Page 49 of The Trouble With Titles
“Who is this?” she asked, examining Madeline in his arms.
“My heart,” was the response Simon could croak out in anguish. “Is it arsenic?”
Lady Trafford tilted her head as she peered down at the moaning slip squirming in his arms. “Current circumstances would suggest it, but a much higher quantity.” Lady Trafford turned to her husband, who was hovering a few feet away with an expression of alarm. “Julius, do we still have some of the magnesia mixture left?”
Trafford nodded. “Unless the kitchen staff have thrown it out. We made much more than we used, but it will need to be reheated.”
Lady Trafford turned her silver gaze back to Simon. “I suggest we go to the kitchens. Your … heart … needs more urgent care than your brother did, so we should see to her right there.”
Simon nodded, spinning on his heel to head toward the servants’ staircase. “Madeline is strong. One of the strongest people I know. She will be well. She … must be well.”
Despite his assertion, Simon’s soul was in turmoil. This was his fault—he should have informed Madeline of what had happened with John. She had not known about the poison, or she would not have drunk the tea he had seen laid out on the table. Tea, which pointed to the culprit more than any other clue to date. She had not possessed the facts to protect herself.
Damn it, why did I not take the time to tell her what was happening?
If she died … God forbid, he could not even think about such an outcome. She had to live, or he would follow her to the afterlife in his despair.
Madeline protestedwhen Simon placed her down on a hard surface, reluctant to be parted as she fought against the gathering shadows. She reached to cling to him, not willing to let him go.
The soft press of lips brushed over her forehead. “Lady Trafford is going to make you better, Madeline.”
“Who …”
“She is a physician who helped John this morning.”
He released her, and a figure stepped forward to help Madeline into a seated position as a cup was brought to her mouth. “Drink, Miss Bigsby. I know you are struggling to breathe, but you must drink.”
Madeline was confused at the presence of an unknown woman instructing her, gulping down the tepid mixture and spewing much of it when she attempted to draw air in her lungs. Half the contents must be pooled on the floor, not to mention her bodice was soaked through, but before she could fall back to the table, she was presented with a second cup.
“Again, Miss Bigsby.”
After the second cup, the gagging began, and a bucket was thrust beneath her chin as she began to cast up her accounts, which was an odd combination of shame, agony, and sweet, sweet relief.
Simon and Lord Traffordstood aside, averting their eyes as Madeline suffered the indignity of vomiting. He had ushered the servants out of the kitchen to allow her some modesty but, truthfully, it had given him something to do as he stood about helpless.
“This is the young lady you were with the night of the coronation?”
He swallowed hard, but considering the circumstances, he must pray for Trafford’s discretion. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Yes.”
“Who is she?”
“The daughter of our next-door neighbor. It was an innocent encounter—that night. Miss Bigsby and I did not … engage in anything untoward. We merely conversed.”
Trafford mused over this, taking many seconds to respond. “You … love her?”
Simon’s throat thickened. “More than myself. Miss Bigsby is more than I deserve.”
Trafford made a snorting sound in commiseration. “As is Lady Trafford, old chap. She has tolerated much botheration from me.”
Hearing this somehow helped, and the two men glanced at each other. Simon realized that they had reached a truce, Trafford evidently making a judgment to reconsider his assumption of guilt.
The gentleman cleared his throat. “So … who might have … done this?” He waved a hand toward the table where Lady Trafford was assisting Madeline, the sound of retching making Simon’s stomach clench in sympathy. She should not be suffering such torture.
Simon stroked his beard. There was nothing that either he or Trafford could do, so this was as good a time as any to unpack the contents of his mind. “My … mother.”
“Lady Blackwood? What reason would she have?”
