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“When you opened your eyes, you saw love itself, and now you have lost it.”

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

JULY 19, 1821

“Nicholas, I wish to speak with you.”

Simon’s tone was hostile, but it had been two days since he had last seen his little brother.

Not so little anymore.

Nicholas topped Simon by an inch, but he appeared taller yet. His form was lean—too lean. His habits of carousing for days on end and barely eating were evident, and in Simon’s opinion, the youngest Scott was abusing spirits.

Simon had attempted to have his allowance curtailed to limit his habits, but John had been insistent that Nicholas was a young buck sowing his wild oats. John was now the master of their household, Baron of Blackwood, so after some heated debates, Simon had relented and agreed to abide by his elder brother’s wishes. This did not mean he was not seeking other avenues to address the crisis that was forming in front of his eyes. Storm clouds were gathering, and Simon feared it was only a matter of time before they broke.

“You shall have to join me in the library then, old chap.”

Simon experienced a flash of guilt as Nicholas limped down the hall. Striding to catch up with his younger brother, he entered the room to find Nicholas at the drinks cabinet pouring a port.

“It is eight in the morning. A little early for drinking?”

Nicholas shrugged, then limped over to a settee to drop down and nurse his drink in an insolent sprawl. “It depends on your perspective. For you, it is the start of the day. For me, it is the end of a very late night.”

Simon could not help it. He rubbed his face as he tried to find words—new words—that would somehow penetrate the cloud of alcohol that buzzed around his brother’s head. Perhaps laudanum as well, he thought grimly.

In his estimation, his family relied too much on both, not to mention rich foods, and they suffered from the ill effects. Simon made it a point to take care of himself and not fall into such bad habits, but being surrounded by relations in a perpetual state of inebriation took its toll on his peace of mind.

“Nicholas, I am concerned for your health. Your leg has been stiffening up, your limp more pronounced. I wish for you to see the physician that has been recommended⁠—”

“Not this again! I am well and have no need for such things. I am an idle buck of the noble class with no chance of inheriting or making something meaningful of myself … unless there is a lucky change in my circumstances.” Nicholas waved his crystal wineglass at the lame leg, which caused a physical sensation of regret to wash through Simon. “I shall live fast and expire young while I hold on to my Campbell good looks.”

Framed by the claret red wallpaper and bookcases, the morning sun filling the library with light, Nicholas appeared ghastly with his pale features and reddened eyes. “Where were John and Mother off to so early?”

It was a transparent change of subject, but Simon was at a loss for words. Attempting to talk to Nicholas when he had been out carousing for as long as he had was pointless. Best to attempt this conversation when his brother had some sleep and some food in his belly.

“The coronation is this morning.”

“Ah! That explains those puffy breeches.”

As Baron of Blackwood, John was garbed in antique dress per the specifications laid out by the College of Arms at the King’s behest, a tight-fitting doublet with shining buttons. Gold-and-white breeches formed a puffy skirt, which stopped at the upper thighs to reveal a long expanse of white-stockinged legs. Heeled shoes, along with a red velvet cape lined with ermine.

“Quite. The monarch had some ridiculous notions about what is to be worn by the lords. I am quite heartened to be a mere heir rather than suffer the indignity of what can only be classified as costume. It is unlikely there will be a coronation of such grandeur again.” Simon’s voice was laced with sarcasm. He appreciated art and beauty, but this morning’s ceremony seemed more of a pompous spectacle. Their mother, the dowager Lady Blackwood, had been tittering in glee at his older brother’s ensemble when they had left for Westminster. The ladies were not afflicted with such silly adornment.

Nicholas chuckled, downing his port to smack the glass down on a side table. “I predict there will be humorous prints for sale come morning!”

It was not long before Nicholas limped up the stairs to find his bed. Simon went off to take care of baronial business. John might be the baron, but his health had been declining since their father had died eighteen months earlier, so it was Simon who had taken over managing the vast estates held by the Blackwood title. The work would not complete itself, and it would be better to keep his mind occupied until evening when he would need to deliver some unwelcome news. Tomorrow, he would sacrifice much in the name of duty, and he must sever his ties to the past if he wished to claim he possessed any integrity as a gentleman.

Madeline pushed at the crust of her apple-and-potato pie while her twin and Mama discussed the coronation over dinner. As private secretary to Uncle Reginald, Henrietta Bigsby was privy to information about the cost and organization of the ceremony held earlier that day, Madeline’s mind refused to engage. She listened politely, the words flowing around her like the clink of silver on china.

“Uncle Reggie says that Parliament provided one hundred thousand pounds! Can you believe such a princely sum for one event?”

Eleanor Bigsby tutted, her expression scandalized. “It is wasteful.”

Henri leaned forward, tapping her finger on the white linen tablecloth for emphasis. “That is not all. A further one hundred million francs came from French war reparations!”

Mama gasped. “That is a fortune!”