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“I have been well.”

Simon nodded, seemingly satisfied by the appropriate response. Once they had talked freely as equals, but now they behaved like acquaintances with little in common. She could no longer hide from the truth. Waiting for him in their walled garden every night had become depressing.

It was time for her to gather the remnants of her pride and end this ritual. And the obvious course was to make a declaration. Which meant she just needed to find the words to tell him she would no longer be here waiting for him in their garden of flowers.

“I shall not be visiting our garden beyond this evening.”

EARLIER THAT DAY

Simon was not having a good day.

That morning, his attempt to speak with his younger brother had failed. The incorrigible youth had gone to sleep at dawn, risen only when John and their mother returned from the coronation, and then used the distraction of their lively discussion to disappear into the early evening before Simon could corner him for a proper talk.

John had returned home in a fine temper, grumbling to their mother about an encounter at the ceremony. Simon had been obliged to listen when he entered the drawing room to obtain his brother’s signature on estate papers.

“That little coxcomb, Lord Filminster, sat next to me. I have not seen him since attending Oxford, but the first thing he did was to offer his condolences over Peter’s death! My brother died more than two decades ago! Why would he not mention our father, who expired a mere eighteen months ago, or the death of my own wife just three years ago?”

Isla Scott made soothing noises to calm the baron down. “He sounds like a rotter, but do not let it upset you, dear. It will make you unwell, and the night is just beginning.”

Simon’s mother was an attractive peeress a mere nineteen years older than himself and several years younger than John. If one were not aware of their relationships, she could have been mistaken for Simon’s older sister. Her dark brown hair was still glossy without signs of gray, her oval face barely lined, and her intense blue eyes could pierce armor at fifty feet. A beautiful woman who had aged like a fine wine.

“Isla, it was not just that. He asked me about my heir without a by your leave. He was always an obnoxious fop with vulgar manners. The years have not improved his character.”

Isla’s eyes had flared in disapproval. “That is rather rude.”

“Heaven forfend.” Nicholas had entered the room, leaning against the doorframe with a nonchalant air. “How did you respond? Did you preen about Simon’s brilliance?”

The facetious questions grated on Simon’s nerves. He narrowed his eyes, noting that his brother had donned an overcoat, evidently heading out for another night of carousing.

“Of course! I informed him of Simon’s brilliance in orchestrating the modernization of our estates after Father turned over the reins years ago. A fine heir, indeed. You will never guess what he had to say to that!”

Isla leaned forward, handing John a cup of tea. “Dear, you must calm yourself.”

The remonstration had put Simon on the alert. John had not been well since their father died, and the coronation was sure to have exerted him with so many hours of ongoings. Worse, the baron was off to dinner with friends to celebrate, which Simon considered ill-advised, but his brother had been excited about it for weeks, so he had not the heart to dissuade him. John was aging beyond his years, a cloud of wispy, fair and gray curls forming a halo around his head while his face sagged with pouchy flesh. In that moment, his complexion was more ruddy than usual, and he was heaving slightly as he drew breath. The unusual activities of the day were wearing him down.

“Perhaps you should stay in tonight,” Simon had suggested.

“No!” John straightened in alarm. He must have realized the sharpness of his tone, relaxing back into his seat with his tea. “Tonight is important. I shall rest before I head out.”

“Drink your tea, dear. It will help,” Isla coaxed, a benign expression on her face. Her irises were mesmeric in the late afternoon light, and Simon pushed down a surge of irritation. It appeared his mother had enjoyed a little laudanum at some point during the day, her pupils pinpoints in a constellation of riveting blue. Her reliance on her tonics was yet another cause for concern.

Just then, Molly entered the room dressed for dinner in a muted mourning gown of lavender velvet, which offset her rich brown hair and hazel eyes. “Oh, hallo. What are we about, then?”

Simon rose to his feet. He was still not accustomed to the young lady’s presence in their home. Molly Carter was the niece of his father’s second wife. Not a blood relation to the Scotts, but a valued member of the family just the same. John was now the trustee of her estate by a bizarre mix-up in her mother’s will which had stated John Scott, clearly meant to be their late baron, but with no specification, the solicitors had played ignorant to assume it was the son rather than the father. Thus it fell, in truth, to Simon, the one who managed every concern tied to the Blackwood title, to bear the practical weight of yet another family responsibility.

She was a practical young woman, especially when compared to the eccentric Scotts, and Simon found her composure refreshing. There was something steadying in her presence. His step cousin was uncomplicated, sensible, and untainted by the whims that plagued his household. Yet he had not managed to form an easy familiarity with her.

“Molly, please join us.”

Her lips had quirked into a smile, and she took a seat beside Isla, who busied herself pouring a cup of tea to hand to her step-niece.

“John was informing us of a rather irritating baron from Somerset whom he sat beside at the banquet.”

“Just so. What did your friend have to say to Simon’s genius?” asked Nicholas, a smirk on his face as he poured out a port. Simon had been well aware of the jab aimed in his direction, but ignored it.

“The little upstart had the temerity to imply family disloyalty!”

A gasp escaped Isla. “What?”