Lord of Intrigue (Inconvenient Brides #10)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

“Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself within a forest dark,

For the straightforward path had been lost.”

Dante’s Divine Comedy

SEPTEMBER 1821, FLORENCE

S ilence cloaked the room, heavy as velvet, after the pronouncement. The seconds dragged, each one stretching into what felt like minutes, as Marco remained lost in his thoughts. He supposed he should not be entirely surprised—given his parentage—but …

His gaze lifted. His mother, a handsome Italian dame with a mane of silver hair caught in a chignon, was staring blankly at the wall opposite her. Perhaps she was admiring the rich landscape framed in gold where her eyes rested. More likely, however, she was staring into the deep recesses of her mind.

Mamma had long since given up hope of reconciliation with the Scotts. Their unexpected visitor must have dredged up all manner of old sorrows: memories of her late husband, Peter—Marco’s father—and his fruitless attempts to correspond with Marco’s grandfather before Peter’s untimely death from a fever more than two decades ago.

To Marco’s left, his younger brother, Angelo, lounged with an air of incredulity, his long legs sprawled out as he rubbed his jaw in dismay. He looked for all the world like someone trying to solve a complex mechanical puzzle befitting the engineering mind of da Vinci himself.

Finally, Marco returned his attention to the man from England.

Their visitor was something of a chameleon, this Inglese who represented important nobility. Marco found it difficult to place his age. He could be in his thirties or in his fifties. He had a certain vitality, despite his understated clothing and composed manner. His eyes, which could have been gray, blue, or green depending on the angle, spoke of great experience—a seasoned professional who had seen things. His clean-shaven jaw befitted the tidy and meticulous nature of his posture. Marco assessed that some might find him handsome, while others would forget they had ever met him at all.

Clearing his throat, Marco broke the oppressive hush in the elegant drawing room. “You are here to inform us that I am … the future Lord Blackwood?”

Mr. Long nodded, his lean face folding into an expression of measured sympathy, as if he could sense the storm churning within Marco’s breast.

“That is correct. Your uncle, Lord Blackwood, has no sons to inherit the title. Your father was second in line until his untimely death. Therefore, you, Mr. Scott, are the heir. You will be the next Baron of Blackwood.”

“But … I am a fiorentino ,” Marco replied, his voice taut with disbelief.

Long’s lips curved into a polite smile. “You may live in Florence, but half of you is English, Mr. Scott.”

Marco raked a hand through his dark curls, agitated as he muttered, “ Maledizione .”

“ Non maledire, figliolo ,” his mother chided, bringing him back to the present.

Marco released a humorless chuckle. “ Scusa , mia mamma , but truly—if there was ever a time to curse, is this not it?”

To his astonishment, his mother’s lips twitched, and a moment later, she burst into laughter. The sound was startling, spilling into the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Angelo swung his head around, caught off guard by the abrupt shift in mood, before joining in as Marco and their mother doubled over in gales of incredulous laughter. They struggled to draw air from the force of it, tears of mirth dripping as they tried to comprehend how the tides had turned, washing them out to sea in a tempest of waves and stinging rain. The very floor beneath Marco’s feet seemed to heave with the sheer shock of this unforeseen visit.

To his credit, Long refrained from censuring their lunacy, studying the gloved hands resting on his knees while he waited for the laughter to die down. Marco supposed he was accustomed to delivering unsettling news on behalf of his employers.

Mamma dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief before turning to their visitor. “ Scusa , Mr. Long. We have waited over two decades for notizia from Gran Bretagna . I confess we had abandoned hope of … riconciliazione ?”

The last was directed to Marco to assist with translation. “How do you say this … Reconciliation, Mr. Long? We had given up hope of reconciling with my father’s family.”

His mother bobbed her head in agreement. “My late husband wrote many letters, as did I, but none were ever answered.”

“I understand the unexpectedness of this news.” It was an adept response, acknowledging the bizarre nature of their conversation while not hinting at his opinion of Marco’s grandfather—the late Lord Blackwood, who had not communicated with Peter or his family since their argument over Peter’s intent to marry Marco’s mother. She had mourned his father’s death for years, before eventually remarrying a widowed friend of the Romano family.

Marco gave a nod of appreciation. “I thank you for traveling so far. You may inform the Baron of Blackwood that I have no desire to inherit his title. He can pass it on to someone else.”

Long showed the first sign of tension, a slight swallow that caught Marco’s attention.

Is there more to be revealed?

