Page 24 of The Trouble With Titles
The rain roaring outside made it difficult to hear, but he could make out that MacNaby pronounced this news from the study door with the slightest hint of reproach. What had his prospective father-in-law done to shake the butler’s poise?
He rose, coming around his desk. “Show him in.”
Boyle entered, rake thin in a damask burgundy suit swimming with floral ornamentations, which made Simon blink rapidly lest he lose his balance.
“Lord Boyle.”
“Dear boy, I am afraid I had to visit unannounced. Terrible circumstances. Just terrible!”
Simon gritted his teeth, wondering what fresh torment was to be revealed. Dante had been incorrect in his narrative poem. He had already visited the first seven circles of hell, and Boyle was certain to fling the gates open wide to reveal the eighth.
“What is terrible, my lord?”
Boyle stalked up and down, ignoring Simon’s gesture toward a chair. Rubbing his hands together in agitation, Boyle continued to mumble about the horrors of some unnamed distress. Simon firmed his jaw and folded his arms to wait him out.
“You are a gentleman, Mr. Scott. I am certain you understand that my Olivia—she had her heart set on being a baroness.”
Simon rolled his eyes as Boyle continued wearing a frenzied path into the expensive Aubusson rug beneath his buckled shoes. He spoke about acquiring the title as if it were shopping for a pair of gloves or slippers at a milliner’s shop. Which, Simon supposed, it was of a sort what had occurred. Seconds later, realizing what Boyle had said, he narrowed his eyes to consider the viscount’s mutterings. Was Boyle going to beg off their contract?
Please, God, let it be so!
“My lord, do you wish to inform me of something?”
Boyle paused mid-pacing, his back turned to Simon and his shoulders coming back with sudden tension.
“We learned of the heirs, my boy. Olivia is fond of you, but you must understand that she had her heart set on a title.”
“Are you requesting that I allow your daughter out of the marriage contract?”
He could hear the viscount’s audible inhalation. “Lord Clutterbuck informed us of the news from Westminster about these Italian heirs. What a disaster! He has made it clear that he is willing to wed Olivia if she so wishes.”
“Does she?”
Silence followed Simon’s question, and he waited for the answer without drawing air. His heart pounded so loud in his ears, he was worried he would not be able to hear Boyle reply. Simon had not prayed so hard for mercy since the night his brother had fallen from his third-floor window and he had set himself on this current descent into misery.
Boyle turned about, his eyes downcast while he licked his thin lips and swallowed. “It is nothing personal, Mr. Scott. Olivia would consider it a benevolent boon if you were to agree to destroy the contract.”
Simon was light-headed, but he cautioned himself to not appear too eager lest he insult the viscount at the moment ofhis release from the gaol he had signed himself into. Boyle was a temperamental coxcomb who could change his mind in a heartbeat if he took offense. Months of negotiations had taught Simon to be cautious. “I am … gravely disappointed.”
Boyle gave a nervous twitch at this pronouncement. “It would be a selfless act, Mr. Scott. I beseech you to grant Olivia forbearance.”
“Not so small, Lord Boyle.” Simon’s mouth was dry, as his thoughts raced to calculate the right amount of reluctance to display to achieve this unexpected outcome he desired with every iota of his being.
A flush spread up the viscount’s neck. He raised his gaze to implore Simon, his washed-out blue eyes desperate. “It would be an act of grace and honor for which I would be eternally grateful, young man.”
Simon considered him carefully, turning to walk to the cabinet behind his desk. Opening the doors, he pulled out a key to unlock the safe and retrieve the signed contract before turning back to Boyle. “How do you propose to do this?”
Boyle exhaled in a rush, his eyes fixing on the pages in Simon’s grasp. Reaching inside his coat, he pulled out a thick wad of papers and approached Simon’s desk. “We shall each tear it up and burn the pieces.”
Simon gave a nod of assent. Grabbing his sheaf at the middle, he prepared to rip the documents in half while pausing to ensure Boyle did the same. Then, at the same time, they tore with a loud rending, walking over to the small fire banked in the hearth to toss the contract into the coals. They each watched intently as the pages curled and charred, dissolving into ashes while Simon breathed his first hint of true freedom in over ten years. Olivia was no longer his burden to bear, and the last remaining barrier left between him and a future of his choosing was the accusation of murder.
Madeline foundher feet walking to the garden without a conscious approval from her brain. The sun was setting, and the evening air cool on her skin as she adjusted her shawl to prevent a chill. She hoped that, perhaps, Simon might appear. She had been thinking about the murder investigation, and musing about why he had not informed her of that detail. Was he aware? If he was not, it was of pressing concern to alert him to the Westminster gossip. He might need to take measures to protect himself or obtain legal representation.
When she reached the garden, it was in shadows, but her spirits soared to see him waiting for her. His legs were sprawled out, and he had his arms folded as he contemplated the firmament of shimmering stars above. Hearing her approach, he turned to grin in greeting. Madeline paused in surprise. He appeared … happy?
“Simon,” she greeted, moving to perch on the other end of the bench but noting that he was not sitting on the far edge as he had been wont to do this past decade.
“Miss Boyle found herself a title to take my place.”
