Page 41 of The Trouble With Titles
“Do not be naïve, dear boy. Your father always maintained that the lower classes are constantly seeking an opportunity to take advantage of their betters, and it is one’s role to uphold the separation of the peerage from the common folk.”
Nicholas sputtered out soup in startled mirth, dropping the spoon onto the table as he struggled to keep a straight face. Simon’s jaw firmed in anger, Madeline able to perceive the hardening of his expression even from afar, and she wished to reassure him they were not offended. He opened his mouth to speak?—
Lord Blackwood burst out laughing, ending on a cough into a lace-edged handkerchief that the footman, Duncan, raced forward to place in his hand. “Please forgive Lady Blackwood, Miss Bigsby. Her wit can be rather biting at times. My father certainly had specific ideas about classes, but we are more enlightened than he, or we would not be enjoying dinner with such admirable company.”
It was obvious that the baron’s interruption was intended to deflect any affront Isla Scott had inadvertently caused. Madeline noted Simon relax, and she guessed he was grateful that John had interceded. Not for the first time, she wondered if Lady Blackwood was a bit of an idiot. It would account for her vacuous expression and lack of original thoughts, along with the repetition of the late baron’s abrasive philosophies.
Duncan stepped forward to wipe the tablecloth beside Nicholas’s plate, placing a clean soup spoon and retreating back to his position.
Simon shot Madeline a glance of apology, introducing a discussion on a recent opera, and soon the topic was being discussed with enthusiasm, Nicholas returning to moping into his soup bowl. While Isla complained about the shabby costumes of the performers, Madeline’s thoughts wandered to the young woman upstairs who was searching the rooms in the family wing while they dined two floors beneath her feet. She hoped that by the end of the night, Molly and she would have answered the question as to whether a murderer resided in this home.
No further incidents occurred, other than a strange moment when Isla knocked into a wineglass, but a footman shot forward to catch it before even a drop was spilled. The baroness’s eyes flickered in gratitude to the servant. Roderick, if memory served Madeline correctly.
The baroness gifted a rare smile to the table in general. “How terribly clumsy of me! I suppose tensions have been a little high these past days with the news sheets casting such dreadful allegations against the family.”
Madeline experienced a twinge of sympathy, realizing it must be difficult for the baroness to have her oldest son accused of violent crimes. “It is terrible how irresponsible journalists can be. They have no compunctions about questioning a gentleman’s reputation despite the lack of evidence.”
“Thank you, Miss Bigsby. Few understand the troubles associated with being in the public eye.”
A couple hours later, Madeline and her mother departed with an unspecific promise to return for another lovely evening, and Madeline thanked her mother for her patience as they walked home through the garden.
Eleanor Bigsby chuckled without humor. “You refer to Lady Blackwood’s remark about classes? Or how young Nicholas behaves like a spoilt little arse? Simon is a gentleman, so I shall prevail through occasional dinners with the dimwitted Lady Blackwood and arrogant lordling, if I must.”
CHAPTER 11
“Psyche, armed only with her courage, descended into the underworld, passing through the gates of Hades with no promise of return.”
Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses
OCTOBER 5, 1821
“The baron’s desk held nothing of interest. Old journals, poetry from his youth, correspondence with friends. I found naught to suggest he knew about his nephews.”
“What of Nicholas?”
Molly made a face. “I think his life consists of carousing. There were little personal items, at all. Just a few notebooksfrom his time at Oxford, no correspondence, a few novels, and old textbooks from his education.”
“And the baroness?”
“Her room is as immaculate as her icy countenance. I was terrified I would leave evidence of my search, so it took the longest to search. There was a writing desk with four actual locks. I tried to find keys, but there was no sign of them anywhere. I even searched the vases and jewelry boxes, under her mattress … Perhaps she keeps them on her person.”
“Hmm … That piques my interest, considering how much it costs to include the locks. She must be fastidious about her privacy.” Madeline had not slept a wink all night, impatient to learn what Molly had found. It was a beautiful morning, the sky a crisp blue and the garden resplendent with foliage and twittering birds, but she had no time to pay it mind when such important events were afoot.
“I agree about the locks. They seem to have been added rather than part of the original design. But what motive could she have? Do you think the baroness is capable of hoisting a sculpture to beat a peer over the head?”
“We do not know what the workings of her mind are, and she could have had a servant do it. The duke and his friends have stated that a manservant is involved, so we must not discount it.”
“Faugh, Madeline! Must I fear the servants, too?”
“I do not know, but we cannot declare our investigation complete unless we have viewed the contents of her desk. What could the baroness have locked inside that requires it? We must confirm the contents to lay our anxieties to rest.”
Molly slumped back against the stone bench, her bonnet obscuring much of her features except for a pensive pout of the lips. “I must claim to be unwell a second time?”
Madeline hated the notion of another night of insomnia while she obsessed about the contents of a mysterious desk.“Perhaps I can visit to distract her. I will tell Mama I will not be going to the manufactory today so I can call on the baroness to thank her for hosting us last night. Might that get you into her rooms a second time?”
“I can try. There is no method to predict when the room will be empty, but I could keep watch and hope for the best. But what will it change if I do not have the keys?”
Madeline growled in frustration, before recalling an incident a few years earlier when the key to the door from the mews to the alley had broken in the lock. She had watched in fascination as her coachman had extracted the pieces out, then picked the lock open so he could replace it with a newer one. Johnson had worked in construction at one time, he had informed her.
