Lord of Intrigue (Inconvenient Brides #10)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“Then I raised my eyes a little, and he seized me by the hand.”

Dante’s Divine Comedy

M arco’s ribs throbbed with a persistent ache that dulled his senses, but the Blackwood townhouse had astounded him. It had been bigger than he had anticipated, more of a grand villa and formal gardens befitting Rome itself. Standing next to a twin estate, the manors had elegant colonnades, crowned with impressive porticos, and from the rooftop stone gods silently stood watch over the two households while chimneys bellowed cheerful smoke into the chill of the autumn air.

He and Angelo had peered at each other in amazement after their carriage had come to a halt, and they had slowly realized they had arrived. Disembarking, they stood staring upward at the edifice.

“ Non è quello che mi aspettavo ,” commented Angelo in a low voice.

“And what were you expecting, young Scott?” Sebastian had come to stand behind them, surprisingly light on his feet considering his size.

“It is as if we are back in Italy,” replied Marco in his brother’s stead, fully aware why Angelo was nonplussed. “It is molto elegante . Especially considering the route from the docks.”

“And I told you not to judge England by its docks. It is both green and pleasant, yes?” their Norseman friend asked in a humorous tone.

“Sì.” Angelo’s expression displayed his awe.

Entering the house, they were met by Simon Scott, who seemed most concerned over their accident. Marco realized this was the man who had lost the right to the Blackwood inheritance because of him, but his uncle, who was only a handful of years older than himself, exhibited no resentment about his change in circumstances. He ushered their party to the mews to discuss what had happened, where they had inspected the damaged carriage.

They failed to conclude whether the accident had resulted from sabotage, but Simon, whom the servants referred to as his lordship, continued to inspect the damage with keen interest. He appeared worried when he finally rose from his haunches and declared they should go inside to meet the Scott family, along with Lord Blackwood.

As they walked the path through the garden back to the house, Marco asked the question hovering on the tip of his tongue.

“Mr. Scott, perhaps my understanding of English titles is not as good as I thought. As the brother of a baron, why do the servants address you as a titled gentleman?”

Simon Scott hesitated, causing all five men to come to a halt mid-stride. His lean face bore signs of strain as he stroked his close-cropped dark beard, and his blue eyes were shadowed. Marco sensed that there was much to learn about the troubles that had plagued the Scott household in recent months.

“I inherited the title from my mother when she recently … died. Which makes me a Scottish viscount. Lord Campbell at your service.” He dropped a curt bow, opening his mouth as if to say more, then glanced at Sebastian and Lorenzo as if to remind himself they were in mixed company. Which Marco could not fault. He and his own brother had not made their friends privy to anything related to the murder or the attempt to prevent information about Marco’s existence from reaching the officials of England. “We … have much to discuss … But … we should make introductions and allow you to refresh yourselves. Meanwhile, please address me as Simon. It will avoid confusion with so many Scotts in residence.”

Marco gave a nod of assent, not quite grasping all of it but hoping it would become clearer once they could speak more freely. The last letter from the duke had been confusing, writing of events that made Marco’s head reel. He suspected this was because much of the sensitive information had not been included in the correspondence that would have shed light on its contents.

They continued along the path, entering the townhouse from the back, and Simon led them into a drawing room down the hall. Marco guessed it was where the family gathered, similar to the one in his mother’s home.

Plump armchairs and settees in a soft dove gray were grouped informally, while ornate cornices and an intricate chandelier stole the focus of the room. The walls were covered in watered silk of the same gray, while large oil portraits of ancestors glared at them with the serious demeanors of English nobility, haughty in heavy gilt frames. A fire glowed cheerfully in the large fireplace, and leaded glass windows soared to the ceiling across the room, with elegant drapes to frame the view of the garden they had just crossed. It was late autumn, so much of the garden was resplendent in hues of rich browns and deep reds, while some of the foliage maintained their evergreen colors.

The room was both inviting and foreboding at the same time.

Simon made introductions, beginning with the baron. Lord Blackwood, the oldest brother of Marco’s father, rose to his feet with a little trouble. He seemed aged beyond his years, but he had a warm smile, insisting on shaking hands with all of them in a gesture of welcome. His grip was firm and his color pink, which Marco supposed was good because the baron had recently suffered ill health, according to the duke’s letter. Would his father have looked like the baron if he had lived?

