Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
“There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery.”
Dante’s Divine Comedy
MID-NOVEMBER 1821, LONDON
M olly’s argument with Claudette Dubois began as most of their recent quarrels had. The lady’s maid-turned-companion criticized Molly’s appearance, drawing unflattering comparisons to her late mistress and lamenting her reduced station—now tending to a nobody with not even a title to her name. Isla Scott, the dowager Baroness of Blackwood, had tragically overdosed the month before. Miss Dubois’s duties had shifted to taking care of Molly, much to both their ire. But not as irritating as being informed just yesterday that the lady’s maid had been elevated to paid companion so she might act as a chaperon for Molly.
“It is a necessity,” Simon Scott, her cousin by marriage and de facto guardian, had stated. “We have four bachelors arriving from Italy, and only two of them are relations, and even they are not your blood relations. As you are an unmarried young lady, we must take steps to protect your reputation.”
“ You are not a blood relation, and I have lived here with you and your brothers for months since my mother …” Molly’s eyes had prickled slightly. The grief would hit her at unexpected times. Sometimes she could talk about her with nostalgic fondness, and other times … she was overcome. “Since Mother was laid to rest,” she finished thickly.
Simon had thrown her a sympathetic glance before replying. “You had my mother for propriety’s sake. We should have immediately appointed Miss Dubois as your companion last month when I went away, but I was distracted by … events.”
“Lady Blackwood was hardly proper.”
“Proper as far as society is concerned.”
“Can we not find someone else? Miss Dubois is an aggravation beyond endurance.”
“Not on such short notice. And not with two recent deaths in a single day—one of them a servant. It has frightened potential applicants away, but I assure you I am working on it. I do not wish to saddle you with the French poodle any longer than necessary, but we do not have a choice at the moment.”
His logic was flawless, which was why Molly had resigned herself to Miss Dubois’s resentful watch. Well … for now, at least. Her musings were cut short by another irascible remark from the French retainer, whom in theory she was permitted to address as Claudette in private but … She clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to push the other woman out of her personal space … I do not wish to encourage familiarity.
Not that this hindered Miss Dubois, who was pretty of face but foul of temperament. Not surprising, considering the wicked baroness had been fond of the termagant who had tended to her flawless appearance.
“Theez mourning gowns are passé. Your mother has been dead many months. It ees time to wear something with more … coulier ?
“Color.”
“ Oui —color. You are a drab little … souris ?”
“Mouse,” Molly muttered with resignation, gritting her teeth. Attempting to put the maid— blast! Attempting to put the companion in her place would lead to a shameful quarreling which she was too weary to deal with.
“ Oui . Lady Blackwood had to do ze mourning for her husband, but she was still … élégante . A great lady.” Miss Dubois stopped to shake her head as she considered her new mistress with mild disgust. Molly fought the urge to slap her sulky face. The maid— companion —was dainty, with large doe eyes, high cheekbones, and a pointed chin, and liked to wear clothes a little more ornate than the usual fare of women in service. It was a pity her character did not match her exquisite exterior.
Molly glanced down at her lavender velvet gown and repressed a roll of her eyes. It was hardly rags. In fact, she was rather fond of it. But no doubt Miss Dubois found it too plain. The late Lady Blackwood had worn elaborate silk gowns, impractical in Molly’s opinion. Isla Scott and the … poodle … seemed to have agreed on such garments. Perhaps it secured her position to encourage such indulgences; after all, such attire demanded constant fussing from a skilled lady’s maid.
Unfortunately, Molly’s patience unexpectedly snapped as she considered the hurtful words that Miss Dubois had been flinging at her since she had arisen from bed less than an hour earlier. “I will determine what is the appropriate length of time to mourn my mother, Miss Dubois!”
The maid drew herself up to her full height—it was not much—a familiar expression of haughty recrimination on her youthful face. “J’essayais juste d’aider.”
Molly swiftly remonstrated herself. This was what happened every time she allowed the other woman to flare her temper. Claudette would act terribly offended, tugging on Molly’s desire to be kind and respectful to her acquaintances, which left her feeling bleak and guilty despite all the insensitive things the lady’s maid had said to provoke the reaction in the first place.
Not to mention, hearing Lady Blackwood held in such esteem after the baroness’s evil deeds was a constant rough pebble in her slippers. But she supposed Miss Dubois was not familiar with those misdeeds—they had been kept private amongst the family.
“I understand you were trying to help … but I am not ready to end my mourning period.”
Claudette sniffed in wounded outrage. “Ma mère ne me manque pas du tout.”
