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“She is.”

Roderick swallowed hard, turning his head to gaze down at the ground three stories below. He scrambled up the trellis, and Simon, realizing his intention, made to climb out onto the window ledge to grab him.

Trafford clasped hold of him in a tight embrace. “You will not risk your life for a cold-blooded killer, Simon Scott! Ye gods, if he fights you off, you could fall with him, and for what he has done, the sentence is death. If not today, then soon.”

“Hands off, Trafford!”

They struggled against the frame until an unearthly howl caused both of them to pause in their scuffle and spin back to watch as Roderick, having climbed up to the attic level, had released his hold to plummet to the ground. A loud thud from below introduced a deep silence. Both men gazed down at the broken body lying at the foot of the house for long minutes until Simon roused himself.

“Is it over?”

Trafford raked a hand through the mass of wheat curls at the crown of his head, blowing out a shaky puff. “I believe it is. Is it not horrifying to witness a man, a valued retainer of many years, trip and fall out of a third-story window before your very eyes? Discovering the baroness’s dead body must have addled his brain with grief to make him so clumsy.”

Simon frowned, his thoughts as thick as a heavy downpour as he tried to follow what Trafford had said. “What?”

“Your footman. It was a tragic accident that he stumbled and fell when he discovered Lady Blackwood had expired from an opium overdose.”

Thinking he might have imagined the past few minutes, Simon stepped away from the window to fall against the wall, sliding down until his buttocks hit the floor.

“Is that what happened?”

Trafford joined him on the floor, stretching his legs out with a weary groan. “Indeed. I imagine Lord Filminster and his bride would enjoy some peace after all they have been through these past weeks. A lengthy inquest that links these deaths to that of his father would be quite a public spectacle to entertain the masses for the months to come. I suggest you take those journals”—Trafford indicated the notebooks that his mother had referred to—“to your study so you might learn what all of this was about, and we summon the coroner to report the dreadful mistake in medication and the terrible accident it instigated.”

Simon hesitated. “Will that work?”

“With the duke’s support, yes. The Home Office has bungled enough this season. They will be eager to let the matter rest. Halmesbury can smooth it over and ensure your family’s peace. Lord Blackwood will need quiet to recover.”

Simon contemplated months of scandal and found that the alternative was far more appealing. The villains had been uncovered and were now dead. There was no specific reason to endure further suffering. “Thank you.”

Trafford chuckled, shaking his head in dismay. “I can scarce believe it either. What a muddle. Will you inform me of the details? Once you have read the journals?”

Simon nodded. “If the others wish to return, I can brief all of you on the contents in a few days. It is reasonable that you are informed of the details. I … appreciate your willingness to be discreet. With John’s health and the potential scandal for Madeline … Thank you.”

“Not at all, Lord Campbell.”

He blinked. “What did you call me?”

Trafford quirked an eyebrow in mild amusement. “Are you not the heir to your mother’s titles? Viscount of Campbell, Baron of Lochinver? I confess I do not recall the rest, but it is another reason not to reveal Lady Blackwood’s nefarious activities. They might get in the way of you inheriting the titles, and you have people up north who need your representation.”

Simon groaned, burying his face into his hands as the truth struck him like a clap of thunder. “Stuff!”

His companion burst into gales of laughter, doubling up with tearful mirth. “You and me both, Campbell. Welcome to the peerage.”

Madeline lay curled upon the kitchen table, her body trembling, her throat raw from retching until there was nothing left to bring up. Not a drop of tea, not a morsel of breakfast, and certainly not the dinner of the night before.

She lay shivering while Lady Trafford had the servants clean away the last vestiges of illness. All except her soaked gown. She vaguely considered bathing, but she had not the strength for such an endeavor. Falling asleep was inevitable in her weakened state, but she was afraid that she might not awaken, so she kept rousing herself.

Her lids were as heavy as chain mail, but Madeline was resolute in keeping them open a slit to ensure she was still in the land of the living. What if she closed them to never awaken?

She forced them open to find a pair of polished riding boots had come to a stop beside the table she was laid out on.

“Do you wish to go home? To your bed?”

Despite her drowsy state, Madeline’s heart pounded with joy at Simon’s presence.

“If you … stay … with me,” she mumbled, her tongue thick in her mouth.

“I shall never allow us to part again, fair Psyche.” He gathered her up in his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he lifted her up.