“You have the look of your father, young man. Something about the shape of your eyes and the line of your jaw.” The baron looked bemused, as if staring into the past.

Marco gave a brief bow in acknowledgment. “My mother has told me this, too, Lord Blackwood.”

Next they were introduced to an attractive young woman with glossy brown hair, lively hazel eyes, and the warm tones of someone descended from Mediterranean roots. Her gown hinted she might be in mourning, but it was flattering.

“Miss Molly Carter, may I introduce Mr. Marco Scott?”

“ Buongiorno , Miss Carter.” Marco took up her gloved fingers and dropped a bow in the Italian manner, which was less formal than the stiff Englishmen.

“Miss Carter is our cousin,” Simon explained.

The young woman inhaled sharply, quickly interjecting, “By marriage! … Not … by blood.”

Her color heightened along with her pitch, and after initially cataloging her as a relation not to pay attention to as a woman, Marco took another look at the young lady. He noted his increase in interest as he took in the rich brown curtain of hair caught in a coif. Her velvet gown of lavender was the perfect foil for her honeyed skin tone and pretty hazel eyes—flecks of brown, gray, and green sparkling like jewels set in an oval face with a determined little chin to punctuate.

Miss Carter was tall for a woman, just a few inches shorter than himself, and she had a capable air about her despite her obvious bashfulness at meeting him. To his dismay, Marco found himself enjoying her implied esteem, and somewhere deep in his soul an echo of agreement sounded as he became aware of her in turn.

It would not do. Marco had no plans to remain in Britain, and it was inconvenient that he would be living under the same roof as an attractive female during his stay. Not to mention that the fragility of Englishwomen was a source of painful reflection. But Miss Carter’s lashes fluttered in abashment and Marco’s lips curled in response; the urge to appease her embarrassment overruled his caution.

“Perhaps you can explain the … complessità ?”

“Complexities,” Sebastian responded from behind him with amusement, and Marco suppressed a wince that his friend had noted his approval of Miss Carter. Marco realized he still clasped her fingers, and reluctantly released them, mirroring Miss Carter’s bashfulness as he finished his reply. He returned his hand to put pressure over his injury in an attempt to distract his English friend.

“Perhaps you can explain the complexities of our relations when we have a free moment?” He did his best to quell any indication of flirtatious interest, but he knew the astute Sebastian would mock him when the opportunity arose.

A glimmer of a smile crossed her features, and Miss Carter’s blush spread out, to his masculine satisfaction. Marco moved on quickly before their exchange drew untoward attention from his new family, noting that both Simon and the baron appeared bemused by other worries and had not noted the spark between him and their mutual cousin … by marriage .

Butterflies were fluttering and swooping in her stomach, her heart beating a little too quick in her chest, and her palms were damp within the confines of her gloves. Marco Scott had a deep accented voice which thrilled her to her toes and made her yearn for things she did not usually think about. Courtship. Weddings. Babies with shocks of dark hair and big, black eyes.

She did not think of herself as a typical female, so it was quite a revelation to discover that her brain could melt and her pulse quicken at the sight of a striking gentleman.

As the introductions continued, she observed that Nicholas was grim, shifting on his feet as if his leg might be hurting him. She winced in sympathy. Ever since he had quit spirits, the young man had suffered both from the effects of the drink and the unresolved pain from his injury, which he was taking steps to address with the help of their new friend, Lady Trafford.

It was not the best time for him to be meeting so many new guests; the introductions were keeping him on his feet for some time, and she wondered if she should step closer to his side to assist. Perhaps she could fold her arm through his and allow him to shift some of his weight onto her?

By the time the younger Scott, Angelo, was being introduced to Nicholas, she predicted from his pallor and the narrowing of his blue eyes that he was about to turn terse. Angelo and Nicholas were about the same age, despite being from two generations. Angelo was a cheerful, brown-eyed young man of about five feet ten inches, with hair closer in shade to herself than his older Latin brother, but she supposed they had English blood in their veins to cause the disparity in appearance. It was strange to think that Nicholas was Angelo’s uncle when no one could be faulted for mistaking them for cousins.

Molly began to move over, worried that Nicholas needed her assistance, when Angelo grabbed his hand to enthusiastically pump in a friendly handshake. Handshakes were usually conducted between close friends, few Englishmen engaged in such practice with strangers, but she could see how Angelo might be confused by how the baron had greeted them thus in a gesture of familial friendship.

