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Lord Filminster, however, seemed unhappy at this news, raking his chestnut mane to announce his lack of composure. Simon recollected reading that Filminster had wed the daughter of a viscount after compromising her the night of the coronation. The alibi she had provided had proven he had not murdered his own father. It was the first signal that anyone in the party might be uncomfortable with accusing Simon of a crime he had no role in.

Simon flickered his gaze over to the strange Mr. Gideon, but as before, the youth had his eyes fixed on John, paying no mind to the terse discussion taking place. A memory echoed in the recesses of his mind. He could swear he had been on the receiving end of that focused stare at some point in the past, but he could not place it.

“So … what is it?” John’s question broke the awkward silence.

Lord Trafford rose to his feet, his lean face stern as he shot a glance to Gideon behind him. The two made eye contact, a strange frisson passing between them until the boy flickered an assent. Trafford turned back to glare at Simon. “I sent a letter to flush out the killer.”

Simon frowned, his eyes skittering over to the desk.

“I stated a time and place to meet.”

At that, Simon’s memory jolted. He recalled the strange missive. Striding to his desk, he rifled through his correspondence, but the letter was nowhere to be found. “I received a note about a baron last month.”

Trafford rolled his eyes. “Let me guess what has happened. My letter has”—he threw out his hands, pausing with dramatic effect—“disappeared?” His tone was laden with sarcasm.

“Well … yes. What of it?”

“Someone followed me home when you failed to appear … and attempted to hasten me to an early grave with the tip of a sharp knife.”

Simon shook his head, his thoughts spinning with the unreality of the moment. “You are saying … I tried to stab you?”

“Not you. One of your servants.”

His head was reeling. Simon leaned against the desk lest he fall over in shock at the bizarre denouncement. “Why, in Heaven’s name, would one of my servants agree to kill you?”

Trafford shrugged with an insolent nonchalance belied by the fury in his brown eyes. Brown? Simon could have sworn the young dandy had green eyes when he had been here last in his sage attire. “Misplaced loyalty?”

At that moment, John was seized by a fit of coughing, the hacking wheeze of his lungs painful to hear, which pulled Simon’s attention away from his problems as he waited for his brother to recover. After a couple of minutes, John drew a deep breath and rose to his feet to face Simon’s accusers with a baleful glare.

“I think you overestimate the loyalty of our retainers, gentlemen,” John said coldly. “I can assure you Simon has informed me of whom he was with the evening of the coronation, and he has good reason to withhold the identity of his companion. In the interests of cooperation, I shall send for my butler. He will assist you in questioning our servants. And then”—John’s voice rose—“I expect you to drop this inquiry into my brother. If not, I shall present myself at the Home Secretary to complain about these heavy-handed antics. The Scotts have been valued members of the peerage for centuries, and we shall not tolerate any further sullying of our reputation.”

Trafford opened his mouth to speak before sinking back into his seat. “Halmesbury?”

The duke stepped forward. “Questioning your servants would, indeed, help settle our minds. We thank you, Blackwood.”

John nodded, waving to the bell. Simon walked over and rang for MacNaby to make the arrangements. Perhaps they might yet bring this unpleasant business to a close without further scandal.

Madeline headed to the secluded garden as soon as dinner was over, pausing only long enough to draw a shawl about her bared shoulders. She knew Simon would come, despite his infrequent visits these past years. His absence had never been about them. Rather, it had been reality impinging on the romantic world they had created together in the quiet of the foliage and stone.

Henri had given her grief during the meal, and her mother had glanced at her frequently, a question in her eyes. Madeline could tell that Eleanor Bigsby was anxious about the situation with Simon and how it might affect Madeline’s plans to consider the matchmaker’s choices, but Mama had steered the conversation toward forthcoming social events to quiet Henri’s misgivings.

Taking up her place on the stone bench, Madeline twisted her fingers as she considered her position. Then she shifted six inches closer to where Simon would take his seat to close the distance between them. Anticipation fluttered like butterflies in her stomach as she observed the half-moon above, fat with portent. It was the past, waning away to usher in a new cycle, and Madeline had some hopes, despite cautioning herself that she did not know Simon’s desires for the future.

But he is seeking me out again. Surely, that means …

The crunch of boots upon the walkway interrupted her musings, and she lowered her gaze to watch Simon approach. She took in his lean form, the wide shoulders and slim hips, before noting he appeared to be crestfallen. Her anticipation gave way to anxiety.

Simon dropped onto the bench without a word, his hip brushing against hers as he bent forward to lean his elbows on his long, muscular legs.

“What is it?”

“I am meeting with our solicitors in the morning. My mother’s alibi has been disproven, so I need to explore my legal options in case …”

“This might be a serious matter to contend with?”

Simon nodded, his face grim. “The family of the late baron is convinced I have something to do with his death. The Duke of Halmesbury and his kin. Apparently, Lord Trafford, who is linked to them, was attacked after he sent me a letter last month.”

Madeline wrinkled her nose in confusion. “A letter? What did it say?”