Molly bit back an inelegant snort. If Claudette’s mother was at all like her daughter, it was little wonder the poodle did not miss her in the least . Molly would not miss Claudette in the least when Simon assisted her to find a new position in another household. Her own mother would have felt terrible regarding the situation that Molly had found herself in, especially after the criminal activities that had been brought to light in the wake of Lady Blackwood’s overdose. Certainly, this had not proved to be the home of safety and security that the amusing Mrs. Carter had wished for her only child.
After doing her best to repair her companionship with Claudette, Molly escaped with a sigh of relief to meet Simon’s wife in the garden. Simon had married his dearest friend, Madeline Bigsby, who lived next door. The nuptials had taken place just three nights earlier in the shared garden between the two grand London townhouses.
The new Lady Campbell was Molly’s dear friend, and an unusual choice for the son of a baron to wed because Lady Madeline Scott was in trade, working with her mother at Bigsby’s Stone Manufactory. After Simon had inherited a Scottish viscounty from his mother a few weeks earlier, he had finally been freed of suffocating expectations and pursued a love match with Madeline. Now he was no longer the heir to his older brother’s barony, which Madeline had revealed was something Simon was privately pleased about.
Molly hurried down the gravel path, entering the garden that unified the two miniature estates which had been built nearly a century earlier by the Aldritch brothers. The two brothers had created the shared garden, and when they had sold the estates, they had ensured that the garden would remain intact with legal clauses included in the deeds. It was a beautiful space, bordered by silent gods staring down, with a huge urn of potted plants in the middle. Ordinarily they would be flowering in profusion, but not this late in autumn.
Madeline was waiting for her on the bench below the urn, a cart laid out with tea by her side, a thick pelisse protecting her from the November chill, and a parasol crooked in her arm to shield her from the morning sun.
“Molly!”
“I am sorry I am late.”
“Do not be silly. This is hardly a formal arrangement.”
Molly sank onto the bench and sighed. “Miss Dubois chose to lecture me about appropriate mourning periods. She has grown ever more obnoxious now that she is my chaperon .” Molly emphasized the French pronunciation with sarcasm. “Any restraint she may have practiced has completely vanished since Simon promoted her to paid companion.”
Madeline laughed, her amber eyes bright in the autumn sunlight. “The yapping poodle? Yes, Simon has mentioned he feels terrible he has not yet found an adequate companion to take over. Rest assured, he is working on it.”
“Amongst all the other arrangements he has to see to? I thought he was merely being polite when he stated that.”
“Not at all. He is doing his best to see to all the details before he turns the management of the barony over to his nephew from Florence.”
“The schooner bearing the Italians has arrived. Miss Dubois informed me that carriages have been sent to collect them from the London Docks.”
Silence fell as they each contemplated the revelations of the past few weeks, Madeline finally responding in a worried tone, “They will be met with quite a muddle. I hope this Marco Scott is up to the challenge.”
The squawking of herring gulls was deafening when Marco peered with growing horror over to the docks of London from the swaying deck of the schooner that had been their home these past three weeks.
The gulls were perched on the ledges of the enormous brick warehouses lining the docks, the self-serving beggars swooping down to pick at scraps amongst the legs of the bustling crowd. Sailors from different ports of the world, weatherbeaten porters, and well-dressed merchants milled about while dockworkers with bared arms and filthy trousers hoisted crates back and forth using a system of pulleys. Huge sailing ships overshadowed their smaller schooner, which was intended only for passengers and light cargo. They rocked with the motion of the water while tall masts soared up, up, up into the skies above them with their sails neatly folded and thick riggings taut. Cold autumn air wafted the odors of salt, soot, and rotting fish to assail his senses with an undertone of tobacco and spices.
Once his ears grew accustomed to the shrieking of the birds, Marco could make out the clanking of the pulleys hoisting goods, the bells and horns signaling the arrival of ships from far-off places, the shouts of crude men laboring to move the crated imports and exports, the gruff yelling of unknown languages, along with traders whistling as they hawked their provisions for the long voyages ahead.
It was nothing short of appalling to a gentleman of quality who had grown up in the gracious streets and piazzas of Florence.
“This seems neither green nor pleasant.”
“The London Docks are the busiest in the world. Do not judge England by this, my friend!” Sebastian chuckled, patting Marco’s shoulder in a gesture of encouragement before walking away to check on their luggage.
“I think it is all rather … what is emozionante? … exciting,” Angelo remarked, his keen interest in the commercial activities ashore evident in his bright eyes.
Lorenzo paid no heed to any of them, quarreling with one of the sailors about the rough handling of his prized trunks, and Marco briefly wondered what was in them that had his friend so caustic.
