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“Deuce it!” He clapped a hand over his mouth, mortified to curse in front of the ladies, but he had forgotten all about the attack on Trafford. Dealing with his mother was indeed an urgent matter. She would have needed a servant to help her intercept incoming mail, which proved there was a manservant involved.

Madeline finished her cup of magnesia, pulling her bucket close to her torso as she began to heave. “Rod … rick … made … tea.”

“Roderick!” Simon’s mind flashed to various incidents over the years as he pieced together the past. “He has always been rather solicitous to my mother. Perhaps he is infatuated?”

“Perhaps they are engaged in an affair.”

Trafford’s remark was tossed out in an off-hand tone, but the sentiment had all eyes in the room rivet to him in dismay. He shrugged. “It is not unheard of for a noblewoman to take up with one of the servants. If Roderick is a footman”—Trafford paused to throw Simon a questioning glance. He nodded in acknowledgment—“they are hired for their height and handsome appearance. Not just noblewomen are drawn to them, but gentlem—” Trafford stopped abruptly, his eyes darting over to his wife and the heaving Madeline, who, despite the fact that she had resumed retching into the bucket, was peering at him with wide eyes. “Never mind,” he mumbled, evidently remembering at the last second that the ladies present might not be aware of the sort of thing he had been about to mention.

Simon suppressed a shudder. Now that Trafford had said it aloud, the notion took root. It was horribly conceivable that his mother and Roderick might share such a connection. There were endless opportunities in a household like theirs, and heaven knew he not pretend to understand the workings of Isla Scott’s mind.

Trafford thankfully interrupted his musings, which were repulsive to consider. “Scott, you summon my men from the mews for me, and I shall stand guard until they arrive.”

Simon nodded, striding to the kitchen exit that would take him up a short flight of stairs to the garden. Despite the unexpected camaraderie they were forming, he understood that Trafford did not yet trust him sufficiently to leave him alone with the women. Given the miasma of death permeating his home, Simon could not blame the viscount for his prudence.

Outside, the kitchen staff had gathered in uneasy clusters, whispering among themselves. Their eyes widened as he crossed the flagstones toward them. Simon informed them that Madeline and the baron had consumed tainted food. He wished he could inform them of the truth, but it was best they remain ignorant until his mother and her manservant had been confronted and … arrested … he supposed?

Deuce it! This will prove to be the biggest scandal of the century!

Simon issued orders to the housekeeper to immediately empty the kitchen and wine cellar of all food and liquids. Lady Trafford wanted all the floors to be cleared. Even their liquor in the study and first-floor rooms would need to be destroyed, but he did not wish to send anyone beyond the servants’ level, which would be secure with Trafford’s men to stand guard.

“Even the tea and coffee, Mr. Scott?” The matron was aghast at such extravagant wastefulness.

“Especially the tea and coffee. All of it is to be discarded. I shall provide you with additional funds to replace what we throw out. We cannot risk anyone’s health.”

It was true. There was no telling what Roderick and his mother might have done with the arsenic. Lady Trafford had impressed upon him that the poison was tasteless and odorless. It sometimes emitted a mild garlic odor when heated, such as in the tea Madeline had drunk, but this could not be relied upon as an indication of its presence.

Cook was thoroughly discomposed, fretting over how to prepare dinner and feed the staff. Sensing her distress and forcing down his own impatience, Simon drew out a purse and instructed her to arrange for pies to be brought in, sparing her the need to prepare anything for the evening. He suggested she send her most trusted maids to the grocer for fresh breakfast supplies. The kitchen staff bustled back inside, caught in a disordered flurry to carry out their tasks. Simon considered cautioning them against gossip, but in the current state of things, it would only serve to fan the flames.

Simon hurried back with Trafford’s footman and coachman, who immediately took up positions near Lady Trafford and Madeline. Yet even as he handed over responsibility, he could not bring himself to move away. His inaction had nearly cost Madeline her life. How could he leave her again?

She lay pale and spent upon the kitchen table, panting from the ordeal, her hair damp against her temples. Simon’s chest ached at the sight of her. It should have been him, not her, who suffered. But if his mother was capable of such wickedness, she had to be stopped before she struck again.

“Lady Trafford, you will send for me if you need me. Madeline is my first priority.”

The noblewoman looked up, her expression reflecting sympathy for his anguish. “Do not worry, Mr. Scott. We have this well in hand.”

Simon walked over to lean down and press a kiss to Madeline’s clammy forehead. “I will return soon.”

Amber eyes found his, and she blinked hard in acknowledgment, too weak to speak. He and Trafford departed, running up the servants’ staircase two steps at a time, with Simon leading the way to his mother’s rooms. Surely, she must have returned there after leaving Madeline to expire on the floor? He prayed for the strength to face her and not to strangle her outright for what she had done to his fair Psyche or his older brother on the second floor. The sheer malevolence was incomprehensible to him.

They burst into her private drawing room without knocking. The chamber was empty, but Simon noted that the desk Madeline had mentioned was pulled out from the wall, and all four drawers were opened in a disarray. It was out of character for his mother to tolerate untidiness. She must have discovered the missing letters. He briefly wondered where was Miss Dubois, his mother’s French maid.

He turned toward the chaise. A stack of small leather-bound journals lay neatly arranged upon it. Snatching one up, he flipped through the pages and recognized the curling, slanted hand of his mother’s script.

He let the book fall back among the others, dread rising in his chest. The adjoining door to her bedchamber stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open and entered, Trafford close behind.

The room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the daylight. Lady Blackwood sat propped against a bank of pillows, her face strangely serene. His mother’s eyes fluttered open to reveal a deep blue, her pupils almost invisible.

“Simon?”

Her voice was weak and her breathing shallow. He approached with a feeling of dread, noting the empty bottles of laudanum next to the bed with the caps strewn on the floor and her hair which had been loosened to frame her face in a becoming manner. Simon stroked his beard in agitation as he considered the presented nature of the scene.

“Mother?” Simon’s voice cracked.

“She broke into my desk … the little tart.”

Trafford came to stand beside him, flickering his eyes from the bottles and back to Simon with a raised brown eyebrow.