“As I stated, I represent Lord Saunton and His Grace, the Duke of Halmesbury. Your uncle, Lord Blackwood, is unaware of my visit to Florence.”

“Then I suggest you inform him that the visit occurred, and I have denounced my interest in his barony.”

Mamma shifted in her armchair, her long fingers smoothing the silk of her skirts. Marco’s stomach sank; the measured gesture was a sure sign she had thoughts to share, and they would likely be aired the moment they were alone.

Meanwhile, Mr. Long adjusted his cravat—a pristine white linen tied in a simple, practical knot that suited his reserved demeanor. His hesitation drew Marco’s attention.

“I must admit, Mr. Scott,” Long began, his voice carefully composed, “despite my long career, I have never delivered news quite like this. Your claim to the title … it brings with it a far more pressing concern. You see, the duke’s father-in-law, Lord Filminster, was murdered—to conceal your existence.”

The room froze as the words hung in the air.

Mamma gasped audibly, her hands clenching over her knees.

Marco’s brows rushed together into a perplexed scowl as he cocked his head in question. “ Scusa … Perhaps my English is not as good as I believed?—”

“You heard correctly,” Mr. Long interrupted, shaking his head. His tone was low but steady. “Lord Josiah Ridley intended to notify the Home Office that you were the rightful heir. He was killed to prevent him from sending the letter.”

Slowly, Marco turned to his mother.

She was leaning forward now, her expression anguished. “Josiah Ridley … He is dead?” Her dark eyes glistened with sadness as she questioned their visitor, her voice tight with emotion.

“Who is Filminster, Mamma ?”

She licked her lips, her poise intact even as her distress showed in the faint crease of her brow. To Marco, she was the very image of Florentine grace and sophistication, despite the turmoil that swirled around them. She turned to face him, her voice quiet but steady. “He was a friend of your father’s. They attended Oxford together and corresponded often—until your father … became ill. His letter of … cordoglio ?”

“Condolence,” Marco supplied without hesitation.

His mother gave a small, grateful nod. “Yes, his letter of condolence was very kind.”

Marco clenched his jaw, willing the conversation to end. This news was an unnecessary burden for his mother—a wound reopened after decades of healing. And as for him? He had no desire to dig into the English roots that had brought him nothing but pain and frustration in recent years.

Rising abruptly to his feet, his patience unraveled, Marco towered over their visitor, and his tone turned sharp. “What has any of … this … to do with us? These are British affairs for British people. You may inform your employers that we have been made aware.”

Mr. Long did not flinch under Marco’s pointed words. Instead, he remained seated, his calm demeanor unchanged as he responded, “The duke would very much appreciate your assistance in bringing the killer to justice. His Grace is prepared to pay for your travel arrangements. You should know that the duchess is distraught over her father’s murder, and the duke—he has dedicated himself to helping others, particularly those with complicated origins like your own.”

Marco’s scowl deepened.

“Setting aside His Grace’s wishes,” Long continued, his tone softening, “would you not like to visit your ancestral home? To see the places where your father grew up, learn more about his life, and better understand the noble line you are descended from?”

Marco’s gut twisted as Mr. Long deftly spoke to the buried desires of his youth. The man from England was clever, his arguments calculated to strike where Marco was most vulnerable. Those long-held dreams—the ones that had brought nothing but heartbreak—stirred within him, raw and unbidden. Years ago, he had tried to bridge the chasm to his English roots, and the bitter failure had left scars he had barely managed to conceal. Now, this conversation scraped at the fragile veneer of happiness he had painstakingly constructed, unleashing memories that left him winded with their intensity.

His mother must have noticed the shift in his mood. “Mr. Long,” she interjected gently, her tone measured and polite, “my sons and I need time to discuss this. Perhaps you can return tomorrow, once we have had time to … digerire ?”

“Digest,” Marco responded.

“Yes, once we have had time to digest.”

Marco exhaled deeply, relief flooding him even though he knew the reprieve was temporary.

When Mr. Long finally departed, Marco remained in the drawing room with his mother and Angelo. He had expected it—dreaded it, even—and sure enough, Mamma wasted no time broaching the topic he most wished to avoid.

She cleared her throat softly, switching to English—a family tradition, one she insisted on to honor the memory of Marco’s late father. “It is because of her, is it not? The girl who … died?”

