Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
“We came to the place where every light is silent.”
Dante’s Divine Comedy
M arco regretted unleashing his base impulses on Molly. All he had achieved was to make them each yearn for something he could not commit to. But she had been so damned tempting. And perhaps he had owed her a kiss without apologies after ruining her first the way he had.
He should be recognized for having the strength to stop at all. When she had told him she had improper thoughts—there were no more erotic words in the English language than to have a well-bred young lady such as Molly reveal such a thing. The only thing that could make it more erotic was if she had detailed the thoughts she had had.
Maledizione! I cannot think about that!
There was a man trying to kill him, whom they could not find. It was time to run this MacNaby to ground!
“I searched the attic level again, after Angelo, and found a maid or two up there for my troubles. No signs of this scoundrel,” Lorenzo stated, his irritation palpable.
“And I searched the basement, and this floor,” Angelo added.
“The grooms in the mews told me they had not seen him today at all,” Marco reported in a gloomy voice.
He, his brother, and Lorenzo had returned from their second search of the house and grounds, but it appeared that MacNaby was not merely out on an errand. A missive from Sebastian had arrived to inform them that the duke had sent for runners, and they should expect them to arrive shortly and begin their own search for the missing butler whom no one had seen for three hours or more.
“Mr. Scott?” He looked up from the seat he had taken in the library to find Duncan. “His lordship has asked that you and your brother join him in the study.”
Marco nodded, getting to his feet. He should report to his uncle that the runners would be arriving, so it was an excellent time to talk. Truthfully, after searching the house, there was nothing more to be done for now. Marco did not know England, so it would be useless to try searching the neighborhood. Best that task was undertaken far more efficiently by the runners who would arrive at any minute.
He headed to the study down the hall, Angelo joining him.
“Do you think there is news?”
Marco shrugged as they reached the baron’s door and knocked.
A voice invited them in, and when they entered, Marco found Nicholas sprawled in an armchair with the ottoman propping up his leg. Molly was seated in the corner, and Miss Dubois was installed outside the window in a bitter stance. At least on this occasion, he knew the cause of the servant’s brooding. He had been hit with a sharp, chilly breeze when he searched the grounds. The late November weather was uncomfortable, but he could not help feeling the chaperon deserved it for how she annoyed Molly so.
“Please, Marco, close the door. Nicholas has news, and we shall have to keep our voices low. Miss Dubois is an infamous gossip, and we cannot allow her to overhear anything we say.”
The reminder was appreciated, even if they had been making a habit of these meetings with the petite watchdog glaring at the window.
Angelo and he took their seats and looked to Nicholas expectantly.
Their young uncle sighed with disgust. “I can confirm that the butler is our man.”
“You believe we do not need to search any further for more accomplices? The baroness could have hired more than one,” Marco rejoined.
“MacNaby was not hired. My mother may have left him with some coin to complete her foul crusade, but his motive is not money.”
The baron leaned back in his swivel chair. “More’s the pity. Unfortunately, MacNaby is a true fanatic with personal reasons to seek Marco’s death. And Angelo’s. I think I have been spared his wrath because of my poor health.”
“Wrath?” Angelo’s brows had shot up to almost his hairline, his low voice flabbergasted. “What have we done to invoke his wrath?”
Nicholas scowled. “Perhaps wrath is not the correct word, John. I would say it is his … ambition.”
The choice of words startled Marco, leaning forward to urge Nicholas along. “The journal from thirty years ago somehow reveals—” He stopped, cocking his head in confusion. “—ambition as a reason to pursue multiple murder attempts?”
“It is complicated, but let me begin with the short answer to illuminate the matter—MacNaby might be Simon’s father.”
Silence fell. Even Nicholas, who had proclaimed the news, seemed rather bemused to state it, as the repercussions of the statement trickled into their minds. In his peripheral vision, Marco saw Molly fold her arms as if defending against the news.
“That would explain his willingness to enact Lady Blackwood’s revenge,” she finally squeaked into the prolonged quiet.
Nicholas remained silent, as if to allow them all the time to absorb the revelation. After another minute or two, John encouraged him to continue.
“Walter MacNaby joined the household of Lord Campbell in Edinburgh when my mother was a girl. Shortly after, when the marriage contract had been signed for her to marry my father, Lord Campbell died suddenly. My mother inherited the title and the entailed properties when she was just seventeen. Which was when she took it into her head that if she had a son, that son would one day ascend to the rank of baron, but only if she could clear the way to make that happen because the late Lord Blackwood already had two heirs in place.”
“No disrespect intended, but … she was cracked in the head even then?” Molly questioned.
Nicholas nodded. “And just as manipulative. She decided she would need someone belowstairs in her new London household to carry out her will, and she wished MacNaby to accompany her as part of the retinue of servants she would bring. He, however, wished to remain in Scotland, so she …” He was pale, drumming his fingertips on the journal he had just read with a haggard expression. “Perhaps Molly should not be here.”
