Page 12

At best, all Simon could accomplish today was to calm him down in order to set a new appointment.

“That is dreadful. Who is it?”

“The Baron of Filminster. An odd little coxcomb from Somerset whom no one has seen in twenty years.”

Not a close acquaintance, then. Simon had long suspected Lord Boyle made a sport of finding new reasons for distress.

A bell rang somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Had he heard about Lord Filminster recently?

“Who would want to kill him? Do you think it is the start of an uprising?”

Simon restrained a roll of his eyes.

Among the privileged, there persisted a certain terror of revolt, a ghost of France that haunted them still. Lord Boyle and his friends had shuddered when the French king had met the guillotine. Their fear of the mob had outlasted both reason and memory. Perhaps that same fear explained the viscount’s disastrous finances. He had long since lost touch with the world beyond his drawing rooms, if he had ever had such contact at all.

Simon had to respond out of politeness, to mollify the viscount so he could arrange a new meeting.

“It sounds to me like an act of passion. Who is the coroner investigating for the crime?”

Lord Boyle leaned forward. In a low voice to announce the melodramatic intrigue, he whispered what he knew. “Word is that his son might have … compelled his inheritance.”

Simon regarded the revelation with distaste. The notion of killing for a title struck him as grotesque. His own inheritance was no prize, but a yoke around his neck—one he would gladly cast off if he could. Duty had no joy in it, only weight. Alas, duty was why he was here now—to wed the lord’s daughter so he could fulfill his obligations to his family. Certainly not to himself.

“That is not all. Rumor at my clubs is that the heir is not the baron’s boy. The mother was betrothed to the baron’s older brother, who died before the wedding.”

Simon wanted to shake his head in irritation. He did not abide gossip, a character trait he would not expose to the simpering Boyle who loved it. The fact that his own plans were delayed because of some unrelated event that Boyle had already confessed had no bearing on his life, other than to serve as a source of aristocratic melodrama … This entire affair continued to be frustrating.

Worse, despite his lack of momentum, Simon was still required to perform a visit with Olivia and her family before he left. The thought of insipid small talk and dainty biscuits made his head ache.

Deuce it. He knew where he had heard the name before. Just last night, he had agreed to avoid the baron from Filminster when his brother had complained about his behavior at the banquet.

What a bizarre coincidence.

For half an hour, he indulged the viscount’s theatrics, assuring him there was no uprising to fear and no need to fortify the townhouse against imaginary revolutionaries. Only then did he succeed in steering the conversation toward the drawing room.

There, the ladies were at tea.

Olivia Boyle had the light blonde hair of her father and a fondness for pink bows. One topped her coif now, so large it could have been mistaken for a hat. The sheer size of it dwarfed her head. Miss Boyle was an attractive creature, quite proper by polite society standards … and, like her bow, rather flighty.

“La! Mr. Scott, we did not expect you to visit us!”

Simon’s jaw tightened. A habit of late.

Miss Boyle was seated next to his mother, who did not stop herself from rolling her eyes in his direction. One of the few facial expressions that she allowed herself because there was no risk of forming wrinkles. The problem with Miss Boyle was, she was proper without judgment. She had assessed that feigning surprise at his visit was the correct gambit, despite Lady Blackwood being seated at her very side, sipping on their fine tea and looking bored, which disproved Miss Boyle’s declaration.

But, to be fair, his mother always appeared to be as stoic as a china doll. Simon knew she was bored because of their conversation in the carriage and his ability to read the minuscule shifts of her expression after years of experience. Her habit of adding laudanum to her day assisted with her aversion to lines on her face. A mixture of opium and alcohol, she claimed she needed it for female disorders, but Simon suspected it was more of a beauty treatment. Laudanum helped her to remain composed because expressing emotions was aging.

Simon noted he was focusing on his mother in an effort to avoid the young lady seated at her side. It was difficult to stop himself from comparing Miss Boyle to Madeline, but he must refrain from such disloyal thoughts.

He bowed in greeting. “Lady Boyle. Miss Boyle, you look lovely this afternoon.”

It was true enough. She was a pretty young woman, with an elfin face, a delicate nose, and large blue eyes framed by pale lashes. A pleasing contrast to his own darker countenance. It was the contents of her head that were … questionable.

“Oh, Mr. Scott! You are so kind.”

Simon seated himself on a spindly rose-pink chair with a gilded frame. The entire room was decorated in pink and gold, so ornate that it threatened to give him a headache.

He hoped Miss Boyle would not import her family’s sensibilities into the Blackwood household. Their extravagant taste was an assault upon refinement. Perhaps his mother might curb her exuberance, for Lady Blackwood possessed a keen understanding of elegance built upon restraint.