Page 26

Madeline paused, sinking back in her seat. One aspect of her sister’s work for Uncle Reggie that Madeline did not like was the fountain of gossip. She would brush it off and walk away without hearing it, but if it was about Simon …

“Other news?”

“Home Office is looking into Lord Filminster’s death. Word at Westminster is that Simon is considered the prime suspect in the murder.”

“That is ridiculous! Simon would never kill a man.” Especially not for the Blackwood title, which is the bane of his existence.

“I swear it is true. Uncle Reggie told me that there is some sort of evidence that points to him attempting to hide the late baron’s knowledge of the heir from the Continent. It is a mystery how no one knew of the nephews, but people are saying that Simon must have known.”

“Does that make any sense? Simon was a babe when his older brother died! How in heaven was he to hide such information when he was a child?”

Henri frowned, considering the question. “Perhaps there was no contact with the family. Perhaps Simon did not know until Lord Filminster visited London, and when he learned of it, he acted out of desperation.”

Madeline appreciated that her sister enjoyed her work, but she disliked the rumor trough of Parliament. In her estimation, the average politicians resembled a herd of pompous boars who savored intrigue and on-dits as if snuffling for truffles in the woods, rooting into reputations for their delicious tidbits of gossip with a gluttonous obsession. It was a distraction from their own shortcomings to pontificate about issues they could not comprehend from their privileged points of view.

Madeline far preferred tradespeople who produced actual work for their living.

“We have known him since we were children. Do you truly believe him capable of such villainy?”

Her sister shrugged. “He has changed. How would I know what he might do to hold on to his position?”

“Simon would not commit a crime.”

Cocking her head, Henri contemplated Madeline with an expression of sympathy. “I hope you are right, Maddy. Just … prepare yourself. In case.”

Madeline shook her head. It was true that Simon had changed, but not that much. Not enough to kill a man in cold blood. She knew his heart, and there was not a drop of scoundrel in his blood. Not one drop.

“When was the murder?”

“The night of the coronation.”

“Well, then. It is simple. I was with him that night until well past midnight.”

Her sister groaned, dropping into a seat across the table. “Madeline! Say it is not so! If word gets out, your reputation will be destroyed.”

Madeline sank back into her chair in dismay. If Simon needed an alibi, she would not hesitate to provide it, but it was true it would ruin her and likely the manufactory, too. But, more than that, what of his betrothed? Coming forward would create a scandal for Simon and Miss Boyle. The general public would not understand their long-standing friendship. Not to mention, there was a possibility that her testimony as an unmarried tradeswoman could be rejected out of hand. The authorities might think she was a lovesick fool, fibbing on behalf of the object of her infatuation who was far out of her reach.

She nibbled on a fingernail to think. What sort of evidence did Home Office have in their possession?

“Lord Boyle is here to see you.”

The rain roared outside, making it difficult to hear, but he caught MacNaby’s news, pronounced 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 nine circles of hell, and Boyle was certain to fling the gates open wide to reveal the tenth.

“What is terrible, my lord?”

Boyle paced, 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, waiting 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.”