After a lengthy disembarkation, the four men were finally settled in a fine carriage. The carpeted interior was rich, with leather squabs and plump stuffing. Marco relaxed back and watched the crowded streets as they slowly drew through traffic. After some time, the congestion on the roads let up and they passed by graceful manors interspersed with trees and gardens.
The carriage picked up speed, the wheels drumming against the road and occasionally jostling on the uneven surface while Marco’s lids drifted shut. They had risen very early this morning to view their journey along the Thames, and the rocking motion of the vehicle had him soon dozing off.
A sharp, violent lurch had his eyes flying open only to see his large Nordic friend hurtling toward him before a broad and powerful shoulder collided with his ribs.
“Whoa! Whoa!” The coachman’s panicked voice shouted from above, barely audible over the din of the horses’ hooves as they struggled to halt, while a searing pain spread outward from the place of impact, and Marco yelped in surprise as the entire carriage tipped precariously with a horrifying cracking sound—wood against earth—to deafen them. The four men tumbled about the interior with loud howls of protest as the chamber rolled, elbows and knees flailing about as they fought for purchase until finally coming to stop. They were piled in an ignominious heap, the carriage upended and Sebastian landing on top to crush them all down with his mighty build while Marco found himself flattened against the roof.
Is it still a roof if it is on the floor?
Marco panted, his heart pounding as he tried to catch his breath, but each pull of his lungs made the pain in his chest worse and he suspected he had cracked a rib.
Sebastian was the first to move, finding purchase to lift himself and heave his mighty shoulder against the door. It bulged but failed to open as the rest of the men slowly disengaged to squat against the walls.
“Is everyone all right?” Angelo peered around with worried eyes, ever the pharmacist interested in others’ welfare.
Sebastian made no comment, fidgeting with the latch before attempting another powerful crash against the carriage door.
Lorenzo raised his head, his face gray with shock. “I appear to be unbroken.”
Angelo turned to Marco, who had not answered because he was attempting to suppress the agony by pressing down on his rib.
“Marco?”
“I … may … cracked … rib?” he eventually wheezed in response.
Sebastian glanced back, his gaze determined as he heaved against the stuck door with another loud thud. From outside, the sound of the footmen could be heard in heated discussion with the coachman, then the door shuddered as if it were being yanked on from the outside.
The door finally opened and the servants began to help them out, an icy breeze blowing dust into the enclosed space so that Marco’s eyes burned and he fought the urge to sneeze, knowing it would hurt like blazes to do so.
Soon Marco was lying on the side of the road, peering up into the blue, blue sky while Angelo explored his ribs with gentle fingers, palpitating the area to check for fractures. “I think it is badly bruised, possibly fractured, but not broken. But we must get it taped, in case. I have ointment and bandages, but this is …” Angelo looked about at the road and damaged coach. “I think we should attend to you at that inn. So we can clean you up.”
Angelo’s medicinal trunk was untied from the second coach before a footman was dispatched along with a coachman to continue the journey with the remaining luggage, empty the vehicle so it could return for them, and make arrangements for a wagon to collect the damaged carriage.
Sebastian and Angelo discussed the best way to lift Marco, opting to collect a sheet from the inn he had spotted across the road and use it to carry him into one of the public chambers.
Marco was barely listening, just focusing on catching his breath despite the pain. He was relieved to hear the rib was not overly damaged, that Angelo could not feel it moving from his examination, but he could tell it was definitely compromised. Soon he was carried by Sebastian and Lorenzo within the cradle of the suspended sheet, and Angelo had him laid out on a table in a private dining room off the main public rooms. A flickering fire warmed the room, and it was pleasant to be out of the chill.
Angelo was skilled at aiding people with minor injuries, as were most members of their family, which was something that would bring customers to their family’s farmaceutica . He assisted Marco to divest himself of the coat and waistcoat, lifting his shirt to bunch under his armpits. Angelo carefully applied a camphor-laced liniment, and the pain eased.
Marco sat up with help from Sebastian while Angelo bound his chest, then slowly struggled up from the table. “I need a specchio … a mirror?”
With more assistance from Angelo, he was reclothed and his cravat tied with a simple knot that would not aggravate, and Angelo issued a warning to keep his breathing shallow to reduce the aching.
“Are you well, mi amico ?” questioned Sebastian from across the room.
Lorenzo stood next to him with a distracted expression, glancing over to Marco as if he had just recalled the accident. Marco wondered if he should envy or pity the Italian’s single-minded focus on whatever had brought him to England, even under such trying circumstances.
“England is only a little green and definitely not pleasant,” growled Marco in resentment.