Nicholas, however, was in a declining mood and thorny because of his recovery state. Staring down at their grasp in abhorrence, he yanked his hand away with an abrupt movement that nearly pulled their shorter guest off balance. Everyone paused, their attention shifting to the two men. Nicholas had a fierce glower on his face as he turned his gaze up to meet Angelo’s look of surprise.

“That is not how it is done!”

“Scusa?” Angelo responded in confusion, his boyish face perplexed.

“You should not touch me! Gentlemen bow in greeting! Did you not see how your brother did it?”

Molly did not know what to do. Angelo was reddening at the unexpected onslaught, while she knew Nicholas was being a curmudgeon because of the physical pain that must be intruding on his mood. She had not witnessed him being so intolerant before, but she knew that years of hard liquor was working its way out of his system, and that he had been complaining for days about the stiffness of his injured leg.

Angelo, to his credit, straightened to his full height to defend himself. “I thought Inglesi were meant to be polite!”

Simon cleared his throat. “I apologize for my brother, Angelo. We are a house in mourning, and tensions are running a little high.”

Nicholas growled in the back of his throat, limping away to drop his thin form onto the sofa. And awkward silence descended until Simon smiled politely and continued the introductions, evidently concluding he would skip Nicholas altogether in the interest of peace and diplomacy.

Returning to her seat, Molly watched as tea and biscuits were brought in along with candied nuts. Their guests appeared mollified as they quietly sipped on their hot beverages while the baron asked them about their journey across the Mediterranean, and marveled at the excellent time they had made from the port near Rome.

“Are you all right?” Molly whispered in a low voice.

Nicholas gave a curt nod. “Not an auspicious beginning with new family,” he muttered back while the discussion at large turned to sailing ships.

“Is it your leg?”

He bobbed his head, stretching out a hand to knead above his knee. “I was a terrible heel.”

Molly twisted her lips. “I am afraid you rather were.”

“Not my brightest moment. When Marco Scott inherits from John, he will recall that I am a dreadfully rude reprobate and cut me off.”

“Perhaps you should get some rest and then make an attempt at peace with the young man.”

Nicholas soughed, heaving with the force of the exhalation. “Does he have to be so … enthusiastic?”

Molly glanced over to where Angelo was regaling the baron with the sights they had seen on their journey, waxing poetic over the blueness of the ocean, the puffy white clouds, and the herring gulls that had greeted them in an exhilarated chorus upon their arrival. He was animated as he spoke, and she experienced a quiver of worry for Nicholas and his new relations. In his current state of rehabilitation, he could not be more disparate to the clear-eyed young man from Italy. Their ages might be comparable, but their temperaments were decades apart. Even when Nicholas had still possessed his humor, it had been of the dark, sardonic sort.

“Perhaps it will do you good to spend time with someone who embraces life so wholeheartedly. The pall of death in this household has been a misery, and you are working hard to change the course of your life.”

Nicholas turned away in defeated disgust, and Molly reached out to pat his hand in commiseration before being distracted by the fascinating Marco Scott who was speaking about his injury from the accident earlier. Her heart fluttered, and she quickly forgot Nicholas’s troubles as she soaked in the sound of his accented voice. She was well aware that Marco had noted her state of mild infatuation when they were introduced; her private habit of being direct had inadvertently intruded to reveal her attraction.

Cousins by marriage, not by blood?

Could she have been more obvious about what she was thinking?

Subtle, Molly Carter! As subtle as a hammer to the head!

Such a sophisticated man was likely entertained by such bungling antics from a country gentlewoman who was nearing spinsterhood. She thought maybe she had seen an answering flash of interest in those soulful eyes, but perhaps that was merely wishful thinking. Or perhaps Marco Scott was a glib flirt.

Nevertheless, she wished to remain when the rest of their guests arrived so that she might be in the same room as him for a while longer. It was a novel experience being so intrigued, and she wished to know more about him. Did his character match his handsome exterior? The way to find out was to spend time in his company.

Molly shifted her gaze to the French poodle at the door, keeping watch over her. If she asked Simon for permission to attend the private gathering to brief their new relations on the secrets of the Scotts, he was going to point out that she could not be alone with so many men. And he would never allow the gossiping Miss Dubois to overhear the discussion of such private affairs.

Blast! Being a single woman was such a complicated affair!