She jumped to her feet, bristling with alarm. “No!” Then, casting a glance out the window at Miss Dubois, she lowered her voice and sat back down. “This affects me as well. I have a right to know the truth. Do not attempt to treat me as some mere shrinking violet just because something in that journal is improper!”
“I agree. Molly can hold her own. She proved her mettle when she took care of me after my collapse. I do not think it would be right to exclude her.” The baron’s show of support placated her, and Molly settled back into her chair with an expression of relief.
Nicholas soughed. “Even I cannot process what I had to read, but so be it. My mother went to lengthy measures to seduce MacNaby into joining her. They had a brief but torrid affair in the months before and after her wedding. Simon was born within the first nine months of her arrival in London.”
Silence fell again, until at last, a soft, feminine “ick” broke the tension, prompting Marco to huff out a humorless half-chuckle.
“Ick, indeed,” agreed Nicholas.
“What of you?” Angelo asked. “Are you … the son of Lord Blackwood or …”
“Reading these journals has revealed that my mother had a habit of singling out male servants whom she recognized she could manipulate. It is not impossible that I am a result of one of those manipulations. She was obsessed with her mission, and the excessive quantities of laudanum she partook in did not help clear her thoughts. Some of her entries are pure rambling.”
“I am sorry,” Angelo replied.
Listening with disgust, Marco felt he had re-entered the circles of hell. Before he could stop himself, the words left his lips. “Questi sordidi intrighi inglesi non avranno mai fine?”
Molly turned to him, her lips parted in surprise at his vehemence. “I assure you that these sordid English intrigues are isolated to Lady Blackwood alone. No one in this room played any role in this.”
Marco shook his head, still seething. “And yet, for some obscene fling from three decades past, a man has tried to kill me not once, but three times! I should never have come! It feels as though the devil himself beckons me to my death over events that predate my very birth!”
Molly flinched ever so slightly, refraining from responding as her face settled into desolate lines. Marco realized he had wounded her with his words, yet his frustration continued to simmer. “I apologize, Molly. That was not directed at you. I am simply not accustomed to hearing of such despicable behavior.”
She nodded, but her shoulders remained a little slumped. What had he said to produce that reaction? She had the glum appearance of someone who had received terrible news, when all he had done was allow some of his outrage to escape.
Angelo glanced at her, too, a question in his eyes, but he apparently decided to ease the tensions with a shift in subject. “Nicholas, I wish to acknowledge your fortitude in reading your mother’s journals. It must have been difficult, and I am not sure I could have done so if I were placed in a similar position.”
Nicholas shrugged, his lean face exhibiting his usual belligerence. “It was the right thing to do. Simon wished to keep the less relevant contents private out of respect.”
“Nevertheless, it took fortitude. Thank you for shedding light on the past few days.”
“I am yet curious,” interjected the baron. “What exactly is MacNaby up to?”
Nicholas straightened, lowering his feet to the floor. “I believe he helped her all these years. She would have needed him to intercept the mail from your late father. From what I can tell, my mother sold MacNaby the same dream she once pursued for herself—convinced him that his legacy could be a son raised to the rank of baron. At least according to these entries, where she describes using a combination of guilt over their affair and pride in Simon, whom he believes to be his son, becoming someone of high standing.”
John frowned, shifting in his chair as if to ease some discomfort. “Is it not enough that he is a viscount?”
Nicholas shook his head, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “She speaks of the truly great houses as English. She claims that until she married the baron, she was an inferior peeress from Scotland, but the wedding elevated her status. She was welcomed into important homes, even enjoying state dinners and important events with the King in attendance. Rank was her obsession, and I believe she convinced MacNaby that his son could one day rub shoulders with royalty.”
“Do we believe he will continue the quest to kill Marco?”
“I cannot say. I suppose it depends on how committed he is.”
Molly felt the need for privacy after the meeting. Witnessing Marco’s angry disgust over what Isla Scott had done, she had realized that convincing him to remain in England was a lost cause.
She was going to lose the man she thought she might very well love because of the dead Lady Blackwood, and it was not fair. How was she going to be enough to make up for his terrible experiences since his arrival? Three murder attempts? Dreadful family secrets about people he had never met which had made him a target of such plots? If she were in his position, she would choose to return to Italy, too.
Marco was repelled by what had happened here in this beautiful but terrible home. By what was happening even now.
He had said as much.
“I should never have come!”
As soon as she had heard the words, the ground had disappeared from beneath her feet.
Was their unprecedented connection to be another casualty of the venomous Lady Blackwood’s schemes?
Meeting Miss Dubois out in the hall after leaving the gathering in the study, Molly found her spirits as low as they had ever been. As low as the day her mother died months earlier. When Mama had died, Molly had lost her entire life. All familiar people and places had been left behind to join the baron’s household. Now she was losing the only hope of building her own future. Lady Blackwood might be dead, but her legacy of destruction lived on.
What would it have been like if she had met Marco without the specter of danger and discreditable secrets to ruin their introduction? How was she to tempt him into staying when there were such excellent reasons for him to return home?
“Lady Blackwood, she never made me sit out in the cold. It is … ’ow you say … freezing. I miss her so much, I do.”
