Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
“That burning, and the burning flame that burns them so, is kindled in their hearts.”
Dante’s Divine Comedy
E ntering the breakfast room, Marco dismissed the servants, requesting that the head footman, Duncan, locate MacNaby forthwith so he could meet with him. He quickly shut the door once they had left, and turned to find his brother and friends staring at him agog. Sebastian had a silver fork midway to his mouth, but laid it down carefully.
“What is it?” Angelo asked, after swallowing his eggs.
“Miss Carter has found the miss—” He cut off what he was going to say, realizing his friends did not know about the journal. “We need to locate the butler immediately. It appears he is connected to all this.”
“Excellent. You have sent the footman to find him, so we can finish our breakfast,” remarked Sebastian, lifting his fork up once more.
“I am uncertain the butler will cooperate with my summons. He may make a run for it, so I need you to help.”
Sebastian dropped the fork with a loud clink, springing to his feet. “He could be the one who set the fire?”
“Sì.”
Angelo and Lorenzo rose, too, speaking in unison. “What should we do?”
“I would ask you proceed to find MacNaby. Perhaps one of you can follow Duncan to check the butler’s pantry, while the other two search the house for him? I will search the third floor and then I have something to take care of.”
“I will follow Duncan and search the basement, if necessary,” declared the Norseman, striding over to exit.
Lorenzo nodded. “This ground level, then. If I do not find him, I shall search the next floor, too.”
Marco got the sensation he was a general commanding troops as his friend brushed past.
“Is that the missing journal?” Angelo had come over to join him, cocking his head to peer at the book tucked under Marco’s arm. Marco pulled it out, displaying the thistle on the front cover.
“Molly located it. I did not have time to learn the details, but she said it was in MacNaby’s possession.”
“The butler? What would he have to do with this?”
Marco waved the book. “I hope this will reveal his motive if he will not tell us himself.”
“I will search for him in the attic. Hopefully, we will find him quickly.”
Marco followed Angelo out the door, then raced up the main staircase two steps at a time to the third floor where he marched down the east hall, knocking on doors before swinging them open to view the rooms. He found the bedchambers of Sebastian, Lorenzo, and Angelo, but was uncertain which was which with all their things stowed away.
Continuing on, he turned the corner and quickly found the baron in his small private sitting room, and he apprised him of the developments. John was still dressed in nightclothes, a colorful robe keeping him warm as he ate from a breakfast tray.
“MacNaby, you say. I would never have thought it, but his conversation with Molly at Elmstead did remind me that the man joined us at the time Lady Blackwood married my father. He served in her household in Edinburgh, originally working for her father—the late Lord Campbell.”
“Perhaps that should have been mentioned.”
John shook his head. “Lady Blackwood made a point of hiring staff from there, so no particular servant stood out more than the rest. You must have noticed the servants’ livery is lined with green and blue tartan?”
Marco was impatient to deliver the journal to Nicholas, but did his best not to display any irritation as he had done with Molly earlier. Whom he had yet to do something about, after being so rude. “Yes, what of it?”
“Lady Blackwood was a member of the Highland Society of London. It has become fashionable in recent years to boast of one’s Scottish title, and, as you have likely surmised, most of the footmen hail from Scotland. Most from the Campbell clan. There was no reason to suspect one servant more than another, and MacNaby’s background was a drop of information in a sea of facts.”
“I should have interviewed all the servants, I suppose.”
The baron laughed at this. “Dear boy, until I heard about the fire, even I could not credit that we had yet another murderous fiend living under our roof. This is the stuff of gothic novels. Even Ann Radcliffe could not invent suspenseful stories such as what has unfolded here these past weeks. Simon did not tell you the half of it the other day.”
“Nevertheless.”
“I will have you know the servants were interviewed by both the Duke of Halmesbury and the Earl of Saunton, and neither were able to learn much from doing so.”
“Was that before or after the truth came to light?”
The baron rubbed his chin, contemplating the events of the earlier month. “Before,” he finally replied.
“Then I should have interviewed the servants with the knowledge of the facts His Grace and his lordship did not possess at the time.”
The baron tilted his head to consider Marco carefully. “That is an astute observation. Perhaps you will be a competent lord in Simon’s stead when it is your turn.”