His friends broke into laughter, Marco managing a small smile at their good humor. Thankfully, no one was permanently damaged.
Angelo did not join in, his face twisted in worry.
“What is it, Angelo?”
“The coachman. He says that one of the wheels showed signs of tampering. As if someone wished to cause this incidenti . Is that possible?”
Marco frowned, sobering at the thought of why the duke and Lord Saunton had asked them to visit London. The duke’s father-in-law had been murdered!
“I do not know, but we shall have to find out.”
Sebastian, overhearing this, approached with a perplexed expression. “What is this? You think the accident was intentional?”
Marco stared up at his tall friend, trying to determine how much he wanted to tell the men who had accompanied him and his brother. They knew of the future inheritance, but he had not informed them of the murder investigation. It seemed unwise to speak of it openly, considering they were here at the duke’s behest in the wake of the murder.
Recent news from London had informed them that the situation had been resolved. The letter had stated it was safe for Marco and Angelo to stay at the Blackwood estate, and the duke had promised to visit to explain what had come to light since Mr. Long had initially contacted them in Florence. Until he knew the details, Marco did not think it circumspect to openly discuss the sordid circumstances that had led Mr. Long to call on them until learning more about it himself.
Marco had no desire to mislead his friends, but he required more information before speaking out of turn. “I can think of no reason. Perhaps the coachman seeks to conceal inferior maintenance?” Angelo raised an eyebrow in question, but remained quiet. “Perhaps this inn can feed us?”
The shift in conversation worked. Being such a large and energetic man, Sebastian needed a lot of food, so it was a matter of minutes until they were sitting in the busy dining room. Marco did his best to find a position on his bench that did not agitate his injury, while sipping on a British ale with a contorted face and mulling over his mixed feelings about the advantages of visiting his father’s homeland. It had not been an auspicious introduction to England thus far.
Molly Carter was in her room, reading quietly by the window and reflecting on how dull her life had become since her mother had died months earlier. She used to manage the Carter household in between calling on the neighbors with Mrs. Carter and sharing tea and biscuits with the vicar’s wife once a week. Mother had been an amusing companion, sharp of wit but forgetful of her things, which had kept Molly busy. In their small country town, she had felt … useful.
Then she had come to live in the baron’s household. It was all a bit of a muddle, her mother having named John Scott as the trustee of Molly’s inheritance. Her mother had obviously meant the late baron, father to the current John Scott, but the solicitors had willfully misunderstood and turned her over to the son. Molly had gone along with it, not quite sure where to go as an unmarried young lady who was in mourning for her beloved parent, deciding she could determine her future once she had time to collect her thoughts. Which was how she had come to live in London at the baron’s small Town estate.
The late baron had been married to her aunt. Despite a lack of progeny from that marriage, the baron’s second of three, Molly’s mother had maintained a correspondence with her sister’s widower, so Molly had learned from the reading of the will that she was to join the Scott household. She supposed her mother had considered it the very best connection she had, the Blackwood title being respected and endowed with great wealth.
Molly had not had much to do since her arrival. There had been the excitement of the coronation in July, of course. Followed by a few weeks of tense relations between the Scotts as tempers had inexplicably risen while Molly tried to stay out of the family upsets until eventually the underlying reasons had come to light. Simon Scott had been accused of murder. Lord Blackwood had collapsed, and the dowager Lady Blackwood had succumbed to a laudanum overdose.
So it was, for a short time, Molly had felt useful again, despite the gloomy circumstances, when she had been the only one entrusted with the baron’s care. Fortunately, his health had gradually improved and the Scotts’ tempest had worn itself out. Unfortunately, Molly’s routine had receded back to that of boredom. And aggravation from her quarrels with Miss Dubois, which were not a welcome distraction. It was a blessing that Madeline had been visiting regularly due to her own convalescence the past month. But now that she had married Simon a few nights earlier, and Simon had moved his things to her family home, she did not come calling as much as she had been.
Molly supposed she should be grateful that she had, at least, integrated into the family after the disastrous October they had all shared. But it did not dispel the growing sense of disquiet about her future.
Reading in her room, cloistered in an armchair facing the back garden, had become a habit of late. Being in her bedchamber and sending her shadow out on errands had been a strategy to rid herself of Miss Dubois’s company.
The sound of Miss Dubois’s bedchamber door opening was an unwelcome disruption. Her chaperon had returned, presumably having had her fill of gossip in the kitchens. Appearing at Molly’s door, she stared for several irritating moments before making an unexpected announcement with a smug expression.
“Ze guests from Italy, zey ’ave been in a dreadful accident! Ze carriage overturned!” Her companion clearly delighted in informing her of the salacious tidbit.
