a seat, Simon walked over to the drinks cabinet.
“What would you like?”
“A brandy, dear fellow. I must settle my nerves after such unfortunate news.”
Simon dutifully poured a drink into a crystal tumbler and brought it over. Lord Boyle accepted it, taking a sip before holding it to his chest with a worried expression.
Gritting his teeth to stay his torment, Simon took a seat and relaxed into a languid pose. It was time to learn what fresh delay the neurotic gentleman had unearthed.
“What news, Lord Boyle?”
“You have not heard? The entiretonis speaking of it!”
Simon shook his head. “I have been with a steward from one of our estates all morning.”
“A peer has been found murdered! Here in London. His skull bashed in by his own statuary in his private study. His inner sanctum! What is the world coming to?” The alarmed tone and general demeanor of the viscount made it clear that there would be no contract signed today. Perhaps he had been a close friend of the deceased?
At best, all Simon could accomplish today was to calm him down in order to set a new appointment.
“That is dreadful. Who is it?”
“The Baron of Filminster. An odd little coxcomb from Somerset whom no one has seen in twenty years.”
Not a close acquaintance, then. Simon could swear Lord Boyle made a sport of seeking out issues to be upset over.
A bell rang somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Had he heard about Lord Filminster recently?
“Who would want to kill him? Do you think it is the start of an uprising?”
Simon restrained a roll of his eyes.
Certain members of the privileged class, gentlemen of a certain age, were petrified of a revolution such as the one in France three decades earlier. Lord Boyle and his friends musthave been terribly shocked when the French monarch had lost his head at the guillotine. Lack of understanding or skills in leading his own people would explain part of Boyle’s financial woes. The lord had long since lost touch with the common man … if he had ever had such contact at all.
Simon had to respond out of politeness, to mollify the viscount so he could arrange a new meeting.
“It sounds to me like an act of passion. Who is the coroner investigating for the crime?”
Lord Boyle leaned forward. In a low voice to announce the melodramatic intrigue, he whispered what he knew. “Word is that his son might have … compelled his inheritance.”
Simon considered the revelation with antipathy, as one who could not relate to this notion. His looming inheritance, the Blackwood title, was an anchor around his neck, dragging him into the pits of despair in his nightmares. He would do anything to avoid such an event, so he might follow his own path. Alas, duty was why he was here now—to wed the lord’s daughter so he could fulfill his obligations to his family. Certainly not to himself.
“That is not all. Rumor at my clubs is that the heir is not the baron’s boy. The mother was betrothed to the baron’s older brother, who died before the wedding.”
Simon wanted to shake his head in irritation. He did not abide gossip, a character trait he would not expose to the simpering Boyle who loved it. The fact that his own plans were delayed because of some unrelated event that Boyle had already confessed had no bearing on his life, other than to serve as a source of aristocratic melodrama … This entire affair continued to be frustrating.
Worse, despite his lack of momentum, Simon was still required to perform a visit with Olivia and her family before heleft. The thought of insipid small talk and dainty biscuits made his head ache.
Lud.He knew where he had heard the name before. Just last night, he had agreed to avoid the baron from Filminster when his brother had complained about his behavior at the banquet.
What a bizarre coincidence.
It took a further half an hour to calm the anxious Boyle, assuring him there was no uprising from the lower classes to prepare for, before they joined the ladies in the drawing room.
Olivia Boyle had the light blonde hair of her father and a fondness for pink bows. One topped her coif now, so large it could have been mistaken for a hat. The sheer size of it dwarfed her head. Miss Boyle was an attractive creature, quite proper by polite society standards … and rather flighty.
“La! Mr. Scott, we did not expect you to visit us!”