Marco rolled his shoulders at the comment. “I am uncertain I wish the role.”
“Ah, but the role wishes to have you.”
Marco politely left, but once out in the corridor, he took a moment to grit his teeth. He would not have England and this title thrust upon him without a say in it. His new family acted as if it were a fait accompli , but he was a free man who could exercise his own will. If he wished to live in Italy, and use a man of business to see to the baronial affairs, he could yet do so. It was his decision to make.
Continuing on to the next door, he knocked, hearing a gruff reply which he took as an invitation to enter.
It was a large bedroom without a sitting room, but large enough for a seating area by the fireplace. The cross-as-crabs Nicholas lay on a chaise lounge with his leg propped up with pillows. He had the stack of journals at his side and appeared to be reading them for the second time.
“What do you want?” Nicholas’s tone was belligerent, but after their recent confrontation, Marco surmised it might have something to do with the reading material he was engaged with and the violent pressures of living in the Scott household.
“We have found a journal. I think it is the missing one you spoke of.”
Nicholas frowned, swinging around to lower his legs to the floor. “What? Does that mean you know who is behind this?”
“I do not know the specifics, but Molly found it in the butler’s pantry.”
“MacNaby!”
“We are looking for him now.”
“I thought to go through these again after what happened last night, but I have yet to find anything new.” Nicholas gestured at the stack in explanation.
“Now you have three new years to read about.”
“Give it to me.”
The other man reached out to take the journal, opening it to check the first entry. He turned the book and scoured the last few pages to find the final entry, then nodded. “This is the three years.”
Marco winced at the spider’s scrawl he had glimpsed. Then, too, was the awful subject matter. Perhaps his uncle Nicholas had more strength than he let on, to volunteer for such a formidable task. Marco would hate to read his own mother’s journals, and Bianca Romano Scott Rossi was a woman of sound mind, not a demented murderess. “Good luck. I do not envy you your chore.”
Nicholas pulled a face. “Perhaps, in the end, it will prove cathartic after all that has unfolded. Knowing the truth is uncomfortable but … necessary, I suppose. When these dark days are behind us, perhaps these journals will answer enough questions to close those chapters and seek something better. One can only hope.”
Marco smiled in commiseration, his own poor behavior with Molly this morning providing him with some insight into Nicholas’s belligerence. Not to mention … Marco glanced at the injured leg. It must be difficult.
Nicholas noticed the direction of his gaze and grimaced. “Lady Trafford has informed me she has found someone to assist me. Something to do with Chinese treatments and massage. She would have visited today, but I sent Lord Trafford a note the day Simon left for Scotland to inform him I could not attest to their safety. We shall have to make new arrangements once this muddle is resolved.”
“I am sorry your treatment is delayed. Perhaps, in the meantime, you should speak with Angelo. He might have liniments to ease both stiffness and any pain. He is a gifted farmacista .” Marco rubbed at his bruised ribs. “It was most painful after the carriage overturned, but Angelo has made it tolerable.”
His young uncle gave a noncommittal nod, and finishing with Nicholas, Marco continued on down the hall checking rooms, completing the west side before returning to the main staircase to check the front rooms facing the street. Completing the task, he ran down the stairs to return to the breakfast room, where he found Molly and Miss Dubois eating their breakfast.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Dubois.” He bowed slightly. “I have news to impart to Molly. Would you mind if she joined me in the hall for a minute?”
The chaperon frowned, then quickly straightened her features as if she recalled herself, unable to refuse the heir to a baron. “ S’il vous pla?t , remain in sight of ze door, Meester Scott, so I may keep watch.”
Molly rose and followed him into the hall and, in a low voice, asked about the butler. Marco noted she did not make eye contact, and folded her arms as if protecting herself from his earlier unsolicited scolding.
“I sent everyone on a search to find him, as well as requested Duncan summon him, but I have not yet heard if he is still in the house.”
“Oh. What of the journal?”
“Nicholas is reading it now. He confirms the missing years all appear to be present.”
“That is good.”
“Molly … I wish to apologize and explain about earlier. Is there any possibility of losing your companion to visit me in the study?”
