Page 51 of The Trouble With Titles
Simon issued orders to the housekeeper to immediately empty the kitchen and wine cellar of all food and liquids. Lady Trafford wanted all the floors to be cleared. Even their liquor in the study and first-floor rooms would need to be destroyed, but he did not wish to send anyone beyond the servants’ level, which would be secure with Trafford’s men to stand guard.
“Even the tea and coffee, Mr. Scott?” The matron was aghast at such extravagant wastefulness.
“Especially the tea and coffee. All of it is to be discarded. I shall provide you with additional funds to replace what we throw out. We cannot risk anyone’s health.”
It was true. There was no telling what Roderick and his mother might have done with the arsenic. Lady Trafford had impressed upon him that the poison was tasteless and odorless. It sometimes emitted a mild garlic odor when heated, such as in the tea Madeline had drunk, but this could not be relied upon as an indication of its presence.
Cook was thoroughly discomposed, fretting over how to prepare dinner and feed the staff. Sensing her distress and forcing down his own impatience, Simon drew out a purse and instructed her to arrange for pies to be brought in, sparing her the need to prepare anything for the evening. He suggested she send her most trusted maids to the grocer for fresh breakfast supplies. The kitchen staff bustled back inside, caught in a disordered flurry to carry out their tasks. Simon considered cautioning them against gossip, but in the current state of things, it would only serve to fan the flames.
Simon hurried back with Trafford’s footman and coachman who took up stations close by Lady Trafford and Madeline. Yet, he found himself hesitant to leave Madeline’s side. His inactionhad nearly resulted in her losing her life, and now he was to abandon her again?
She was laid out on the kitchen table, panting from her exertions, and Simon was tortured by her suffering. It should be him, not her, but his mother must be prevented from causing any further injury. “Lady Trafford, you will send for me if you need me. Madeline is my first priority.”
The noblewoman looked up, her expression reflecting sympathy for his anguish. “Do not worry, Mr. Scott. We have this well in hand.”
Simon walked over to lean down and press a kiss to Madeline’s clammy forehead. “I will return soon.”
Amber eyes found his, and she blinked hard in acknowledgment, too weak to speak. He and Trafford departed, running up the servants’ staircase two steps at a time, with Simon leading the way to his mother’s rooms. Surely she must have returned there after leaving Madeline to expire on the floor? He hoped he had the strength not to choke her for what she had done to his fair Psyche, or his older brother on the second floor. The sheer malevolence was incomprehensible to him.
Bursting into his mother’s private drawing room without so much as a knock, they found no one there, but Simon noted that the desk Madeline had mentioned was pulled out from the wall and all four drawers were opened in a disarray. It was out of character for his mother to tolerate untidiness, but perhaps she had been angered to find her stolen letters missing. He briefly wondered where Miss Dubois, his mother’s French maid, was when he was distracted by a stack of leather-bound notebooks—journals, perhaps—laid out on the chaise lounge.
Hurrying over, he lifted one up to confirm they were filled with his mother’s scrawling lettering. He dropped it down, turning to notice the bedroom door was ajar. Striding over,with Trafford shadowing him, they entered to discover Isla Scott sitting against a bank of pillows on her bed. The drapes were drawn despite the early hour. His mother’s eyes fluttered open to reveal a deep blue, her pupils almost invisible despite the dim light within the room.
“Simon?”
Her voice was weak and her breathing shallow. He approached with a feeling of dread, noting the empty bottles of laudanum next to the bed with the caps strewn on the floor and her hair which had been loosened to frame her face in a becoming manner. Simon stroked his beard in agitation as he considered the presented nature of the scene.
“Mother?”
“She broke into my desk … the little tart.”
Trafford came to stand beside him, flickering his eyes from the bottles and back to Simon with a raised brown eyebrow.
“We have … both … paid the price …”
Simon’s suspicions were correct. His mother had taken an overdose, believing Madeline was lying dead two floors below. He stepped forward, thinking to lift her and race her down to the kitchen for help, but Trafford put out a hand to stay him.
Leaning in, his companion lowered his voice. “She will be arrested. Face public trial and be hanged at the Tower. Perhaps this is … humane? A painless departure?”
Simon swallowed hard, tears springing into his eyes as he considered the devastation his mother had created in so many lives, while facing the fact that his only remaining parent was expiring in front of him.
She had attempted to kill Madeline. He wished he understood why.
“My journals are … my confession … to clear your name.”
Simon approached the bed, still trying to decide what was the right thing to do. “Why, Mother?”
“You will be baron … the greatest Campbell … Papa would … be so proud.”
Simon frowned, attempting to unravel the words. “You mean my father?”
His mother’s face creased into a euphoric smile. “Lord Campbell … My papa … I disappointed him so … but … not anymore. My son … will be Baron … of Blackwood.”
“Mother, there are other heirs.”
Her eyes drifted closed. “I … have … taken care of …” With that, his mother slipped into unconsciousness. Rushing forward, Simon attempted to rouse her, but to no avail. Lifting her up in his arms to discover she weighed barely anything at all, he strode toward the door to take her to the kitchen so that Lady Trafford might … He did not know. His mother was hardly breathing, a curtain of rich brown hair cascading over his arm, and he knew she might quit long before he reached that destination. Trafford might be right about allowing her to pass, but his integrity required he at least attempt to wake her.
They descended three flights of stairs, but by the time they reached the servants’ level, Simon knew it was too late. Isla Scott was no more, and he thought she might be pleased if she had known she had never looked more beautiful than she did in mortal repose.