Marco swallowed hard and rose from his seat, crossing the room to stand by the window overlooking the courtyard. The scene beyond was tranquil: potted plants neatly arranged around a graceful fountain featuring Eros as a boy poised with an outstretched bow and arrow. Yet Marco’s gaze was not on the present but on a distant memory, one that carried the weight of innocence lost.

It had been years ago when he first met the Dashwoods. Their visit to Florence had a dual purpose: to introduce their young son to the wonders of the city’s art and architecture, and to seek a warmer climate with renowned therapies for their ailing daughter, Catherine Dashwood. A fragile English rose, Catherine had frozen Marco in place the moment he saw her. She was so delicate, so achingly beautiful, so unlike the spirited Italian girls who surrounded him. She seemed otherworldly, a rare and unexpected presence in his familiar world.

Englishmen often visited Florence during their Grand Tour, but unwed Englishwomen? They were a rarity, and Catherine’s arrival had changed everything for Marco.

The Dashwoods had sought treatment at his family’s business, the renowned Antica Spezieria di San Lorenzo. After exhausting every option in London, they turned to the pharmacy’s traditional remedies, prescribed by Catherine’s Florentine doctor. Marco’s grandfather, learning that the Dashwood boy required a tutor, had volunteered Marco’s services. It had been his first work outside the pharmacy, a thrilling new responsibility. Catherine, despite her frailty, had often accompanied their outings. Together, they visited the Uffizi Gallery and Pitti Palace, where Marco had introduced them to the masterpieces housed within those hallowed halls.

Marco had always been captivated by all things English, a fascination born of the father he never had the chance to know—who had died shortly after Marco’s birth. But no curiosity about his heritage had ever matched his intrigue with Catherine Dashwood. With her flaxen hair, delicately sculpted features, and striking blue eyes, Catherine embodied what he imagined a British lady to be: graceful, demure, and heartbreakingly vulnerable. Yet beneath that fragility lay a quiet strength, a steadiness that soothed his exuberant Latin spirit and made him yearn to see the land of his father’s birth.

It had not taken long for Marco to fall hopelessly in love. Young and na?ve, he had been slow to recognize the truth—the shadow of death that clung to Catherine, draining her vitality with each passing day. In time, it became undeniable. Week by week, she faded before his eyes, her presence at the galleries growing infrequent until she could no longer join their outings at all.

Her parents, perhaps sensing how short her time was, allowed Marco to visit her at their villa. Those moments were both a privilege and an exquisite torment. Catherine had never complained of her condition, never revealed a hint of bitterness, meeting his attentions instead with quiet gratitude. Yet the changes in her were impossible to ignore: the way her slender frame grew gaunter, her luminous eyes seeming even larger as her features hollowed.

And then, one quiet night, death came for her—a dark veil descending to claim the fragile life that had so enchanted him. Marco received the news the next morning, the Dashwood household cloaked in mourning. Though he had known it was inevitable, the loss struck him like a thunderbolt, shattering his young heart into a thousand pieces—foresight had not softened the blow. Even now, the memory of Catherine’s death squeezed the seat of his emotions beating within his left breast, the ache as sharp and fresh as it had been that first day.

“I have no interest in England.”

His mother’s expression softened when he looked at her, her tone brimming with sympathy. “I understand your … sentimenti ?”

“Feelings,” he corrected reflexively, the word slipping out before he had time to think.

“Yes, feelings.” She nodded, her dark eyes growing distant. “I wish you had not endured such pain at so young an age.”

“You were not much older when our father died,” Marco countered gently. It was true. He had been a babe in her arms, and Angelo had been little more than a curve beneath their mother’s heart.

Her lips pressed into a wistful line. “Your father loved his home. Leaving it broke his heart, but he chose me. We came back to Florence to build a life together.” She paused, her gaze turning inward. “Sometimes I wonder … Should I have set him free? Would he still be alive if he had not returned to Tuscany?”

Marco spun on his heel, crossing the room with swift purpose. Dropping to a crouch beside her chair, he placed a hand over hers. “You cannot think like that, Mamma . If he had stayed in England, I would not be here. Nor Angelo. Nor Elena!”

At the mention of his younger sister—a spirited girl born of Bianca’s second marriage—his mother’s lips curved, but it was not the smile Marco expected. Instead, she quirked her head, raising her brows in quiet amusement.

Marco frowned, trying to decipher the meaning behind her expression. His emotions were raw, his thoughts scattered, and for the life of him, he could not understand what he had said to provoke such a look.

