Page 25 of The Trouble With Titles
Madeline tensed in surprise. “You are … free?”
He blew a happy sigh. “It would appear so. No longer the heir to a baron, and no longer betrothed. I do not know what I wish to do with my future, but it is mine to decide.”
“That is wonderful news!” Madeline wondered what it meant. It had been years since they had had an understanding, but was it possible he might consider … She squashed the thought, not wishing to put pressure on a person who had been constrained by obligations for a third of his life.
Simon glanced at her, then focused on one of the gods staring at them in the evening light. Hermes, with his winged sandals and blank expression, looked down as if he listened closely to collect news to impart to the Olympians.
“Are you …? Would you …?” Simon’s voice faltered, his expression clouded. “It’s too soon. My life is … still complicated.”
Madeline knew what he wished to say, and it was a struggle to repress her hopes. Still, she reminded herself that he had his troubles to face before they could consider the future. The boy she had known was slowly reappearing, but Madeline understood that the journey back to his former vitality would require patience. He was shedding the rigid, unnatural formality of recent years—piece by piece—while contending with unprecedented pressures.
“Because of the baron who was killed?”
“You heard?”
“Henri is a veritable aqueduct to the salacious whisperings of Westminster.”
He was silent for a few seconds. “Apparently Home Office is unofficially investigating whether I may have murdered a peer to hold on to the title.” Simon laughed, the sound hollow as it echoed against the statuary. “I would have thanked Lord Filminster for bringing our nephews to light because I have been released from the drudgery of expectations and given the opportunity to discover what I want as a man. Who I am as a man. Without the blighted title tying me down, I can forge my own way in this world. Once these issues are resolved.”
“I will come forward to clear your name.”
He shot to his feet, spinning to face her. “You must not attempt such a thing! The damage it would do to you … to your family and the manufactory … No!”
Madeline blinked, disconcerted by his abrupt shift of mood.
Simon stepped back, relaxing his stance with a contrite expression. “This is my problem to solve, Madeline. A misunderstanding. The baron was the unfortunate victim of a villainous scoundrel who wished to rob him, or he caught his steward diverting funds from his books. It will be sorted. Promise me you will not risk your reputation?”
She had no intention of ignoring his wishes, but she would not hesitate to raise the subject with him again if the investigation headed toward an arrest. “My offer stands, but I shall not take any action without your consent.”
“Your offer is appreciated, but Isla told our visitors that she was with me here in the garden that night. If you stepped forward, it would complicate the situation.”
Madeline blinked again in surprise. It was a generous gesture from the baroness whom Madeline had always struggled to read. She had not thought Isla Scott to be a doting parent, but perhaps that was just her own reaction to the older woman’s lack of expressions, which had always put her on edge. Simon had few criticisms about his mother, but he had once explained to her that the lack of emotional manifestation was due to her vanity. Lady Blackwood was as beautiful as one of the stoic goddesses peering down at them, without a line to mar her angelic face.
CHAPTER 7
“But the ants, moved by compassion for Psyche, came to her aid, sorting the grains one by one.”
Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses
OCTOBER 3, 1821
Simon had wanted to sweep Madeline into his arms and plant a kiss on her soft lips, but right at the moment of truth, he had realized that he could not drag her into a murder investigation until he knew how serious the situation was. Which was why he had decided to seek counsel from their solicitors. He should have done so already to discuss the ramifications of the new heirs.
Thus, he now sat at his desk with his fingers wrapped around a quill to compose a letter that would be delivered by one oftheir footmen, but he found himself at a loss for what to write. If Westminster was rife with gossip, it was possible their solicitors might have heard something by now. Nevertheless, Simon could not focus his thoughts. An unknown heir and spare? An accusation of murder?
Shaking his head, Simon dipped the quill in the inkstand and wrote out a request for an urgent appointment. Sprinkling it with pounce to dry the black pigment before reaching for the bell, he was interrupted by a knock on the study door.
Simon called out, and Duncan entered to announce that their contingent of lords had returned to request an audience with Lord Blackwood and himself. Simon suppressed a groan at the news before turning over the letter for delivery. Why had he not sent for legal representation after the first visit? He supposed he had been rather distracted by the news and what it meant for him.
Soon the same party of gentlemen were shown into the room, bowing stiffly in formal greeting. Simon gritted his teeth in irritation. Did they travel together like a pack of wolves? Could they not send two instead of five?
After greetings were finished, the men took up the same positions as they had before, although the windows were closed to keep out the autumn air which had turned chilly overnight. The duke and earl stood in silence with their beavers tucked beneath their arms, and holding their gloves, which must mean they had declined the footman’s offer to stow them away. Lord Filminster and the elegant coxcomb, Lord Trafford, sat at attention on the plump leather armchairs facing the desk, their hats and gloves perched on their knees as if to announce their general state of discord, while the youth, Gideon, retreated into the corner to contemplate the wood flooring beneath his feet while they awaited John’s arrival. The lad kept his beaver and gloves on, a repeat of his deplorable breach of etiquette thatSimon could not make sense of. Perhaps the boy was not familiar with the behavior of the upper classes, despite his fine attire?
All present straightened up with tense alertness when John entered and crossed the room to take a seat behind the desk which Simon had vacated. He supposed he should have requested extra seating, but he was not in the mood to sit, and the two peers hovering at the window did not seem any more inclined to relax than they had two days earlier.
“Do you lot attend each other everywhere you visit … Your Grace?” growled John with impatience, echoing Simon’s earlier thought.
Simon observed the oddity of the duke glancing across the room toward Gideon in the corner, again seemingly hesitating for a cue to speak from the youth. Gideon’s eyes were fixed on his brother, but he must have been aware of the duke’s unspoken question because he, almost imperceptibly, bobbed his head.
