Lord of Intrigue (Inconvenient Brides #10)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

“You were not made to live as brutes, but to follow virtue and knowledge.”

Dante’s Divine Comedy

“ H ow do we search for the missing journal?” Angelo asked when they entered the library, which they tended to gravitate toward, having some of their things stacked on a table.

Marco sighed heavily. “I suppose … we … Honestly … I do not know.”

His brother nodded. “We could begin on this floor. Search all the public rooms, starting here in the library. Then we will tackle one floor at a time.”

“What of private rooms? Or servants’ quarters? Or the butler’s pantry, or kitchen cupboards? How do we explain what we are doing to the staff in the kitchen?” Marco was genuinely interested in hearing what his bright and optimistic brother would come up with.

Bemused, Angelo paced up and down in deep thought, until he spun on his heel to face Marco. “I do not know. If we begin with this floor, we will rule it out. Along the way, as we gain some experience in searching, we will calculate the next step, and then the next, until eventually … we will finish the search.”

Marco groaned. It sounded like a tiresome task that might take the better part of the week in a house of this size filled with decades of accrued furnishings, books, objets d’art , and a thousand other nameless things. “We should get started.”

Heading to the end of the room, they each tackled a different stack, dropping down on their haunches to peer at the lowest shelves. Marco ran a fingertip over the spines of the books to help him focus as he sought a book the same size and binding as those Nicholas had in his possession. Perhaps Molly’s search would fare well, and she would unmask Miss Dubois as Lady Blackwood’s accomplice. One could hope, after all.

After ten or more minutes, his thoughts were turning decidedly maudlin with such a repetitive task as he began a new set of shelving. Embarking on this journey had set him on a path of danger, and he felt a twinge of nostalgia for the simplicity of life in Florence.

Angelo interrupted the pangs of homesickness with an unwanted question. “You hold Molly in some esteem?”

The sudden shift of subject pushed him out of kilter, not being prepared to discuss what had happened. “Molly is … courageous. Of course I hold her in my esteem.”

His brother snorted a half-laugh. “It is plain that you find her”—Angelo paused, searching for the English word—“comely.”

“What would you know of that?”

“I saw how you were looking at her when we entered the baron’s study. It has been a long time since I have seen that expression.”

Marco stopped, turning to scowl at his brother in irritation. “What expression?”

Angelo paused, cocking his head as if he was working something out. “A mixture of yearning and regret. It is how you looked when you were tutoring Mr. Dashwood and his sister. Before she …” He did not complete the sentence, grimacing his own regret for mentioning it.

“Before she died.” There was no point in skirting around the truth. Even now, the sense of loss echoed in the region of his heart, but perhaps the distance from Florence was helping because it was not as sharp as it had been.

“Molly might heal your heart?” Angelo asked, his face hopeful.

Marco turned away to continue his search. “That is ridiculous. We must see to my duties here and then return to our home in Florence.”

Despite his rejection, the desire to spend more time with the young lady was compelling. She had … what was the Scottish word Sebastian had explained to him during their long voyage … gumption. Molly had gumption, along with an alluring form. The sensation of her breasts pressed against his chest returned to haunt him, as did the scent of cinnamon that had been present in the spiced tea they had drunk during the meeting in the study. He resolutely pushed them aside to continue the tedious task of checking the shelves.

A change of subject was in order, Marco decided, recalling their conversation on the roof just yesterday. “Have you learned anything about what brings Sebastian and Lorenzo to London with us?”

Angelo chuckled. “You are changing the subject.”

“What of it?”

His brother relented as he continued his perusal of his shelf. “I overheard them discussing that the lady whom Lorenzo wishes Sebastian to visit is still in London, despite the lateness of the Season, and has not left for the country.”

“Lady? As in a noblewoman?”

“I believe so. Sebastian said he will call on her when he is ready, but his reasoning sounded like an attempt to delay. His reluctance is frustrating to our Italian friend.”

Marco burst out laughing. “Delay Lorenzo? Does he not know better?”

Angelo grinned, continuing his task with great earnestness. “They have an unusual partnership, but it works somehow. Sebastian is good-humored, while Lorenzo is compulsive. Between the two of them, they sell a lot of art. I suspect our friends are far wealthier than we know because neither of them spends much coin, but I heard from a customer that they sold a sizable collection to a comte for several thousand pounds just before we left Florence.”

Marco whistled through his teeth. “That much? Perhaps I am in the wrong line of work.”

“Heir to a baron? I think you can rival them for income, fratello . It is I who needs to establish a farmaceutica to make something of myself.”

Marco clenched his jaw, irritated by the reminder of his confusing circumstances. Angelo had made his thoughts clear on the subject. He believed Marco should accept his new role as part of a grand new adventure, while Marco yearned for the simplicity of tutoring. If only their roles were reversed—his brother would happily step into the role of a future baron as an exciting new chapter in life, but Marco was struggling to find such acceptance. Thus far, he had encountered an enticing and feminine reason to even consider it, but that was hardly a sufficient motive to alter the course of his existence, surely?

