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“Her first task was to sort a huge pile of mixed grains—millet, barley, poppy seeds—before nightfall, a feat no mortal could achieve.”

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

OCTOBER 2, 1821

The family physician was in John’s private rooms when Simon arrived, determined to have a serious word about the revelations of the previous day.

Dr. White was a genial old man of modest stature, his bald crown encircled by a fringe of white hair and a rather magnificent moustache. His spectacles clung precariously to the bridge of his nose, their tight metal arms marking grooves beside his temples. Simon found little comfort in his presence.

There was something glib about White’s manners, and his propensity for generous prescriptions of laudanum as a cure-all for every complaint of the physical or the spirit was off-putting. Simon preferred to follow good habits and avoid physicians when he could. He missed the doctor who had taken care of his brother Nicholas after his accident, but he had retired years ago and Isla had presented this medicating quack in his place. Needless to say, his family adored him because he kept them in a ready supply of alcohol and opium concoctions, and Simon’s warnings about the habit-forming nature of such fell on deaf ears.

White packed up his things and left, Simon watching him depart with a belligerent stare. “I do not know why you see him. Your health has not improved under his watch.”

John coughed, clearing his throat before rising to ring a bell. “He has an excellent reputation, according to the ladies Isla takes tea with.”

Simon ground his teeth, not wishing to start another quarrel, but it was clear the reason for the excellent reputation was that certain people of their set liked to receive their drugs without admonishment from a caring healer. His father had been such an individual. White was unlikely to criticize a patient over their use of medications.

“We need to speak about the matter of these heirs,” Simon stated, deciding to change the subject.

Before John could reply, a knock came at the door, and Duncan appeared.

“Milord?”

“Bring me my coffee, Duncan.”

The footman’s expression shifted to one beleaguered by great troubles. “The doctor, milord.”

Simon rolled his eyes. White might be irresponsible dispensing the bottles of laudanum, but apparently, he was adamant that John needed to forsake the bitter beverage for tea. A direction which Duncan attempted to remind his master of, but to no avail.

“Bring me my coffee!” John thundered, his voice rasping. Isla and John did not see eye to eye on this one subject. Simon, on the other hand, thought it was a ridiculous line to draw in the sand. If the laudanum flowed like wine, what harm could the coffee do?

After a few tense moments, Duncan relented and headed off to fetch the coffee.

“It is a dark day for the Blackwood title.”

Simon lifted his gaze with a quizzical rise of his eyebrow, having lost the thread of the conversation.

John gesticulated a vague wave. “The heirs from Italy you are to speak of. It is a dark day for the Blackwood title. Good British blood has run through the veins of our ancestors for generations.”

“Be that as it may, there are practical issues to discuss.” Simon did not wish to hear about the venerated blood of Scotts, nor the downfall of their line by introducing Italian blood. He had tossed and turned all night, considering what it meant for the management of Blackwood estates and the tenants and people that it affected. Then there was the immediate family to consider, a thousand trivial details which added up to a muddle of epic proportions. “What of Nicholas?” Simon had concerns because John’s health did not speak to his longevity. “Will the heir continue his allowance … when you are … no longer with us?”

John shook his head, his jowls flapping around to remind Simon just how much his older brother had declined. He had seemed a healthy man at the time he had inherited the title from their father, but within weeks, illness had set in, and just eighteen months later, he was a man who looked like he might be a mere handful of years from the grave. It was a chilling reminder to eat well and keep up his routine at Gentleman Jackson’s, expending his energies.

“This Italian upstart better not think of changing the arrangements in place!”

Sighing, Simon leaned back in his seat to relax his stance lest he display his irritation. This was no time for pride or passion. They needed calm heads and clear plans for what lay ahead.

“We know nothing about our nephew. When the title is his, he can make the changes he wishes to. My mother is well taken care of by her marriage contract and the entailments attached to her Scottish title, but both Nicholas and I are portioned a small allowance under that document. And what of me? I am to marry Olivia Boyle on the understanding that I was to be a baron with an income. What new arrangements would be needed so I might support my bride in the manner she is accustomed to?”

John coughed into his fist, squirming about in discomfort. “Where is that Duncan?”

“John?”

His brother huffed, resentment in his eyes when he cast a glance in Simon’s direction. “The blood of the Boyles would have made a fine addition to the Blackwood line. We were seconds away from cementing everything Father wanted for this family.”

Hearing the news yesterday had freed Simon of some of the restrictions of duty weighing him down. Fate had determined that he could follow his own path, but in a twist of macabre humor, it was to be with a wife not of his own choosing. Bloodlines had never been particularly interesting to Simon, and he was not quite sure how or why he had allowed himself to be convinced to pursue Olivia as a spouse. The gods were mirthful with glee at Simon for his blind adherence to tradition, which had led him to this outcome. He had been trapped in a deep sleep and wakened to discover the entire world had shifted since he had gone to bed—more than ten years earlier!