Page 47

John shook his head, his confusion evident. Lady Trafford pulled back to address Simon.

“And, Mr. Scott, to your knowledge, does anyone else in your home suffer from the symptoms of his lordship? Chest pains, coughing, shortness of breath, the odor of garlic, changes in skin pigmentation on the front, back, limbs, soles, or palms?”

Simon shook his head. He was still in shock to see the state of John’s skin beneath his clothes and frantic that his brother had not informed him of how poor his health was.

“Pins and needles, abdominal pain, swelling or reddening of the skin, or white spots?”

“No ill health, to my knowledge. My younger brother has issues from old injuries, but nothing else.”

“And Lord Blackwood has a physician?”

Considering the emergency, Simon thought it would not be the time to mince words. “White is an ancient, drug-peddling quack. I doubt he can diagnose an illness that requires any judgment.” It was true—the evidence was bared. Dr. White was useless if his brother was in this condition, and the physician had never asked such specific questions.

Lady Trafford cocked her head, staring down at the discoloration. “I am afraid we need to empty his lordship’s stomach with some urgency. It will not be … pleasant.”

John reached up to grab her wrist, staring up with terror in his eyes. “Wh … why?” he croaked out.

“You have been poisoned, Lord Blackwood. Gradually and for some time, by my estimation.”

Simon’s jaw dropped open as he leaned back on his heels to rake his hair in anguish. “What?”

“Lord Blackwood has consumed arsenic for some time. See how some of the discolorations appear older than others? If you lean down, you can smell the odor of garlic seeping from his pores. If no one else in the household has any of these symptoms, it would suggest that Lord Blackwood consumes something that the rest of the family does not. We will take him to his rooms, and he must drink large quantities of tepid water with egg white, sugar, and magnesia, which will cause him to … empty his stomach. Who can prepare it while I attend him?”

Simon shook his head in confusion. “One of the servants. I shall call for them.”

Lady Trafford stayed him from rising. “Nay, Mr. Scott.”

Trafford dropped down on his knees beside his wife. “You wish it to be someone who has not been in residence too long?”

Lady Trafford nodded.

“How long, Audrey?” Trafford asked.

“Less than six months.”

Simon threw up his hands in question. It was as if an entire conversation had been conducted, and he had missed the discussion. “What are you talking about?”

Across the room, the Earl of Saunton stood, observing. “Mr. Scott, someone needs to assist your brother, who cannot be the one guilty of poisoning him. Someone who has been in your household for less than six months.”

The implications filtered in, and Simon realized the truth. “I—we—have a poisoner living under our roof? Someone is trying to kill my brother?”

“It would appear so, Mr. Scott. Someone has been trying to kill your brother off. Lady Trafford will treat him, but someone needs to help. Someone we can trust. Someone who has been here no more than six months. You do not meet these criteria.”

Simon raked his hair again as his spinning thoughts swirled with the ramifications of John’s poor health. He recalled Nicholas’s lament over their change in circumstances just the day before. His little brother would not attempt to clear a path to Simon inheriting, would he? It seemed too terrible to consider, but perhaps his guilt over Nicholas’s injuries had blinded him to his brother’s true character?

“His issues began more than a year ago, not six months.” Simon knew there would be a time when he needed to make sense of all this, but right now, with his brother wheezing with panic on the floor, he must answer the immediate question. “I do not know the specifics of the maids in the kitchen, but Molly Carter joined our household less than six months ago. Four or five at most.”

“Then Miss Carter must be summoned. We need her help to brew the water and ingredients. And we need a sheet so we can help you carry Lord Blackwood to his bedchamber.”

Simon nodded, springing to his feet to ring the bell. John needed treatment as the first priority. Questions would have to wait.

Madeline waited in the garden, but Molly did not return at the agreed time. Checking her timepiece did nothing to speed up the passage of time, each second ticking at the pace of a snail crossing over a leaf.

It was quite unlike her friend, and Madeline knew something was wrong. Perhaps Molly was caught in a conversation from which she could not escape? Or, perhaps, some fresh hell had broken loose in the Scott household, and her friend could not get away to inform Madeline of the latest development.

All she knew was, the more minutes that passed at a terrible and painful pace, the more butterflies settled in her stomach to make her queasy with worry. She suffered a dreadful feeling of unrelenting doom until she could no longer stand it. She wanted to squeal at the sheer, insistent frustration that was building up to consume her. Somehow, despite her patience this past decade, she no longer possessed an iota of forbearance. There must be some method of resolving this muddle.

She wished she had signaled Simon the night before to meet in the garden after dinner, but her guilt over searching his study was sure to spill from her lips if she was not careful, so she had remained at home after the meal.