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It took a minute to note that under the shadowing brim of her bonnet, Molly’s expression was unhappy.

“What is it? Has something happened?”

Molly approached to settle on the bench beside her.

“I enjoy living in London, for what little I see of it. But the Scotts are … there is something amiss in the household. Lord Blackwood’s health declines at a rapid pace, and his physician is useless. I swear that the doctor is naught but a drug peddler. Yet the baron does nothing to improve his own health while Isla overindulges in her laudanum. Not to mention her lack of facial expressions. It is unnatural!”

Madeline made a sound of commiseration. “It was similar with the late baron … their father. I think it is the same Dr. White whom Simon would complain about. He suspected White was overmedicating the old man.” It was not her habit to speak of her former love, but Molly needed to air her grievances, and it had slipped out in a moment of sympathy.

“It is so frustrating! I have yet to encounter Nicholas sober, and I have been residing here for five months! The only dependable person in the household is Simon, but he is both aloof and”—Molly sought a word for what she wanted to communicate—“glum.”

Madeline dropped her gaze to stare at the book in her lap. She knew the change that had been wrought in Simon Scott over the years, but it was depressing to contemplate. “He was not always so.”

Molly paused, shooting her a worried glance, which Madeline caught from the corner of her eye. They had not spoken about the former relationship between Madeline and Simon, but Molly was perceptive, and it was clear that she had surmised something from their prior conversations … and the specific person Madeline avoided mentioning.

“I am sorry to burden you with this. It is just … the quarrels have been intensifying. The coronation sparked something off because our meals have grown increasingly strained since that time. I cannot think how that event would create trouble. I just recall that the baron was in an ill humor after the ceremony.”

“Things will settle down, and you are always welcome to take a respite at our home if you need to.”

Molly reached to pat Madeline with a grateful smile. “I appreciate I can visit with you. I count the days until I am done with this mourning period. My mother would hate to think of me so listless on her account.”

“Dear friend, I assure you, I need you just as much as you need me.”

It was true. Their companionship had brought her unexpected comfort. They spoke often of books and ideas, or Molly’s questions about the manufactory. Their burgeoning friendship had become the balm Madeline’s heart required while she quietly shaped plans for her future.

She must do something to help her new friend. Something to lift her companion’s spirits. Madeline tried to think of activities suitable for a young gentlewoman that would not be considered improper during her time of grieving.

“Perhaps we can go visit a bookshop together? I could ask Mama to escort us.”

Simon stared at the contract on his desk. Lord Boyle had finally signed it, sending it with a footman just minutes earlier. All that remained to make the betrothal official was for Simon and John to put their signatures to it. He and Olivia Boyle would be tied into a single legal entity. The culmination of his duty to the Blackwood title.

He was finding it difficult to draw air in his lungs. The walls of the study seemed to close in, his starched collar and cravat conspired to strangle him. Scraping his chair back, Simon rose abruptly, unable to tear his gaze from the neatly written contract. The desire to flee was overwhelming. He wished he could bolt off to the walled garden. So he could breathe, if only for a moment. But, alas, the garden was out of bounds because he was … about … to be … betrothed!

He could think of nothing other than the horrible truth. He was to wed the wrong woman. When he signed the contract, Madeline would be lost to him forever. Any hopes he had that he was only dreaming this suffocating life, that he would wake up to learn he was still a student at Oxford, and that Madeline was still his intended, slipped away as the pages taunted him with their cruel intentions.

Simon realized he needed to take a respite before his panic turned into hysteria. Leaving the contract where it lay, he strode into the hall and called for his overcoat. Soon, he was slipping on his gloves, donning his beaver, folding the morning news sheets under his arm, and heading out the door to a nearby coffeehouse. He sat alone, recovering from the shock of receiving the elusive paperwork from Boyle by reading his sheets and sipping on a mug of coffee. The tightness in his chest gradually eased as he took his time to enjoy some time alone.

Just as he thought he might survive the day, a sense of unease gripped him. He had the sensation he was being watched. Simon raised his head to flick a glance around the establishment as the feeling grew. Across the room, at a corner table, sat two gentlemen. They did not appear to be watching him, but he found it odd that they had kept their hats and overcoats on. The day was warm, and even within the coffeehouse the air was close.

Stroking his beard, Simon considered if he was imagining it, but then the smaller one of the pair, whose soft features spoke to his youth, flickered unusual silver-gray eyes in his direction.

Simon made up his mind. There would be more privacy at his clubs, so there was no need to analyze if he was being watched, preferring to trust his instincts in case someone had noted his trappings of wealth and was planning to fleece him.

He rose, tossing some coins down on the table, and headed out the door, casting a surreptitious gaze back to see if anyone followed him out.

Through the window, he saw that the odd pair in the corner had risen to leave. Simon narrowed his eyes, picking up his pace. He veered at the next corner to enter St. James’s Street. His club was nearby, and scoundrels who intended him harm could not follow him in to that guarded dominion.

Inside, he went to the library to find a book, realizing he had left his news sheets behind in his haste to put distance between himself and the men that might be pursuing him.

Settling into a leather settee, he stretched out his legs and ordered another coffee. The quiet steadied him at once. Likely, the imagined pursuit had been nothing more than the product of strain and sleepless nights. Still, his nerves hummed like taut wires.

Be that as it may, he still needed to calm himself, so it was a pleasure to relax in the cool interior. Thankfully, regardless of how trying his marriage turned out, Olivia and the Boyles’ annoying chatter would never find him in this hallowed retreat.