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“Upon opening the box, Psyche fell into a deathlike sleep, for inside was not beauty, but a sleep that belonged to the underworld.”

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

Simon had thought this day could not get any worse, but opening the door of the family drawing room in search of his mother had revealed a nightmare beyond the tolerance of any man. His love crumpled on the floor.

“Dy … ing,” Madeline moaned, curling into a ball.

It was as if time slowed down. Running forward, he dropped to his knees beside her to assess what the hell was wrong with her. Scooping her up, he brushed the hair from her face and noted her skin was red and swollen. There was an odor of orange blossoms, tea, and … He choked in shock. Garlic!

Recalling the symptoms Lady Trafford had called out earlier when attending to his brother, Simon realized Madeline had remained in his home after he left her in the study. Someone must have persuaded her to drink the tea on the table as an opportunity to trick her into consuming arsenic. There was only one person whom it could be, because he had just left Nicholas in his bedchamber. He wished he knew why, but this was not the time to contemplate such things. Madeline needed his help.

“Madeline, it will be fine.” Holding her in a tight embrace, he hauled to his feet, fear humming through his veins to weaken his grip on sanity at the very thought of a world without his Psyche. “I am taking you to a doctor. Just breathe, my love. Just breathe.”

Simon prayed the Traffords were still here. Last he had seen of their visitors, they had requested their carriages be brought to the front after their guards had arrived to protect John. Hitching Madeline high, while she whimpered in pain, Simon hastened toward the front hall.

With a light-headed relief, he saw Lady and Lord Trafford exiting the front door and shouted out to stay them. The couple spun around at the yelling, Lady Trafford’s eyes riveting to the figure in his arms as she raced forward without hesitation.

“Who is this?” she asked, examining Madeline in his arms.

“My heart,” was the response Simon could croak out in anguish. “Is it arsenic?”

Lady Trafford tilted her head as she peered down at the moaning slip of a woman squirming in his arms. “Current circumstances would suggest it, but a much higher quantity.” Lady Trafford turned to her husband, who was hovering a few feet away with an expression of alarm. “Julius, do we still have some of the magnesia mixture left?”

Trafford nodded. “Unless the kitchen staff have thrown it out. We made much more than we used, but it will need to be reheated.”

Lady Trafford turned her silver gaze back to Simon. “I suggest we go to the kitchens. Your … heart … needs more urgent care than your brother did, so we should see to her right there.”

Simon nodded, spinning on his heel to head toward the servants’ staircase. “Madeline is strong. One of the strongest people I know. She will be well. She … must be well.”

Despite his assertion, Simon’s soul was in turmoil. This was his fault. He should have informed Madeline of what had happened with John. She had not known about the poison, or she would not have drunk the tea he had seen laid out on the table. Tea, which pointed to the culprit more than any other clue to date. But she had not possessed the facts to protect herself.

Why did I not take the time to tell her what was happening?

If she died … God forbid, he could not even think about such an outcome. She had to live, or he would follow her to the afterlife in his despair.

Madeline protested when Simon placed her down on a hard surface, reluctant to be parted as she fought against the gathering shadows. She reached to cling to him, not willing to let him go.

The soft press of lips brushed over her forehead. “Lady Trafford is going to make you better, Madeline.”

“Who …”

“She is a physician who helped John this morning.”

He released her, and a figure stepped forward to help Madeline into a seated position as a cup was brought to her mouth. “Drink, Miss Bigsby. I know you are struggling to breathe, but you must drink.”

Madeline was confused at the presence of an unknown woman instructing her, gulping down the tepid mixture and spewing much of it when she attempted to draw air in her lungs. Half the contents must be pooled on the floor, not to mention her bodice was soaked through, but before she could fall back to the table, she was presented with a second cup.

“Again, Miss Bigsby.”

After the second cup, the gagging began, and a bucket was thrust beneath her chin as she began to cast up her accounts, which was an odd combination of shame, agony, and sweet, sweet relief.

Simon and Lord Trafford stood aside, averting their eyes as Madeline suffered the indignity of vomiting. He had ushered the servants out of the kitchen to afford her some privacy, but truthfully, it had given him something to do, some small distraction from the helpless agony of watching her suffer.

“This is the young lady you were with the night of the coronation?”

He swallowed hard, but considering the circumstances, he must pray for Trafford’s discretion. In for a penny, in for a pound.