Molly entered Miss Dubois’s bedchamber with the burden of guilt weighing her down. She felt terrible about searching the servant’s room, but the baron had summoned Miss Dubois to his private sitting room, where he spent most of his days, to allow Molly to begin, so this was her chance to do the lamentable deed.

I will feel more terrible if Marco is killed.

That was a poignant thought, the distress so sharp it cut like a knife into her belly. Squaring her shoulders, she closed the door to contemplate the room.

She would begin with the bed. Crossing over, Molly dropped down to peer underneath but found nothing but a pair of soft leather slippers. Sitting back on her haunches, she lifted the mattress carefully, so she did not disturb the bedding, and ran a hand underneath, feeling for anything hidden out of sight. Encountering a purse tucked deep, she pulled it out to untie it and empty its contents onto the bed. Several rings and necklaces of gold and silver spilled out onto the quilted coverlet.

Picking one up, she inspected it closely to see if it was Pinchbeck jewelry, but it appeared genuine rather than a cheap alloy. The color was a true gold, rather than the brighter brassy imitation stuff, but it was not conclusive because Molly was not an expert in such, and she had heard some Pinchbeck pieces were so well rendered as to fool even an experienced eye.

Molly put them back in the purse and returned the purse to its place under the mattress. But it was an unusual find—they appeared to be too expensive for an unmarried servant on fixed wages. Claudette Dubois had a larger collection than Molly herself, though Molly wore little jewelry because her own tastes were simple. Could they have been gifted by the dead baroness?

Or, worse, payment for future services?

She found nothing else in the bed, so moved on to search the bedside table and then the chest of drawers. Again, she was startled by several fine stays and shifts that rivaled her own in quality. However, there was no journal amongst Miss Dubois’s belongings. Molly continued to the trunk at the end of the bed, wrought in a hardwood with brass fittings. Sitting back on her heels, she wondered at how Claudette could afford such nice things. It lent credence to Molly’s supposition that her companion might indeed be one of the servants embroiled in Lady Blackwood’s schemes. If the baroness was her benefactress, these lavish items would make sense.

Checking her timepiece, Molly realized her time was running out. She finished searching through the trunk, which was mostly seasonal clothing folded away, before studying the room for any signs of her search. Satisfied, she exited the bedchamber. She should return to her own chamber to read, but being separated from her chaperon had created an opportunity to seek out Marco to repair some of their rapport after the disagreement in the library the prior evening.

Simon’s love for the barony and its people was evident as Marco read his uncle’s notebook. It had been passed to him with such little ceremony on the day of Marco’s arrival. “I have written up my notes to help familiarize you with the baron’s estates and tenants. Read it while I am gone, and please write to me about any questions you have.”

Simon’s words had been a glorious understatement, as Marco had quickly discovered when the baron had invited him to make use of the study earlier.

Simon had detailed each estate, along with specific mention of the long-term tenants of each. His attention and knowledge were far more extensive than Marco had realized because his uncle had informed him that the family spent most of their time in London. He had thought them to be absent landlords with little regard for the people under their influence. But the notebook revealed Simon had paid an annual visit to each of the estates these past years, since his father’s time, when he had taken over the management of the Blackwood holdings in the late baron’s stead.

Tenant farmer Mr. Frank Jameson oversees a 400-acre plot—one of the larger farms on the estate. He is married to Wendy, the eldest daughter of a neighboring farmer, and they have one adult son, Caleb, and two younger children, Sandra and Mark. Mr. Jameson employs several laborers to assist with the cultivation of his extensive farm, and I have tasked the steward with overseeing the improvement of the drainage ditches along the west perimeter. These efforts are intended to boost Mr. Jameson’s crop yields and, consequently, his income. The enhancements should increase the fertility of the soil and prevent waterlogging, but I have yet to receive word on the progress. The work is to be completed by the end of autumn, and I expect a full report shortly.

It was not an isolated entry. Another that caught his attention was for a lessor tenant but with the same attention to detail.

Tenant farmer Mr. John Wright manages a 90-acre plot on the eastern side of the Elmstead estate. He and his wife, Mary, work diligently, and they have two young daughters, Emily and Ann. To help improve his yield, I have instructed the steward to supply Mr. Wright with additional seed for the next planting season and to repair the broken fencing that has allowed livestock to stray into his fields. These efforts should bolster his crop production and reduce unnecessary losses. Ensure the steward follows up regularly, as it is essential that all tenants, regardless of size, have the means to thrive for the good of all involved.

As Marco read through the notes, the complex issues of land management were drawing him in as he realized that the estates were composed of living people who worked the lands. Each tenant represented a family with children, and in some cases, laborers, who in turn supported wives and children of their own. The baron’s holdings comprised communities of people who relied on the Blackwood title for good governance and leadership.

Despite his lack of experience in such affairs, Marco found himself enthralled by the writings that evoked such context for the humans influenced from this desk with the stroke of a quill upon paper.

