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“A gentle reed whispered to Psyche, ‘Wait until the sheep are resting in the shade, and then collect the wool caught on the branches of the trees.’”

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

“You should wed Olivia Boyle.”

John’s declaration was met by the loud ticking of the mahogany clock on the shelf. Tick, tick, tick, it said while Simon considered how best to respond to his older brother’s absurd recommendation.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether he was still abed, dreaming this peculiar conversation in the comfort of his sheets. He would far rather dream of Madeline—of drawing her close, her warmth soft against him as sleep claimed them both. More likely, the lamb from dinner had been ill-seasoned to provoke such nonsense.

He tapped the arm of his chair with drumming fingertips just to confirm it was daytime, and he had indeed dressed with the help of his valet just an hour earlier. The leather-clad padding was solid enough to the touch. He must be awake, then.

“Why on earth would I do that?” It was a serious question. Simon could not think of a solitary reason he would want to do such a thing. “Her father is making arrangements for her to marry Lord Clutterbuck.”

“It would elevate the Blackwood legacy to align with such an ancient family, and Clutterbuck is old enough to be her grandfather. You would be doing the featherbrained chit a service.”

Simon blinked, half-wondering whether his brother had taken leave of his senses. He rarely drank, but if he had, he suspected the fog in his head would feel much the same. Did John truly believe this? Did he have a legitimate reason to suggest such folly, or was this more of the legacy foolishness that had held Simon fast all these years while his real life slipped away?

“I have no wish to wed Miss Boyle. She is a frivolous flibbertigibbet who would drive me stark, raving mad. She and Lord Clutterbuck are suited in every aspect other than age.”

One of the few benefits of no longer being heir to the Blackwood title was that he was no longer bound to bow to his father’s will … or his brother’s. He could finally make his own choices, once he had determined precisely what those choices should be.

First, however, he needed to prove his innocence in the matter of Lord Filminster’s death. That would be far easier to accomplish if John had not just settled himself into Simon’s chair at the desk.

Simon resisted the childish urge to sigh. He truly ought to consider taking rooms at one of his clubs. The habit of rising to make way in his own study for whichever Blackwood held the title had grown insufferable. He had spent the better part of a decade doing the family’s work, while John merely scrawled his signature across documents he scarcely read.

Simon hoped that the new heir, Marco Scott, would be as fastidious to details as he had been because the baron was in too much physical discomfort to worry about details such as their tenants’ leases, or advising them about managing their crops for maximum profits. John did not pay attention to representing his district at Lords, relying on Simon to determine the votes he cast to protect the combined interests of the people of Blackwood.

The thought of all he needed to teach the incoming heir gave him a headache.

I hope Marco allows me to orient him to this role.

“You must consider the bloodlines, Simon. These … curst Italians … will sully centuries of Blackwood’s legacy if their claim turns out to be legitimate.”

Simon suppressed the impulse to grimace. “The people of Italy have bestowed upon us architecture, art, and sculptures so exquisite that they inspire faith itself at their divine perfection. I am certain that Marco, being half-English, will bring a fresh perspective to the Blackwood title, one that shall only strengthen all you hold dear. Furthermore, Italian culture is renowned for its devotion to kin, so he will undoubtedly honor those that come before him.”

“Word is that this Marco is a bear leader. Were you aware of that?”

“He tutors young Englishmen on their Grand Tour?”

“That is correct. What have you to say to that? How can such an individual be qualified to be the next baron?” John’s tone was plaintive and challenging, a combination that grated on Simon’s nerves. Did his brother not recall that Simon was under suspicion for a violent crime? Perhaps there was a better time to discuss the inanity of Marco Scott’s prior occupation, but John must have been obsessing over his mortality this morning.

“So he is familiar with our English ways, an accomplished academic, and a gentleman who appreciates the importance of preservation.”

“You make it sound an asset.”

“It is. How did he come to be in such a role?” Simon acknowledged to himself with some shame that he had not displayed any interest in the relations who would arrive from the Continent, but his thoughts had been otherwise occupied.

“Apparently, he is from an important family in Florence. Merchants!”

The last was hissed in disgust. Simon suppressed a smile at this. John would be most displeased when he learned Simon planned to enter into industry. He would deem it worse than the merchant class. It had always been Simon’s plan ever since he had learned Eleanor Bigsby’s story as a young lad and been fascinated that someone he knew had created such success in the span of years. What must it feel like to build lasting wealth, employing people with the sweat of one’s brow rather than being born into it.

Granted, she had begun with some capital when she arrived in London, but she had multiplied it tenfold since then.

“Faith! The merchant background means he likely has a head for the business of managing property. Along with his interest in the grandeur of the past, he possesses the perfect skills for a future baron.”

“Blast it, Simon! You almost seem pleased at this unfortunate turn of events.”