Page 44 of The Trouble With Titles
Simon threw up his hands in question. It was as if an entire conversation had been conducted and he had missed the discussion. “What are you talking about?”
Across the room, the Earl of Saunton stood observing. “Mr. Scott, someone needs to assist your brother, who cannot be the one guilty of poisoning him. Someone who has been in your household for less than six months.”
The implications filtered in, and Simon realized the truth. “I—we—have a poisoner living under our roof? Someone is trying to kill my brother?”
“It would appear so, Mr. Scott. Someone has been trying to kill your brother off. Lady Trafford will treat him, but someone needs to help. Someone we can trust. Someone who has been here no more than six months. You do not meet these criteria.”
Simon raked his hair again as his spinning thoughts swirled with the ramifications of John’s poor health. He recalled Nicholas’s lament over their change in circumstances just the day before. His little brother would not attempt to clear a path to Simon inheriting, would he? It seemed too terrible to consider, but perhaps his guilt over Nicholas’s injuries had blinded him to his brother’s true character? “His issues began more than a year ago, not six months.” Simon knew there would be a time when he needed to make sense of all this, but right now, with his brother wheezing with panic on the floor, he must answer the immediate question. “I do not know the specifics of the maids in the kitchen, but Molly Carter joined our household less than six months ago. Four or five at most.”
“Then Miss Carter must be summoned. We need her help to brew the water and ingredients. And we need a sheet so we can help you carry Lord Blackwood to his bedchamber.”
Simon nodded, springing to his feet to ring the bell. John needed treatment as the first priority. Questions would have to wait.
Madeline waited in the garden,but Molly did not return at the agreed time. Checking her timepiece did nothing to speed up the passage of time, each second ticking at the pace of a snail crossing over a leaf.
It was quite unlike her friend, and Madeline knew something was wrong. Perhaps Molly was caught in a conversation from which she could not escape? Or, perhaps, some fresh hell had broken loose in the Scott household and her friend could not get away to inform Madeline of the latest development.
All she knew was, the more minutes that passed at a terrible and painful pace, the more butterflies settled in her stomach to make her queasy with worry. She suffered a dreadful feeling of unrelenting doom until she could no longer stand it. She wanted to squeal at the sheer, insistent frustration that was building up to consume her. Somehow, despite her patience this past decade, she no longer possessed an iota of forbearance. There must be some method of resolving this mess.
She wished she had signaled Simon the night before to meet in the garden after dinner, but her guilt over searching his study was sure to spill from her lips if she was not careful, so she had remained at home after the meal.
A full hour later than the time she and Molly had agreed to, Madeline stood up to return inside. Paying a call on Lady Blackwood would at least reveal if the Scotts were amid a worsening crisis. She might even steal a minute conversation with Simon to ensure he was well.
Simonand the men stood in the hall, the sound of retching from John’s bedchamber producing a somber air as they waited. Lady Trafford, her husband, and Molly were inside assisting his brother to empty his stomach after the mixture and a tub had been brought up, along with clothing from Trafford’s carriage so his wife could change. Evidently, they did not wish the servants to observe that Lady Trafford had been dressed as a gentleman.
He winced in sympathy when he heard John cast up his accounts yet again. The young baron, Filminster, gazed at the closed door with a pained expression, while the duke had walked away to gaze out the window at the end of the corridor.
The Earl of Saunton, however, stood leaning against a wall with a nonchalance that seemed oddly out of place. As the sound of vomiting receded, Simon frowned at the earl, irate at the nobleman’s composure while he tried to come to terms with the knowledge that someone had been attempting to murder his brother for a year or more.
Horror and impatience merged, and he could no longer withhold a rebuke. “You seem unnaturally calm under the circumstances.”
“I have some experience with the ill, and I have recently dealt with death, Mr. Scott. I am more prepared than most for such a moment.”
Simon gritted his teeth. “Fair enough.”
The earl studied him with emerald-green eyes that glowed in the half light shining in from the window. “You understand that this will result in further investigation?”
Simon cursed, dropping his chin despite the crisp edges of his collar digging in. Did they suspect him of this, too? Itwas damning that the man who held the title that Simon was suspected of killing the Baron of Filminster for was now proven to be the victim of foul play, too.
From down the hall, the duke’s baritone interrupted his torment. “Your anguish for Lord Blackwood appears sincere, Scott. I had to use all my strength to hold you back when you panicked at his collapse.”
Simon let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Huzza! You do wonders for my self-esteem with such a declaration. I was naught but a feeble milksop, struggling to fend you off.”
“Not at all. I had the advantage of gripping you from behind. My apologies, but I did not know your intentions, and Lady Trafford needed freedom to act.”
“And now? Do you think me capable of engaging in violent crime?”
The duke turned to gaze at him with a solemn expression, filling the window with his large form. “Your distress for his health appears genuine, but it does result in questions given the cause of his illness.”
“Who would want to poison John, you mean?”
“Indeed. It also implies that we were correct in our theory that my father-in-law was murdered by someone in this household. If not you, then who?”
“Poisoning is an act of premeditation. Your father-in-law was killed in an act of passion. Would that point to two different perpetrators?”
“Nay, Mr. Scott. You describe the problem from the wrong angle. Poison is the weapon of patience, while clubbing someone to death in a fit of rage suggests that the killer had run out of time. The late baron was persistent … and annoying. If the killer believed he had to act in haste, he might choose a vastly different method than his nature dictates.”
Simon shook his head in disbelief. “I cannot say who may have done it. There has been no indication of violence from members of this household. Perhaps Lady Trafford is incorrect about the cause?”