She shook her head, loosening one of the silky curls that haunted his dreams. “Miss Dubois is quite angry about this morning. She is watching me like a hawk today. See?”
Marco looked back at the breakfast room to find a fierce French poodle observing them closely, her large brown eyes narrowed with unexpressed resentments. Perhaps she was irate to have her breakfast interrupted. The servant seemed quite taken with her meal times, if the drive to Elmstead was anything to go by.
“When can we speak?”
Molly’s lashes swept down to fan her cheek, and he wondered if she was thinking of refusing him after his unwarranted rebuke earlier. The fact that he was asking her to break away from the paid companion, after admonishing her for it, had to be grating.
“This afternoon. She will leave me in my bedchamber to read while she sees to my—” Molly colored, and Marco realized she had been about to mention her delicates. Despite his tiredness, the thought sent heat rushing to his groin, and he almost groaned out loud at the thought of Molly undressed in just her underclothes. A thin shift. Stockings. Garters fixed to shapely thighs. “—laundry, so I can meet you in your drawing room.”
“That was damaged in the fire,” he replied in a hoarse voice, still imagining those garters.
She nibbled on her bottom lip in thought, and Marco beat back the urge to lean in to capture that plump flesh in a kiss. He beat it back as hard as he had beaten at the flaming rug hours earlier. Apparently, his exhaustion had loosened not just his temper, but all of his inhibitions.
“Meet me in the formal drawing room at the top of the stairs. I will be there in about two hours.”
“ Grazie , Molly. I promise to be on my best behavior.”
She pulled a slight face at that statement, appearing to be mildly disappointed as she returned to her breakfast, but he did not have time to consider what it meant because the sound of Sebastian approaching from the direction of the servants’ staircase had him turning on his heel to learn about MacNaby.
“Did you find him?”
His Nordic friend shook his head. “I am afraid not.”
“ Accidenti ! I was worried he might bolt!”
“Duncan informs me he could have stepped out on an errand but was surprised to find the butler’s pantry standing open, and there was some disarray. From the looks of it, I think MacNaby may have grabbed some of his things and made a run for it.”
“That would make sense.”
“I wonder how he knew we had learned of his involvement?” Sebastian was prodding for an explanation, but there was no simple answer to give him. Revealing the journal would lead to more questions.
“We shall need to speak with the baron about hiring someone to search him out, I suppose. I wonder how you go about that in England?”
“I could call on my brother and see if he has resources. He seems familiar with—” Sebastian stopped, clearly at a loss for words to describe the bizarre events he was not privy to. “—whatever is going on here.”
“ Sì ! The duke’s man who visited me in Florence mentioned runners. Call on His Grace. Perhaps he can help us hunt this MacNaby down, so we might learn what this is all about.”
“And what of the servants? Do we tell them anything?”
Marco rubbed his temples, trying to think what was the right thing to do. “I think not. We hope that MacNaby returns because it is possible he is merely running an errand. If we involve too many people, one of the servants might scare him off before we know about it.”
“Agreed. Perhaps the duke can provide some insight into what to do because this is beyond my experience, while he has dealt with unusual legal issues with his wife’s brother, from what I understand.”
Molly was experiencing a mix of reactions to the morning’s events. On the one hand, they now had a suspect. On the other, much to her disappointment, the annoying Miss Dubois was not guilty of attempted murder. How fortuitous it would have been if she could finally have rid herself of the annoying shrew. Alas, the evidence implied Miss Dubois was innocent of heinous crimes.
“Ze servants, zey are slipping without Lady Blackwood to manage ze ’ouse.”
While she could agree that the late Lady Blackwood had ruled the house with an iron fist and exacting standards, Molly had found living here more enjoyable since the baroness had removed herself from this mortal coil.
“She was a gracious baronezz, who knew well ’ow a grand ’ouse’old should be kept. If she were ’ere, never would we ’ave such a terrible fire!”
Molly quelled her response, but she could not help thinking what she wanted to say.
But Lady Blackwood, and her ominous plotting, is the reason we had a fire—you horrible, stupid woman!
“Zis shows great incompétence from ze servants, all because milady ees not ’ere to keep ze discipline.”
