Page 27

Simon rolled his eyes as Boyle continued wearing a frenzied path into the expensive Aubusson rug beneath his buckled shoes. He spoke about acquiring the title as if it were shopping for a pair of gloves or slippers at a milliner’s, which, Simon supposed, was precisely what had occurred.

Then the full import of Boyle’s words struck him. Was the man going to beg off their contract?

Please, God, let it be so!

“My lord, do you wish to inform me of something?”

Boyle paused mid-pacing, his back turned to Simon and his shoulders coming back with sudden tension.

“We learned of the heirs, my boy. Olivia is fond of you, but you must understand that she had her heart set on a title.”

“Are you requesting that I allow your daughter out of the marriage contract?”

He could hear the viscount’s audible inhalation. “Lord Clutterbuck informed us of the news from Westminster about these Italian heirs. What a disaster! He has made it clear that he is willing to wed Olivia if she so wishes.”

“Does she?”

Silence followed Simon’s question, and he waited for the answer without drawing air. His heart pounded so loud in his ears, he was worried he would not be able to hear Boyle reply. Simon had not prayed so hard for mercy since the night his brother had fallen from his third-floor window and he had set himself on this current descent into misery.

Boyle turned about, his eyes downcast while he licked his thin lips and swallowed. “It is nothing personal, Mr. Scott. Olivia would consider it a benevolent boon if you were to agree to destroy the contract.”

Simon was light-headed, but he cautioned himself not to appear too eager lest he insult the viscount at the moment of his release from the gaol he had signed himself into. Boyle was a temperamental coxcomb who could change his mind in a heartbeat if he took offense. Months of negotiations had taught Simon to be cautious. “I am … gravely disappointed.”

Boyle gave a nervous twitch at this pronouncement. “It would be a selfless act, Mr. Scott. I beseech you to grant Olivia forbearance.”

“Not so small, Lord Boyle.” Simon’s mouth was dry, as his thoughts raced to calculate the right amount of reluctance to display to achieve this unexpected outcome he desired with every iota of his being.

A flush spread up the viscount’s neck. He raised his gaze to implore Simon, his washed-out blue eyes desperate. “It would be an act of grace and honor for which I would be eternally grateful, young man.”

Simon considered him carefully, turning to walk to the cabinet behind his desk. Opening the doors, he pulled out a key to unlock the safe and retrieve the signed contract before turning back to Boyle. “How do you propose to do this?”

Boyle exhaled in a rush, his eyes fixing on the pages in Simon’s grasp. Reaching inside his coat, he pulled out a thick wad of papers and approached Simon’s desk. “We shall each tear it up and burn the pieces.”

Simon gave a nod of assent. Grabbing his sheaf at the middle, he prepared to rip the documents in half while pausing to ensure Boyle did the same. Then, at the same time, they tore with a loud rending, walking over to the small fire banked in the hearth to toss the contract into the coals. They each watched intently as the pages curled and charred, dissolving into ashes while Simon breathed his first hint of true freedom in over ten years. Olivia was no longer his burden to bear, and the last remaining barrier left between him and a future of his choosing was the accusation of murder.

Madeline found her feet walking toward the garden without any conscious intent. The sun was setting, and the evening air cool on her skin as she adjusted her shawl to prevent a chill. She hoped that, perhaps, Simon might appear. She had been thinking about the murder investigation, pondering why he had not informed her of that detail. Had he been unaware? If so, it was urgent to alert him to the Westminster gossip. He might need to take measures to protect himself or obtain legal representation.

When she reached the garden, it was in shadows, but her spirits soared to see him waiting for her. His legs were sprawled out, and he had his arms folded as he contemplated the firmament of shimmering stars above. Hearing her approach, he turned to grin in greeting. Madeline paused in surprise. He appeared … happy?

“Simon,” she greeted, moving to perch on the other end of the bench but noting that he was not sitting on the far edge as he had been wont to do this past decade.

“Miss Boyle found herself a title to take my place.”

Madeline tensed in surprise. “You are … free?”

He exhaled 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 is 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 rarely spoke ill of his mother, though he had once confided that her 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.