“What!”
“Ze trunks ’ave arrived, and zey ’ave sent a wagon to collect ze damaged carriage.” Miss Dubois was reveling in the drama of an accident which could well have taken someone’s life, but Molly knew her companion’s retellings were often inaccurate at best. Nevertheless, she could not help the question that escaped her lips.
“Is everyone all right?”
The servant shrugged, as if this was an irrelevant detail to pay mind to, flittering away.
Springing to her feet in alarm, Molly rushed downstairs to find that the contingent from Italy was arriving, and Molly lamented her recent reclusive habits. Entering the family drawing room, she found both the baron and his and Simon’s youngest brother, Nicholas, were there awaiting their visitors.
The current baron had been born from his father’s first marriage, while Simon and Nicholas were products of the third marriage, so the difference in age was decades. The late baron must have been a virile man well into his fifties to sire sons with such vast age differences, and it was difficult to think of them as brothers.
She was gratified to note that John Scott had color in his cheeks, and the pouchy flesh that had spoken to a man aging before his time had receded somewhat to give him a more toned appearance. He appeared healthier in the afternoon light, drifting in from the large arching windows. Certainly, years had been added on to his life after the revelations of last month, and without the late dowager baroness about to feed petty insecurities, John was turning out to be a generous and pleasant benefactor.
Nicholas was sprawled out, his injured leg propped up and a morose expression painted on his lean features, which could easily be mistaken for discontent, his mop of dark hair falling forward and his blue eyes vivid against his sallow complexion.
He had quit spirits around the same time that his oldest brother had collapsed, and it had been a bit of a painful recovery. Nicholas had neglected his health until he had become a rake-thin and haggard man in his mid-twenties, less than half the age of his oldest brother, but the two made quite a pair in their mutual convalescence, their fraternity perhaps more obvious than when she had first arrived. Molly suspected that the lack of spirits had made the younger man more aware of the condition of his injured leg, badly broken in his youth from a terrible fall, which he was now taking steps to rehabilitate. Despite the gloom of his sobriety, Molly was finding him easier to converse with than his inebriated version.
John greeted her with a grim smile. “Simon will bring our guests in to make introductions. There was an accident, so he is speaking with them and the coachmen in the mews, but their trunks have been brought in, so they should be here momentarily.”
“Is everyone well?” Molly’s voice was a little shrill, and she realized her nerves were still tattered from the prior month. The household was still dispelling the shroud of death and mayhem, and it had been most alarming to hear of another strange incident. A bizarre coincidence to have one of their carriages overturn so soon after the macabre occurrences in October that had led to two deaths under this very roof.
“I believe so. Simon is overseeing the situation, and he did not mention any significant injuries.”
Molly took up a seat on the settee next to Nicholas, and suppressed a huff of annoyance when Claudette Dubois hurried into the room to take a seat near the door to chaperon her “charge,” and cause Molly to feel like a girl in short skirts instead of an adult woman of three and twenty.
It was not long before Simon arrived, escorting the men from Italy. They included, to her surprise, a huge Norseman. Molly immediately suspected his identity because of his resemblance to a certain acquaintance they had made last month. Following him into the room was a tall, lean Italian dressed in the manner of an artist, who she assumed must be one of the friends. Then a shorter and younger man with medium brown hair, bright brown eyes, and an air of keen interest entered to peer about the room. But it was the last man to enter the room who affected Molly’s equilibrium in unexpected ways as a frisson of excitement roared through her veins.
He was as tall as his artist companion, perhaps six feet, but a gentleman with wavy hair as black as soot. With broad shoulders, and a lean build, he had a sculpted jaw of steel which was shadowed with stubble as if he were due for a shave after his long journey. Soulful black eyes set within a strong, olive-toned face, and framed by thick lashes, spoke to a troubled past. A man who had experienced things.
There was only one person whom he could be. Molly acknowledged within the deep recesses of her heart that, much to her chagrin, she was inconveniently captivated by the one who was the baron’s new heir—Marco Scott—the man who would take Simon’s place in their little household.
She bit her lip in dismay. His proximity was going to play merry hell on her sensibilities over the coming days because Marco Scott was temptation clad in fine Italian wool. Even in that moment, her fingers itched to reach out and explore the muscular shape of him. She hurriedly curled them in her lap to quiet their agitation and focused on regulating her breathing, which had fallen apart like a castle built of sand being lashed by a great downpour, while her heart pounded loudly in her ears.
“Zooks!” she murmured, causing Nicholas to shoot her a quizzical glance as he struggled to his feet for introductions.