Angelo stirred from his languid sprawl, the light of realization sparking in his eyes as he sat up straight. “Ah, I see it now! Marco cannot regret the past because it has shaped who we are today. What has happened has happened—it cannot be undone, nor should it be!”

Marco gritted his teeth. “Per l’amor di Dio!”

“Marco!” His mother’s brow puckered, her tone sharp with reproach.

He exhaled deeply, softening his tone. “My apologies, Mamma .”

She regarded him for a moment, her expression softening once more. “I think this is important. You should see where your father was born and … scoprire ?”

“Discover,” Marco supplied.

She nodded. “Yes, discover your roots.”

Angelo leaned forward, his enthusiasm apparent. “I shall accompany you, brother! I wish to find my roots as well. Who knows? Perhaps London is in need of a Florentine pharmacy.”

Angelo’s fascination with herbal remedies and the family pharmacy was well-known. Yet, with so many uncles and cousins involved in the Romano business, his role had been limited to preparing medicines—a vital task, but one that offered little room for advancement. For months, Angelo had talked of leaving Florence to establish a new endeavor, a place where Tuscan medicine might flourish.

But he had not taken that leap. Florence was not easily left behind.

The crowded family business had prompted Marco to seek independence, turning to tutoring Englishmen on their Grand Tour. He had become a sought-after … what did they call it? Capo dell’orso? Head of the bear. No— bear leader . The title amused him, but it also brought a quiet sense of pride. His work allowed him to live on his own terms, with rooms of his own and the ability to pay his way without relying on his grandfather’s generosity.

Nonno rarely spoke of such things, but Marco could sense his quiet approval. His grandfather was proud that Marco had forged his own path as a trusted guide to the Inglesi .

Marco’s hand slipped into his pocket, his fingers brushing the engraved surface of his father’s gold pocket watch. The familiar weight was comforting, steadying him as he turned over the dilemma in his mind.

“I shall think about it,” he finally said, though it was more a way of delaying the inevitable than a true decision.

He needed to take a damn walk.

Making a quick escape, Marco promised to return for dinner to continue the discussion. For now, the crisp autumn air was a welcome reprieve. His boots struck a steady rhythm on the cobblestones as he strolled past elegant homes and entered one of Florence’s bustling main roads.

As he walked, his gaze instinctively lifted to Brunelleschi’s magnificent octagonal dome. The soaring structure of Santa Maria del Fiore never failed to inspire reverence in him. The marble cladding gleamed in the afternoon light, its vibrant patterns a feast for the eyes. Marco paused, allowing himself a moment to savor the view, before resuming his pace toward a favorite caffè .

Marco claimed a table overlooking the bustling street and sipped his coffee as he waited for his friends to arrive, grateful for the prearranged meeting to provide distraction from the morning’s revelations.

Sebastian and Lorenzo appeared together, locked in a heated argument, entirely oblivious to Marco’s presence.

“We need to get the painting back. It is time to leave Florence, Sebastian! It is the only way forward,” Lorenzo declared, his voice taut with frustration.

“I shall not. We will find another way,” Sebastian replied, his tone implacable.

“We have tried! Porca miseria! ” Lorenzo exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. His agitation was unmistakable as he paused to order his coffee at the counter. Turning back to Sebastian, he added sharply, “Are you a coward to hide from a woman this way?”

Sebastian’s scowl deepened, and he straightened to his full, imposing height. Leaning over, he tapped Lorenzo’s chest with a firm, warning finger. Though Lorenzo was tall and lean, Sebastian loomed over him, the tallest man of Marco’s acquaintance.

The Englishman was a veritable giant, with a mane of bronze hair and a close-cropped beard that always put Marco in mind of a Norse warrior destined for Valhalla, hacking his way through one battle at a time.

Sebastian had arrived in Florence years earlier on his Grand Tour, ostensibly like the other young Englishmen. But unlike most, he had never left. A brother to an important nobleman back in England, he had chosen instead to remain in the city that had captivated him. Over time, he and Lorenzo had established a profitable partnership, trading art to wealthy visitors eager to bring a piece of Florence home with them—a memento of the city’s inexhaustible allure.

Marco could not fault their patrons; Florence had a way of seizing one’s senses with a tenacious grip, so Marco understood the desire to recreate it in distant places, even if only in fragments.

Marco had been friends with both men for several years and always enjoyed their company. Lorenzo, passionate to the point of zealotry about art, often claimed his lineage to an apprentice of the great Leonardo da Vinci himself. His fervor could be exhausting, but fortunately, Sebastian’s steady good humor typically tempered Lorenzo’s intensity.

