Chapter 179

Roland had served the Montague family for most of his life. He knew the way the household was run like the back of his hand.

After his previous master’s demise, it only made sense to continue working for the son, despite their obviously strained relationship.

But there were particular difficulties that frequently arose when serving a man who considered nearly every attempt at assistance as an intrusion.

Simon had never kept his dislike for his butler a secret, and Roland returned the sentiment with equal frankness.

Their disagreements were frequent, their conversations rarely pleasant, and neither would have chosen the other as a companion.

Yet Roland had known Simon for years. He remembered him as a boy with a mild temperament who followed his mother through the house before his father’s influence began to shape him.

That was why regardless of what he thought of his master, Roland could not bring himself to treat him with complete indifference.

That was why the present situation troubled him.

Simon had been drinking excessively for the past few days, skulking from one room to another, generally making himself increasingly difficult to approach and a pain to have around.

Such behaviour was hardly new. Roland had endured enough of these episodes to recognise the signs, and although he hated them, he understood that confronting Simon while he was in such a state would accomplish little.

Usually, when the worst of the drinking left him exhausted, Simon withdrew to his bedchamber. He turned everyone away, preferring to isolate him while he slept off the effects of the previous day’s excesses.

Roland occasionally would send up a tea tray with enough water but would always be met with an irritable dismissal.

Eventually, Simon would accept something to eat, if only to silence his whining butler.

This time, however, was different from the others, and it had begun to put Roland on edge.

More than a day had passed since Simon locked himself in his room, and scarcely a sound had come from within. He had not answered a single knock, nor had anyone heard him moving about the chamber.

Roland had tried repeatedly, at first knocking with his customary firmness, then with increasing urgency, but each attempt had been met with the same unnerving lack of response. He could not even hear the faintest movement from the other side of the door.

How odd.

It was the complete absence of sound that troubled him most.

Simon might have fallen asleep, drunk himself into a stupor, or simply decided to ignore everyone. Roland could account for any of those possibilities. What he struggled to dismiss was the dreadful thought that something might have happened inside the locked chamber, something no one would discover until it was too late.

He returned to the door and stood before it, listening intently.

"Mr. Montague?" he called.

There was no answer.

Roland knocked again, harder this time, his knuckles striking the wood with enough force to make his concern plain. Under different circumstances, such an intrusion would have earned him a sharp reprimand from his master. Yet no rebuke came, nor did Simon make any attempt to acknowledge him.

After waiting a moment longer, Roland reached for the handle and tried it, though he already knew what to expect. The door remained firmly locked.

His first instinct had been irritation. Had Simon not been so particular about his privacy, insisting upon keeping the keys to himself, Roland could have let himself in and put an end to this uncertainty.

His master had not even entrusted him with a spare key. Roland had always considered the arrangement both impractical and absurd, but Simon had never been one to entertain criticism, particularly when it concerned his personal habits. Now, however, the consequences of that stubbornness were becoming increasingly apparent.

Ordinarily, Roland would have respected his master’s desire for solitude rather than risk provoking another quarrel.

But these were no longer ordinary circumstances, and Roland could not bring himself to overlook the matter.

He descended the stairs and went to his own room, where he settled at his writing desk and drew a sheet of paper towards him. For a moment, he regarded the blank page, uncertain how best to address the Dowager Duchess without causing her undue alarm.

Lady Octavia had always shown Simon considerable affection. Though she was not his mother, she had treated him as one of her own, and Roland knew she would take his concerns seriously. If anyone could persuade Simon to open his door, it was she.

He began to write, keeping his account brief but making certain to include everything that had occurred, along with his growing apprehension over the young master’s prolonged confinement.

He concluded by asking her to come as soon as possible.

Once the letter had been sealed, Roland summoned a messenger and instructed him to deliver it without delay. Only then did he return to his duties, though his mind remained fixed on the locked chamber upstairs.

---

Octavia arrived as quickly as she could.

Her carriage had scarcely come to a halt before she descended and hurried towards the entrance, gathering her skirts clear of the stone steps. Roland was waiting in the hall, his posture rigid and his expression grave. One look at him told her that he had made no progress.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"Upstairs, Your Grace. He has not answered anyone."

"Then take me to him."

Roland led her through the house without delay, his long strides matching her hurried pace.

"How long has it been?" she asked anxiously as they approached Simon’s chambers.

"I have not seen him leave his room in two days, Your Grace," Roland replied.

Two days. Two whole days without food or water. God alone knew what condition he was in.

Octavia knew Simon well enough to recognise the danger in such prolonged withdrawal, particularly when alcohol was involved.

They stopped outside his bedchamber, and Octavia immediately knocked on the door.

"Simon? It is Octavia. Open the door, please."

No answer came.

She knocked again, calling his name with greater urgency, but there was no movement from within. The longer she stood there, the more her unease deepened.

Turning to Roland, she asked, "Do you have a key?"

"No, Your Grace. Mr. Montague keeps all his keys himself. He has never permitted me to retain a spare for this room."

Her concern gave way to alarm. "Fetch the footman and the coachman who accompanied me here. We shall have to force the door open."

Roland bowed and hurried away.

Octavia remained outside the chamber, straining to hear any indication that Simon was moving about inside. She knocked once more, this time speaking gently, hoping the familiar sound of her voice might work on him where earlier attempts had failed.

"Simon, dear, please answer me."

Nothing.

She had seen him withdrawn and despondent before. She had watched him struggle beneath the weight of his grief and anger following his mother’s passing, and she knew how readily he retreated into himself when his troubles became unbearable. Yet never had his behaviour frightened her quite so much as it did now.

Her mind conjured one dreadful possibility after another. He might have fallen ill. He might have collapsed and struck his head against something hard. He might be lying injured somewhere inside the room, too weak to call for help. Worse still, he might already be dead.