On the other hand … Molly nibbled on her lower lip as she considered her options. Just weeks earlier, she had prevailed on cousin Simon to allow Madeline to come to dinner despite the lack of propriety. And now the two were married. Not precisely connected facts, but she had discovered something then. Simon did not like to turn down her requests, even with poor arguments for her case. He had little experience with female relations and was disinclined to disappoint her. And it helped that he liked her. If she could form a solution to the chaperoning which put Claudette Dubois’s inquisitive ears outside of hearing distance, might he allow her to remain in the room when the gentlemen met?

Marco was recounting the bizarre accident from that morning, describing what it had been like to be thrown about in the carriage. He had glanced at Miss Carter across the room, but after realizing she was now staring back at him, he had made a point to not look in her direction.

Fortunately, right around the time the compulsion might have overridden his good sense, the butler had entered to announce the guests they had been waiting for. An older man of medium height with the rigid posture of a military man and a round, friendly face, the butler made his announcement with a slight Scottish brogue.

“What is it, MacNaby?” queried the baron.

“His Grace, the Duke of Halmesbury, and Lord Saunton, the Earl of Saunton.”

Two men entered, one a Nordic god from the halls of Valhalla and, for a moment, Marco thought it was Sebastian. Several inches over six feet, broad shoulders, slim hips, and blond hair with gray eyes, but it was the quiet air of English authority along with the fastidious state of his attire that revealed it not to be his longtime friend. Nevertheless, Marco turned his head to confirm that Sebastian was yet sprawled in a wingback chair near the fireplace, his long legs crossed before him.

They rose to greet the guests but, as the Viking’s gaze swept the room, he froze to settle it on Sebastian with a tensing of his facial muscles. Marco’s friend had not risen, but was staring back at the newcomer with a challenging expression that Marco had not observed on previous occasions.

“Sebastian?”

“Duke.”

“What are you doing here?” The duke’s tone was angry and confused.

“Never say you missed me, brother?”

The duke’s jaw set in firm lines, and he barked out a response. “We are family, you … you … arse!”

As soon as the words left his lips, His Grace froze and turned a deep shade of red before he turned to find the young woman in their company. Licking his lips, he dropped a quick bow, clearly mortified at his loss of composure. “My apologies, Miss Carter.”

The shorter of the two newcomers, presumably the earl who was a handsome man with sable hair and emerald eyes, swung his head back and forth between the two, then strode forward to lean down and clap Sebastian on the shoulder. “It is good to see you, cousin! When did you return?”

“Lorenzo and I accompanied Mr. Scott and his brother. We arrived this morning.” Sebastian rose to his feet, reluctance etched in the lines of his colossal form. Marco had always thought that his English friend could have been a subject for the great sculptors of the Renaissance with his impressive form. In the current mood, he could represent Hades himself.

“Did you think you might inform us? Were you aware that we were coming to call this afternoon?” The duke’s tone was stern, and Marco grimaced. If the Scott family drama was not enough, apparently they were now to bear witness to the melodrama of the Markham family unfolding as if they were an audience at a theatre. How had he not recalled that Sebastian’s important nobleman of a brother was a duke?

Sebastian gave a small roll of his shoulders as if attempting to squash some potent emotion. “I was unaware you had a connection to Lord Blackwood, and I would have paid a call when I had the chance.”

The duke frowned. “Of course I know Lord Blackwood. The peerage consists of a finite number.”

“I suppose I should have thought of that. Certainly, I did not expect to encounter you so soon upon my arrival.”

The older brother gave a frustrated shake of his head, his fuming evident. “I have not heard from you in a year! I have a wife and an heir who have never met you, and another child on the way. How—” The duke cut himself off, his eyes flickering to the others in the room as if he had just recalled where he was. “We need to speak in private.”

“Then I shall pay a call to Markham House so we can … catch up … And I shall meet the duchess and your son.”

Marco turned his head to Angelo, catching his eye to raise his brows in question. Angelo shrugged in nonplussed response. How had they not known that Sebastian was estranged from his family? He supposed they might have guessed by the fact that he had never left Florence, nor mentioned anyone from England.

However, it did bode well that keeping Sebastian and Lorenzo in the dark about the Scotts’ difficult circumstances would be an easy matter if the two partners were to be distracted by their own troubles with the duke.

Since the additional guests had arrived, it was time to learn what precisely had happened these past months, including the mysterious death of Lady Blackwood, Simon and Nicholas’s mother. But first, they would have to politely disengage from their companions, who did not need to be included in this particular discussion.