This, however, did not seem to be one of those occasions.

Lorenzo’s sharp words had clearly struck a nerve, and realizing this, he displayed his palms in surrender, stepping back with a murmured sigh. Sebastian relaxed almost instantly, his tense shoulders easing as his customary smile returned. Turning to the counter, he ordered his coffee, his tone now calm and measured.

Marco decided it was time to make his presence known. He raised an arm in greeting, and his two friends, spotting him at last, crossed the caffè to join him at his table.

“What is news, Marco?” Lorenzo asked, his dark eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Have you secured a new student?”

Marco exhaled, steadying himself. The moment of truth had arrived as he finally made his decision. “No. I am leaving for London instead.”

The announcement was met with astonishment.

Sebastian’s sharp gray eyes fixed on Marco, his shock evident in the way his expression stilled. Lorenzo, meanwhile, turned to Sebastian in triumph. “It is a sign.”

Marco arched an eyebrow. Apparently, it was his turn to be perplexed. “A sign of what?”

“A sign that Sebastian and I must depart for England. With you, of course. We shall enjoy the journey together!” Lorenzo declared, his tone self-congratulatory.

Sebastian frowned, draining his coffee in one swift motion before letting out a deep, beleaguered sigh. “I have no desire to leave.”

“You must admit, it is a sign,” Lorenzo pressed, undeterred. “We were arguing this very matter, and now our dear friend Marco announces he is departing for the great city of London. Fate itself is stepping in to point the way. It is time for you to return home, Sebastian. You are needed in England!”

Sebastian’s gray eyes narrowed. “We have been debating this for months. Someone was bound to eventually plan a trip to Britain. It is not a sign.”

Marco leaned back in his chair, observing the spirited exchange with equal parts astonishment and amusement. That he himself was leaving Florence to delve into his father’s life still felt unreal. Yet, as his friends bickered, the notion of having their company on this journey grew steadily more appealing.

Angelo had already pledged to accompany him, waiting on Marco’s final decision. And now, with the prospect of traveling alongside Lorenzo and Sebastian, the burden of his impending quest lightened. Perhaps this could become a grand adventure. It was not so different, he thought, from the groups of young Englishmen who arrived in Florence together, brimming with excitement to explore its artistic treasures.

“I am telling you,” Lorenzo insisted, gesturing emphatically, “it is a sign. We must accompany our friend Marco!”

Sebastian shook his head, his voice firm. “I do not wish it.”

Marco could sense that Sebastian was chafing under Lorenzo’s relentless insistence. But there was something more—a deeper conflict that mirrored Marco’s own feelings after Mr. Long’s visit. Perhaps his mother was right: the past had to be faced. It had always struck Marco as curious that Sebastian had never returned to England, the land of his birth. Perhaps the time had come, just as it was time for Marco to explore his roots in England.

Perhaps … perhaps he should help persuade him?

“I would appreciate your company, mio amico ,” Marco said, his voice warm but steady.

Sebastian met his gaze, the storm flickering in his gray eyes confirming what Marco had suspected all along. The Englishman had avoided returning home because, like Marco, he had ghosts that needed to be laid to rest. And perhaps, if they undertook this journey together, they might find a way to exorcise the past and return to Florence with lightened spirits.

Marco’s words had struck a chord. He watched as Sebastian mulled them over, his broad shoulders taut with unspoken tension. Lorenzo fidgeted, opening his mouth as if to interject, but Marco shook his head to silence him. The table itself seemed to hold its breath.

The Englishman’s square jaw tightened; his eyes flickered, and Marco could see the moment when the decision crystallized. Suddenly, Sebastian brought a large fist down onto the table with a resonant thump that sent the cups clattering. His face split into a wide grin.

“Then we shall voyage to the green and pleasant land!”

Marco laughed, carried away by his friend’s infectious shift in mood. Sebastian’s use of William Blake’s evocative words stirred a pang of bittersweet memory. Catherine Dashwood had adored reading such poetry, and Marco had taken to reciting it to her in the drawing room of her family’s rented villa when it had become difficult for her to focus on the pages.

If they had ever spoken of his father’s homeland, Marco thought Catherine might have approved of his decision to return to England. But they had never shared such a conversation. The thought dimmed his humor only slightly. The desire to visit merry England, that faraway land of his father’s youth, was taking root in him again.