Page 47 of The Trouble With Titles
Climbing the main staircase to the third floor, Simon headed to the front bedroom, which faced the street, and knocked on the door. Two wings of the house were accessed down long corridors leading away from either side of the landing, and he supposed after he had spoken with his brother, Simon might check to see if his mother was in her bedchamber.
“Who is it?” The tone was both belligerent and morose. Nicholas had not had a drink for two days, and his mood was both sour and miserable. Simon paused, wondering if his younger brother’s change of heart could have been brought on by a bout of guilt. Had Nicholas bludgeoned the Baron ofFilminster to death in a drunken rage? Was that the reason he was reconsidering his abuse of the liquor?
Simon gave a quick shake of his head to clear his thoughts before reaching to open the door.
Madeline perchedon the edge of the settee, too embarrassed to look the baroness directly in the eyes as she fidgeted about. Her shame was made worse by the knowledge that her reticule was stuffed full of correspondence she had stolen from the baroness.
“Roderick, bring us a tray of the … Ceylon tea.”
Madeline glanced up at the strange pause to find Isla staring at her, her face expressionless in the midday light shining through the windows of the family drawing room.
The footman hesitated, before responding in a halting voice, “The …Ceylon… tea?”
Lady Blackwood’s eyelids fluttered as if she were mildly irritated. “That is correct. Hurry it along.”
“The same tea as Lord Blackwood drinks?”
“That is correct. And, Roderick, make it strong. Miss Bigsby has the appearance of a young lady who enjoys a strong cup of tea.”
Madeline flushed, mortified that the servant had escorted her to the baroness to explain he had found her in the hall by her bedchamber. Ever since that announcement, Madeline had been waiting for a rain of questions, but Lady Blackwood had simply ordered tea. Lifting her shaking hands, Madeline wrung them together until she noticed the baroness flicker her eyes down to the agitated movement. Not wanting to draw attention to her overstuffed reticule, Madeline laid her hands on her lap and commanded them to remain still.
“My mother always said a cup of tea could grease any social interactions. It makes all parties feel at home.” Isla Scott’s tone was as modulated as her expression, giving nothing of her thoughts away as it clawed through Madeline’s belly and set her heart hammering. She had not thought her pulse could race any faster than it had been when she had had the temerity to invade the baroness’s chambers, but there was a hitherto unknown speed it could accelerate to. Madeline could barely contain the flight of panic, but did through sheer force of will. The noblewoman sitting before her might be a cold-blooded killer, and Madeline must maintain her composure until she could speak with Simon. She suspected she would unravel when that moment arrived, babbling out what she had done and what she had discovered as a consequence. How angry would Simon be when she revealed her sneaking about to find the letters for him?
“Tea is a most hospitable offering,” mumbled Madeline, her thoughts scattered into the wind as she attempted to pull herself back together.
“What were you doing on the third floor?”
“I was looking for Molly. I realize it was most improper to enter your home, but I was worried about her. She was to meet me this morning. When no one answered my knock at the front door, I … thought … I … um … would try to find her.”
The baroness narrowed her eyes just a fraction. They were a deep and fascinating blue in the afternoon light. Madeline could not make out the black of her pupils, which were mere pinpoints to disrupt the expanse of vivid color. Perhaps Isla Scott was sensitive to the bright light?
“You are friends with Miss Carter?”
“We chat after breakfast.”
“I see.”
The conversation came to a halt, and Madeline waited in frustration until she realized that Lady Blackwood was awaitingthe tea. Perhaps she needed it togreasetheir interaction. Madeline waited in silence, drowning in a swirl of emotions, while she commanded her eyes to remain fixed on the room.
Do not draw attention to the reticule!
The silence drew on for several minutes, the only sound the ticking of a clock on the mantel and the sound of Madeline’s heart thumping loud enough to wake the dead.
“I wanted …” Madeline attempted to recollect what she had been about to say. “Thank you for a lovely dinner. You run a gracious household, Lady Blackwood.”
The baroness stared back at her without comment, ratcheting Madeline’s nerves until she was dizzy with distress.
“Do you … have plans for this evening?”
Lady Blackwood continued to regard her without speaking. Madeline was enthralled by the incandescent blueness of her gaze, feeling the tug of hidden riptides pulling her beneath the surface of the endless ocean reflected in their depths. With a surge of relief, Madeline heard the door open, and Roderick entered with a tea tray.
Soon the tray was settled on the table between them, and the baroness had poured two cups, offering one to Madeline. The baroness held the saucer and cup on her lap but did not take a drink.
“Try it, Miss Bigsby. It is an exceptional blend from the shores of Ceylon.”
Madeline looked down into her cup, trying to think what to say. “I thought they grew coffee in Ceylon?”
“They do, but I discovered these delightful tea leaves from the region. I blend it with premium Indian leaves. Please try it and tell me what you think?” The baroness bobbed her head in encouragement, her expression remaining stoic.
