Page 14 of The Trouble With Titles
The head footman froze, then threw a glance to Roderick, who was collecting the teapot. The second footman was frozen, too, as the two servants stared at each other in animpasse. Who were they to obey—his lordship or the dowager baroness?
Checkmate.
Simon folded his arms to watch in amusement. Which of the footmen would break first?
“Roderick,” prompted his mother.
He had the teapot hovering just an inch above the sideboard. In response, he completed the motion, lifting it to spin on his heel and walk over to the table where he placed it in front of the baron.
John shot a glare at Duncan, whose expression was contrite but helpless. “My lord, your doctor …”
“Grow some ballocks, Duncan! Are you not a Campbell?” The footman’s chagrin was palpable. He was a good sort. Duncan Campbell had taken care of John for many years, even acting as the baron’s valet when his own man took ill. Which was far too frequent in Simon’s estimation. The valet was either a dreadful weakling, or he preferred to stay abed.
Molly offered to pour the tea which earned her a bark from John, who was in a fine state, his skin mottled with fury.
Nicholas paid none of them mind, staring down into his own coffee as if he were nursing regret from a hard night of drinking. He must have been too weary to leave, despite the loud quarreling sure to be driving a knife through his inebriated brain. “Could you please lower your voices?”
“Why are you here?” barked John in a belligerent tone. “Should you not be out drinking with your friends?”
Simon grimaced. The mood was decidedly foul. It happened from time to time, and he never knew what set it off because he was inevitably the last to arrive.
“Hungry,” was the singular answer from Nicholas, who must have just returned home. He continued in a plaintive voice, “Even an insignificant spare must eat.”
Bloody hell!
Simon wished to turn and leave. His little brother was preparing to spew the multiple reasons he was a victim of circumstances which were never amusing to overhear. Complaining about his situation was a common habit when he had over-imbibed. Simon preferred the supercilious version over the self-pitying Nicholas who blamed all for his circumstances. He suspected his brother’s moods were a barometer of what particular spirits he had abused his body with in the past twenty-four hours. Perhaps wine brought out his humorous, if sarcastic, character, while brandy, the miserable defendant of terrible harms visited upon him.
It was a theory, at least.
Molly checked her timepiece, muttering something conciliatory he could not hear, and scraped her chair back to depart. Simon did not blame her. Tensions were rising, and soon Nicholas would break into a dramatic tirade about the unfairness of it all, or John into a rousing speech about being respected in his own household, while Isla interjected her drugged benevolence with platitudes that exacerbated tempers. If he had to hear his little brother complain, it would renew his shame at what he had done to contribute to his injury.
Simon gestured to Duncan, who appeared relieved to stride over. The tall footman, with brawny shoulders and a handsome, square face, doted on the baron and must have been feeling terrible to be the object of his disappointment. “I shall take my breakfast in the study.”
The servant nodded, turning to collect a tray together while Simon headed down the hall.
Madeline had founda new routine these past weeks, which suited her. She had rearranged her schedule to rise an hour earlier and breakfast in the walled garden. She would enjoy her meal and a book, which was how she had discovered a wonderful new friend.
Hearing the crunching of gravel as someone entered the secluded space, she lowered her book and grinned. “Molly!”
Befriending the pragmatic young lady from next door had been a happy consequence of changing her routine. She was an amusing and intelligent companion with whom to begin the day.
It took a minute to note that under the shadowing brim of her bonnet, Molly’s expression was unhappy.
“What is it? Has something happened?”
Molly approached to settle on the bench beside her.
“I enjoy living in London, for what little I see of it. But the Scotts are … there is something amiss in the household. Lord Blackwood’s health declines at a rapid rate, and his physician is useless. I swear that the doctor is naught but a drug peddler. Yet the baron does nothing to improve his own health while Isla overindulges in her laudanum. Not to mention her lack of facial expressions. It is unnatural!”
Madeline made a sound of commiseration. “It was similar with the late baron—their father. I think it is the same Dr. White whom Simon would complain about. He suspected White was over-medicating the old man.” It was not her habit to speak of her former love, but Molly needed to air her grievances, and it had slipped out in a moment of sympathy.
“It is so frustrating! I have yet to encounter Nicholas sober, and I have been residing here for five months! The only dependable person in the household is Simon, but he is both aloof and—” Molly sought a word for what she wanted to communicate. “—glum.”
Madeline dropped her gaze to stare at the book in her lap. She knew the change that had been wrought in Simon Scott over the years, but it was depressing to contemplate. “He was not always so.”
Molly paused, shooting her a worried glance which Madeline caught from the corner of her eye. They had not spoken about the former relationship between Madeline and Simon, but Molly was perceptive, and it was clear that she had surmised something from their prior conversations … and the specific person Madeline avoided mentioning.
“I am sorry to burden you with this. It is just … the quarrels have been intensifying. The coronation sparked something off because our meals have grown increasingly strained since that time. I cannot think how that event would create trouble. I just recall that the baron was in an ill humor after the ceremony.”