In Claudette Dubois’s version of events, which Molly could at least confirm was what the servant truly believed, the household had experienced an unexpected accident rather than a deliberate act of sabotage. But, if that was the case, Lady Blackwood had hired the hypothetical incompetent servants, so would not the baroness then be the source of the problem? The poodle’s babbling claims were preposterous and illogical.
“What would she say of ’er bedchamber being ruined? All ’er beauteeful things!”
Molly assumed Isla Scott would likely have been quite angry with MacNaby, but mostly because he had failed to murder Marco in his sleep. Truly, if there was anything more telling of the late Isla Scott’s character, it was that she had tolerated Miss Dubois’s corrosive presence for as long as she had.
Molly checked her timepiece and noted it was close to the time when Miss Dubois was to remove her pesky self. It was best to hold her tongue so she did not delay the departure of her delightful chaperon, because she had a meeting with Marco to look forward to.
Initially, after he had scolded her, she had been quite hurt. But then she had realized how pale and drawn he had appeared. The gentleman was trying to make life-changing decisions about his future while dodging death at every turn. It was worrisome enough to be living in a home stalked by such mayhem, but she could not conceive what it must be like to know one was the subject of such plots. Molly, fortunately for her, was just a bystander.
“Milady would be gravely disappointed to see what ’as ’appened in ’er absence.”
Molly frowned at the intrusive prattling, her irritation rising. If the despicable milady was here, after all the evils committed, Molly would be greatly disappointed, too.
But back to her own problems. If she could not make a match with Marco, perhaps she could ask Simon again to join his household next door. It was an imposition, but she would wager that Madeline would agree to find her some sort of position at their stone manufactory.
She might give up her place in polite society, but what place did she lose? That of a gently bred virgin whose days were overshadowed by bitter paid companions? Would she be giving up all that much?
I would not need a chaperon if I were to marry Marco.
She squashed the errant thought. It would not do to get her hopes up. She planned to continue her quest to bring him up to scratch, but she must be willing to live with the fact that she might fail.
“Is it not time to see to my delicates?” It was sheer manipulation to hurry Miss Dubois out, and Molly did not care a whit. She had reached her limit. For now, at least.
Miss Dubois checked her own timepiece and grumbled anew that she had the duties of both paid companion and lady’s maid. Molly ignored her because she knew Simon had committed to considerable wages to secure the servant’s agreement. Perhaps she should have pressed to join the household next door, but when she had mentioned it, Simon had pointed out she would lose standing in society if she were to live with common tradeswomen. Despite the brilliant success of Madeline’s family, Molly was still ranked higher than them, despite her lack of achievements. Or was it precisely because of her lack of achievements?
It was with great relief that she heard the click of the lock when Miss Dubois finally left with a basket of Molly’s delicates. Springing to her feet, she ran over to check her appearance in the looking glass, fixing her hair before she hurried out to the hall. Checking about for servants, she raced to descend the stairs to the next floor, and crossed to enter the formal drawing room.
It was intended to impress. This floor had the highest ceilings, with sweeping windows and luxurious drapes dropping from on high. Above her head were painted fascinating frescos that could entertain a lover of art for hours with their magnificent details and historical symbolism. The extensive rug was rich in color and design, and the elegant settees and armchairs beckoned one to settle in and drink an aromatic cup of tea. Large and exquisite masterpieces adorned the walls, but Molly only had eyes for Marco who was looking out one of the windows.
Her heart skipped a beat at how handsome he was in profile. That distinctive Italian nose, that sweeping brow, those sculpted lips. How could she ever hope to attract a man such as him into something as permanent as marriage? Surely such a man could choose any woman he wished?
Fortitude, Molly! You have zero chance of success if you do not even attempt it!
“Marco?”
He turned and smiled. “Molly.”
He walked over to join her at the door, reaching out to shut them in.
“I wish to apologize.”
“Yes, you mentioned that earlier.”
He raked a hand through his hair, and Molly realized he was nervous. Was that a good or a bad sign? That she made him nervous? She wished she had more experience with courtship so she could decipher the meaning of their interactions. If only Madeline were here to converse with. Perhaps she should write to her friend as she had offered?
“I want to ensure you understand that my … scormposi ?”