Molly ignored Miss Dubois, requesting her coat and bonnet from Duncan, who was on duty in the front hall.
“What would she say about so many unwed men in residence? C’est impropre! It is scandalous, no?”
She had heard quite enough about the paragon of vice, Lady Blackwood. She needed some time alone to collect herself.
Duncan assisted her into her coat, then she put on her bonnet and tied the ribbons.
“Where are we going? Mon Dieu , it ees so very cold! Surely, you do not truly wish to go outside?”
Molly did not reply, making her way toward the back door and wishing that Madeline was still here to talk to. She had not realized how much she had begun to rely on her friend’s presence, but she was feeling her absence now. Perhaps she should write to Madeline and ask about joining her household. Perhaps she could move in before Madeline and Simon even returned from Scotland. Then she would have a distraction while she tried to pick up the pieces of her broken heart when Marco eventually announced his departure.
Reaching the exit, she turned with a gasp of dismay. She hoped the ploy might work one more time, because she needed the poodle to leave her to her thoughts.
Miss Dubois frowned, before relaxing her face to prevent wrinkles, as Lady Blackwood had advised. The French pest truly had idolized the late baroness. “ Qu’est-ce que c’est? What ees it, zen?”
“My gloves! I quite forgot them!” She was not sure it would work a second time, but she did not think Miss Dubois was clever, so it was worth a try.
“You must wait ’ere, yes?”
“Of course! It is far too cold to leave the house without them.”
Molly watched the servant hurry away. As soon as Miss Dubois turned the corner, Molly swung the door open and strode away. There was only one place to find peace, and Miss Dubois was not the companion to take with her. She lengthened her stride, so she may extend her time alone as long as she could.
Entering the walled garden where she and Madeline had shared tea and conversation, Molly dropped onto the bench under the magnificent urn, closed her eyes, and leaned back to think, tucking her chilly fingers beneath her thighs to protect them from the cold. It was not like her to be pessimistic, but something about Marco’s tone had told her he was reaching his decision and it was not the one she had hoped for.
While she attempted to regain her equilibrium, a crunch of gravel had her sighing in despair. She had thought she would have at least a few minutes before Miss Dubois caught up with her.
She slowly opened her eyes and yelped in surprise.
MacNaby stood facing her with a flintlock pistol pointed to her chest.
And there was madness glinting in the blue depths of his eyes.
“Miss Carter, I believe I have you to thank for my worsened circumstances,” he fumed, his Scottish brogue more pronounced than usual.
“I … that is …”
“You searched through my things and removed a personal item. A gift that was not yours to take.”
Molly frowned, a little confused that he called it a gift. Had Nicholas not said it revealed the details of Lady Blackwood’s seduction and manipulation of MacNaby? “Did you read it?”
“That is none of your business.”
She thought that probably meant no. Several questions flashed through her mind, but she deemed it poor timing to raise them as she tried to think of what to do about the angry would-be killer threatening her.
“What … are you doing here?”
MacNaby raised his free hand to swipe at his forehead with a handkerchief, evidence of his nerves. “I am here to finish my … work.”
“Oh.”
“But now that you are here, I am thinking it would be better to lure Mr. Scott out than to enter the house.”
“What do you mean?”
“Stand up, Miss Carter. We have a journey to take.”
Molly complied, and MacNaby gestured her along. She tried walking slowly in the hopes Miss Dubois might arrive, but he grabbed her by the arm and hurried her through the back garden gateway. Leading her to a narrow corridor that ran alongside the mews, he used his free hand to remove a key from his pocket and unlock a recessed door to the alley.
Molly realized she was being removed from the property, but she was not sure what to do about it and, for the very first time, she longed to hear the poodle approaching—but she had thwarted her own safety by tricking Miss Dubois to go away.
Once in the alley, he tugged her along and Molly peered about, looking for an opportunity to escape, but they were surrounded by high walls and no one was in sight. Not to mention, he still had the pistol trained on her with his finger resting near the trigger. If she tried to run, he might panic and shoot her.
They entered a street where she saw a small cart tethered with a single horse, and finally noticed he was dressed as a workman in a large overcoat with his hat pulled low. He must have rented the wagon with the coin that Nicholas had mentioned had been given to him by Lady Blackwood to fulfill her quest.
Molly was in trouble, fear eroding her composure. MacNaby was going to make her vanish without a trace. She could only hope that Miss Dubois would sound the alarm, but that might take some time, because her chaperon would believe she had merely run off to escape her company.
Molly hesitated, but felt the stock of the pistol jammed against her ribs.
“Do not think about causing any trouble.”
“No trouble, Mr. MacNaby. Would you like me to drive the wagon for you?”
The butler’s brows arched, taken aback by her offer. But Molly had decided her wits were her one defense against the man. Offering to take the reins might help coax him out of his agitated state. If she could calm him while reminding him that she was a real person with hopes and dreams, perhaps she might be able to reason with him.
Would Lady Blackwood’s vile corruption of his mind relent in the face of persuasive logic?
“So you can hold your pistol steady. We do not want it to accidentally fire, do we?”