Page 46 of The Trouble With Titles
He smiled briefly, crossing the room to fold the page he had been writing on and head out the door. Madeline stood watching as he shut the door behind him and tried to think what to do. She was supposed to show Molly how to pick locks, and despite her agreement to leave, Madeline was still obsessing over the mystery of the writing desk in Isla’s bedchamber.
She stared at the door and considered climbing the stairs to the third floor to find Isla’s rooms. The floor plan of the Scotts’ home was the same as theirs, just reversed. Isla was in the back rooms facing the gardens, which was the equivalent of Madeline’s own at the head of the back staircase. She knew thisbecause Simon had mentioned how the family had moved about after his father had died a little less than two years earlier. If he was calling the Scotts together to discuss his brother’s health, Isla would not be there, or would be summoned away shortly. It would be so easy to exit the study, find the entrance to the servants’ staircase, and race up to the third floor.
Madeline bounced on her toes, impatience brimming through her as she rose and fell with a nervous energy that pressed her to move forward. She reached up to remove her bonnet to aid in her peripheral vision, still debating what she would do.
What if I am caught?
There is so much at stake! I cannot just stand by.
It is a horrible invasion of privacy.
It was. If Isla had nothing of import within the locked drawers, Madeline would feel awful about what she had done.
Then a chilling thought struck her as a slap across the face. Simon had said John’s health had taken a turn for the worse. What if he was too ill to defend Simon from the Home Office investigation? She lost her calm as she followed this train of thought.
What if John dies?
There would be no one to shield Simon from an accusation of murder if the baron was gone, and the heir was not yet arrived. A nephew who was a stranger to Simon and who might believe the allegation over Simon’s word.
That settled it. Proprieties be damned. If she was caught, she would have to face it. Perhaps she could say she was looking for the necessary. Someone needed to ensure that Simon did not take the blame for this terrible crime.
If one of the Scotts had done it, if he was arrested, and she had stood by and done nothing … Madeline leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling above, panting with anxiety, thenfixed her gaze on the door. Right across from the study would be the entrance to the servants’ staircase, and all she had to do was cross the room, open the door carefully to ensure no one was about, and dash across the hall. A tingle of nervous anticipation raced through her veins, and she lifted her foot to take a step. And another. And soon she had reached the door and was on her way to Isla Scott’s private rooms.
There were no servants upon the stairs, and she could hear clanging from the kitchens below, but no one was about as she quickly began her ascent. She was grateful to be wearing her slippers, making barely any sound at all as she raced up the steps with her skirts in hand. Scarcely believing her good fortune, she reached the third level and placed her ear to the door. Cracking it open, she peered through the crack but saw no movements. If the baron was ill, the servants might be occupied on the second floor where his bedchamber was. Licking lips that had gone dry, Madeline entered the hall and crossed to the baroness’s bedchamber door, placing her ear against it to listen for the sounds of occupation. She prayed that Miss Dubois, the attractive but sour French lady’s maid, was occupied elsewhere in the grand house.
After waiting a minute, her pulse racing with fear that a servant or Isla would appear, Madeline cracked the door open to reveal an unoccupied room.
She exhaled in relief, entering to shut herself in and look about. It was a boudoir, as elegant as the baroness herself, with blue silk wallpaper, gilt-framed landscapes of lochs and forests, and an intricate rug woven with blues and greens covering the polished floorboards. Positioned near the window was an elegant chaise lounge adorned with blue and green tartan pillows. Somehow, the room managed to be both beautiful and austere, not unlike its inhabitant.
But that was neither here nor there. She had but minutes to contend with the narrow davenport writing desk, with a sloped surface covered in rich leather. Madeline approached, finding the four drawers on the side of the desk that each boasted a keyhole. Molly was right. It appeared the brass locks had been added at a different time.
Crouching down onto her knees, Madeline pulled the desk forward on the casters, wincing at the creaking. She reached into her reticule to pull out the pins that her coachman had fashioned for such a purpose. Resting her face against the wood of the desk, she began to work the first lock while listening for the click.
It turned out to be rather simple, and soon she had the top drawer ajar and was rifling through the contents. There were some writing supplies, quill nibs, pencils, and blank pages, but at the back was a stack of folded letters tied with a ribbon. Madeline reached deep to grab hold of them, pulling them out to read the address written on the outer folds.
Her fingers were shaking as she leafed through them, terrified a servant might walk in at any moment. Struggling to focus on the writing, she gasped in surprise, forgetting about the risk of being caught as she comprehended what she was holding. When Molly and she had discussed their plan, it had been the move of a desperate woman willing to do anything to help the man she loved. She could not attest that she had expected to find something, but what she now beheld was the most damning of evidence.
The top letter was addressed to Lord Blackwood in faded ink, so likely the father and not the current baron lying ill on the floor below. The return address was noted as Bianca Scott of Firenze.
Madeline leafed through the stack, which was about an inch thick, the pages yellowed with age. The letters at the bottom were from the same address but from Peter Scott. These hadbeen written nearly three decades earlier, before he had died in Italy!
It was what she had been looking for, but not expecting to find. Had the late baron Blackwood received these and given them to his wife? Or had Isla somehow intercepted them and hidden them away all these years? Either led back to the fact that the baroness had been well aware of Peter Scott’s nuptials, and therefore the children born from that marriage.
I must make haste to read these letters in the safety of my own home!
Madeline pushed the drawer shut, fiddling with the long brass pins to lock the drawer while her fingers trembled something fierce. It was horrifying to contemplate the significance of what she had found. Stuffing the letters into her reticule, she scrambled to her feet, pushed the desk back into place, and made for the door.
Listening carefully, she heard no sound, so departed to cross the hall and enter the back stairs just as the door swung open to reveal one of the footmen. Roderick, she thought was his name, froze in surprise, then glanced over her shoulder to the door of Isla’s rooms.
It was a big house,with countless rooms, so Simon did not know if Nicholas or his mother had heard about the incident with John. He was aware the servants must be in an uproar, Duncan having brought the bedsheet that the lords had used to carry his brother up to his rooms on the second floor. MacNaby had arrived, only to be turned away by the duke and his friends, with an instruction that the servants were not to access the hall toJohn’s rooms. The butler’s amiable demeanor had splintered, as he had dashed away to inform those belowstairs.
Simon was sure the kitchen was agog to have Molly and Lord Trafford invading the recesses of the basement to prepare the magnesia mixture that had been fed to John.
Their visitors were still upstairs awaiting the guards, but when John had slipped into sleep, Simon had decided it was the time for answers.
After inking the note to summon Dr. White, Simon had left Madeline in his study. He wished he could tell her what had transpired, but the words had not come. It was not something to blurt out as he raced away, so he thought that by this evening, he could gather his wits to explain what had happened. How his brother was being—he choked at the thought—poisonedinto his declining health of the past eighteen months. Barking out such incredible information while he was in a hurry seemed ill-advised.
Then, too, he wished to break the news to Nicholas himself posthaste. His younger brother was the most likely culprit. He stood the most to gain after Simon, and to discover if he were involved, Simon would disclose the events so he could gauge Nicholas’s reaction.
