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“Psyche, armed only with her courage, descended into the underworld, passing through the gates of Hades with no promise of return.”

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

OCTOBER 5, 1821

“The baron’s desk held nothing of interest. Old journals, poetry from his youth, correspondence with friends. I found naught to suggest he knew about his nephews.”

“What of Nicholas?”

Molly made a face. “I think his life consists of carousing. There were little personal items at all. Just a few notebooks from his time at Oxford, no correspondence, a few novels, and old textbooks from his education.”

“And the baroness?”

“Her room is as immaculate as her icy countenance. I was terrified I would leave evidence of my search, so it took the longest to search. There was a writing desk with four actual locks. I tried to find keys, but there was no sign of them anywhere. I even searched the vases and jewelry boxes, under her mattress … Perhaps she keeps them on her person.”

“Hmm … That piques my interest, considering how much it costs to include the locks. She must be fastidious about her privacy.” Madeline had not slept a wink all night, impatient to learn what Molly had found. It was a beautiful morning, the sky a crisp blue and the garden resplendent with foliage and twittering birds, but she had no time to pay it mind when such important events were afoot.

“I agree about the locks. They seem to have been added rather than part of the original design. But what motive could she have? Do you think the baroness is capable of hoisting a sculpture to beat a peer over the head?”

“We do not know what the workings of her mind are, and she could have had a servant do it. The duke and his friends have stated that a manservant is involved, so we must not discount it.”

“Faugh, Madeline! Must I fear the servants, too?”

“I do not know, but we cannot declare our investigation complete unless we have viewed the contents of her desk. What could the baroness have locked inside that requires it? We must confirm the contents to lay our anxieties to rest.”

Molly slumped back against the stone bench, her bonnet obscuring much of her features except for a pensive pout of the lips. “I must claim to be unwell a second time?”

Madeline hated the notion of another night of insomnia while she obsessed about the contents of a mysterious desk. “Perhaps I can visit to distract her. I will tell Mama I will not be going to the manufactory today so I can call on the baroness to thank her for hosting us last night. Might that get you into her rooms a second time?”

“I can try. There is no method to predict when the room will be empty, but I could keep watch and hope for the best. But what will it change if I do not have the keys?”

Madeline growled in frustration, before recalling an incident a few years earlier when the key to the door from the mews to the alley had broken in the lock. She had watched in fascination as her coachman had extracted the pieces out, then picked the lock open so he could replace it with a newer one. Johnson had worked in construction at one time, he had informed her.

It had not seemed too difficult as someone accustomed to carving stone. Perhaps he could show her how to do it. In turn, she could tutor Molly. She hoped the other woman was as handy as she was and that there was some method of relocking it when they were done.

If the contents proved to be benign, she and Molly could stop invading the Scotts’ privacy, and at the appropriate time, she could confess to Simon what they had done. Her conscience protested that inevitable moment, but she was determined to proceed.

Their solicitors had sent word that a renowned barrister would be calling in the afternoon to discuss the investigation into the late Lord Filminster’s death. The news had been a relief to receive, a glimmer of order amidst the chaos. Simon was impatient to call on the duke and offer his assistance so he might do something to begin making plans for his new life. Everything was stalled until he could settle this thing.

So when MacNaby appeared in the doorway to announce that their unwelcome visitors had returned, a cold dread coiled in Simon’s stomach. Could he not postpone their intrusion until after the barrister’s arrival?

“Have you informed his lordship?”

“Yes, sir. Duncan has gone upstairs to collect him.”

With an air of resignation, best to know what fresh and incriminating information had come to light, he bade the butler to show them in. Recalling Madeline’s advice to utilize his skills in communication, he requested that coffee be brought in to combat the brisk chill of autumn.

The five gentlemen entered with their usual somber air. Halmesbury, Saunton, Filminster, the coxcomb Trafford, along with the odd youth Gideon, filed into the room to take up their usual positions.

Simon bowed to each in turn, attempting to conduct himself with the usual etiquette of meeting with such men, but the tension was palpable. Silence fell, Simon struggling for anything to say when outnumbered by five hostile opponents and not coming up with anything. It might have been different if they would speak so he could respond, but this was an unprecedented situation.

Minutes ticked by, the coffee tray brought in by Roderick, who informed him that his mother had requested that John drink his tea that the doctor had recommended, which was in a separate pot. Simon nodded without registering what he had said, as he considered the possibility that he might be arrested for a crime he had not committed.

Could he hang despite his innocence?

Now that he could wed Madeline, should he allow her to step forward as his alibi? Would them taking vows mitigate the scandal?