“Discomposure.”
He bobbed his head in acknowledgment. “ Sì . My discomposure is not aimed at you. I have big decisions to make, and I do not want to give you expectations I cannot meet.”
“I understand.”
“I suppose, given my lamentable behavior, I should at least confess that you are a factor in my process. If I were to choose to remain in England.”
It was not clear what he meant—did he consider her one of the advantages of remaining here? That was something, at least!
“That is … encouraging.”
“But I do not wish to encourage. It is not my habit to dabble with the feelings of young ladies.”
Molly feared it was far too late to shield her from her feelings. They had taken root deeply, growing with alarming speed since the first moment she had caught sight of him. She could scarcely think of anything but him.
Reaching out a hand, she rested it on his lapel as she gazed up at him.
“I understand that you have much to consider about your future, and I will confess that I hope you choose to stay.”
His black eyes found hers, and he smiled. “I cannot promise anything, but I can assure you if I were to do so, you would be a prize beyond comparison.”
The words burnt a hole through her soul and, for a moment, she envisioned the true possibility of being his wife. What that might entail, what freedoms it would unlock, and the joy of spending time with him unfettered by etiquette.
“I would ask one thing while you make your decision.”
“What is that?” His voice had grown husky, and she realized they were now staring deep into each other’s eyes.
“I would take at least one more kiss, no matter the path you walk.”
His sensual lips spread into a knowing smile. “Would you?”
She nodded, never breaking eye contact as her cheeks warmed, and she wondered if she glowed with radiance or had merely taken on the appearance of a beetroot. But this was not the time for such vain anxieties. She had been thinking of that first kiss and hungered for another.
“I confess I have … had improper thoughts … about you.”
Her heart thundered against her ribs as she leaned forward and rose on her toes to press her mouth to his. To her mortification, Marco did not respond, remaining perfectly still. It was not at all like the last time when he had flung her to the ground to save her life!
She dropped back onto her heels in confusion, disappointment sweeping through her like a torrential downpour. “Did I do it wrong?”
He stared at her for several seconds as if he were sorting through his thoughts until, finally, she saw him reach a conclusion.
“ Sì . Very, very wrong. As a tutor who has helped dozens of students these past years, it is my duty to—how do you say this—demonstrate the correct method?”
He pulled off his glove, using his naked hand to cup her face. Those soulful black eyes stared into hers. The heat reflected in their depths made her melt and throb as the pad of his thumb gently stroked over her cheekbone with maddening patience.
Marco appeared so calm while she felt so wild, fascinated by his presence, his touch, until nothing existed but him and the artistry of his unwavering gaze and the clamoring of her chaotic heart. His head descended and his lips brushed over hers.
All thought was lost as she panted with the intensity of her desires, but he drew back. Then he leaned down and brushed his mouth against hers once more with such aching deliberation, she wished to reach out and grab him. Thankfully, when he brushed against her a third time, he pressed forward to deepen their kiss until she thought she would melt into a quivering pool of liquid on the floor.
Their tongues tangled in aching intimacy while he ran the backs of his fingers down the length of her throat to send a riot of delicious shivers spiraling out … and down. Her heart beat like a wild bird attempting to escape captivity as his lips left hers to follow down her throat and nuzzle at the frantic pulse which revealed her excitement. The dark grain of his shaven whiskers was rough against her soft skin, signaling the contrast between their bodies and drawing a deep sigh from the recesses of her soul.
He slowly drew away, his gaze blazing with languid heat.
“I am afraid I cannot continue.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I shall not be able to stop, and all decisions about my future will be taken out of my hands.”
She licked her lips, the pressure of his mouth still vivid even as he backed away. Molly pressed her fingers to her flushed cheeks as she tried to collect her wits. “I … should go. Before Miss Dubois returns.”
He reached out to open the door, standing aside for her with an expression of regret, and Molly realized what he had said was true. He truly considered her one of the advantages of remaining in England!
As she walked away, she turned this revelation over in her mind to consider it from all angles. And decided she was comforted that, if nothing else, she would always have this moment to hold on to.
The man she was growing to love had been sorely tempted to accept her heart as his. It was better than the alternative—that she had been inconsequential.