It was a far cry from tutoring spoilt and moneyed young men of the aristocracy who had just completed their time at university and were now frolicking in Italy while they completed their classical education. Some were serious about their education into the wonders of the art and culture that Florence had to offer, but others were far removed from the reality of men who toiled, and this notebook made Marco regret that his uncle Simon had never had the opportunity to take his own Grand Tour. He would have been an excellent student, sensitive to the humanity depicted by the old Masters. They would have enjoyed their time together had he done so.

It was daunting to learn that there was far more to this stewardship of the barony than he had thought, and he understood the concerns Simon had expressed about the attendant responsibilities. His uncle was worried about the people affected by the change in inheritance. Realizing this did nothing to reduce the stresses of the past few days. In addition to protecting himself from attempts against his life, he must now worry about the people affected by what was happening here in the Scott household?

“ Maledizione ,” he muttered, something of a habit of late. Shutting the notebook, he decided that was enough for the moment. Perhaps he should return to the search, while Angelo currently worked his way through the shelves behind the baron’s desk. “I thought these upper classes were idle.”

Angelo glanced over his shoulder, balanced on a small stepladder so he could reach the upper shelves. “The notes imply otherwise?”

“I suppose you will be gratified to hear that our uncle is a responsible and benevolent manager. He knows these estates intimately.”

“That is good, no? It means our family is contributing to the well-being of society.”

“Sometimes, brother, your positivity is appalling.”

Angelo chuckled. “You would rather I was pessimistic? I think Mamma would caution you that you should be wary of what you wish for.”

Marco grinned. “If you are going to bring Mamma into it, I suppose I would not have you any other way.”

Just then, the study door opened, and a head popped around the corner. Marco’s eyes were riveted, taking in Molly’s iridescent eyes with a sudden craving for the taste of cinnamon and cream.

“Oh, hullo!”

His brother stepped down from his ladder, smiling broadly as he crossed the room. “Molly, you finished your search?”

“I did. I thought I might inform … you … of what I found.”

Angelo nodded. “We are most interested. Why not speak with my brother while I continue my search in the next room? No time to lose if we are to reveal a scoundrel.” With that, he turned to wink at Marco before disappearing into the hall beyond to leave Molly alone with him.

She entered and shut the door behind her, even as Marco groaned inaudibly at Angelo’s obvious maneuvering. His little brother wished to encourage his flirtation with Molly. Walking around the baron’s desk, he came to a stop a few feet from where she was now hovering and wringing her hands together in an agitated manner.

“I must apologize for last night, Molly. I was … unkind.”

“No, I understand that you have much to contend with. Two murder attempts in as many days? You must be tense.”

“Nevertheless, you were standing by my side when that jardinère crashed down. I should have been more sensitive.”

Molly frowned, as if his sympathy was upsetting her, but he did not know how to apologize under such circumstances. It was quite outside the realm of his familiarity, this strange attraction between them.

“Miss Dubois had a selection of gold and silver jewelry that seemed costly for a woman of her circumstances,” declared Molly, apparently deciding that a shift in conversation was in order.

“You think … perhaps a payment?”

“It could be, but beyond that, it is hardly conclusive. Miss Dubois had not a single book in her possession, though she had some fashion periodicals along with some circulars, suggesting she is hunting for a new position.”

His brows shot up. “Does that surprise you? That she is seeking a post?”

Molly shook her head, a lock of hair falling loose, and he clenched his fist lest he reach out to touch her again. It was not the done thing. They should not be alone as they were, and he needed to keep his hands to himself. “Not at all. Simon tasked the baron’s man of business to find a new companion for me for when he returns from Scotland, but no luck yet … Miss Dubois and I do not get along very well.”

“Then we are still in the dark about this muddle.”

She nodded, nibbling on her lip which he recalled carried the hint of cinnamon on its plump flesh. Marco folded his arms lest he lunge in to feast on her soft mouth for the second time but could not wholly help himself. He reached out to tuck the wayward tendril behind her ear, eliciting an audible gasp that pleased him as a man. She was affected by him.

“I suppose … I believe we should find respite from the pressures in this home. The baron and I have not been anywhere much since Lady Blackwood’s death, and I grow weary of this pall of gloom. A sojourn to the country might provide us with insight if we can clear our heads for a short while. Visiting Elmstead would be a wonderful way to spend the day.”

“Elmstead? That is the baron’s property in Hertfordshire?”

Molly arched a rich brown eyebrow in surprise. “It is. A small but valuable estate due to its proximity to London. If it is acceptable to you, I shall propose to the baron that we visit in the morning. That will give the servants time to prepare.”

“That would be delightful. Angelo and I will continue our search, but I would enjoy seeing something of this green and pleasant land I have heard so much about, but yet to encounter for myself.”

She laughed, cocking her head to peer at him with a sympathetic expression. “Your welcome to merry England has not been as auspicious as one might have hoped.”

Marco gave a short bow. “To second chances.”