Lord of Intrigue (Inconvenient Brides #10)

Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

“Love, which quickly arrests the gentle heart, seized him with my fair form.”

Dante’s Divine Comedy

S itting this close to the butler, Molly had discovered that he smelled of silver polish, cedar wood, and starch. Not wholly unexpected, given his profession. She could also smell the sweat of fear seeping from his pores, and now that he had her away from the townhouse, he appeared to be dithering about what to do as she drove the wagon down a street for a couple of blocks. He swung his gaze back and forth as if he were trying to determine a direction. Likely, he did not know where to take her now that he had her.

It would work against her if he grew nervous. If he grew fearful or unsure of himself, he might decide to tie her up. She glanced down at the pistol in his grasp.

Or worse.

Molly tried to think what to do—the man was susceptible to manipulation, according to the secrets they had unraveled. She should continue to cultivate camaraderie with him, she concluded.

“Where are we going, Mr. MacNaby? To the Elmstead manor because it is locked up for the winter?”

He stiffened at her suggestion, but she saw him pause to contemplate it. “Yes … We are heading to Elmstead.”

His demeanor improved as he directed her to turn in to the next street. Molly blew a subtle sigh of relief. They were headed to familiar ground, rather than disappearing her into the boroughs of London where MacNaby might not be the worst peril she faced. Trying to run off from him in a seedy neighborhood could result in a worsening of her current circumstances, but at Elmstead, she would have a single person holding her captive. The drive, with the wagon and just the one horse to pull them, would take a minimum of three hours. Three hours that she was out in the open, with a destination she knew how to navigate. MacNaby might have been easy to convince because he knew the lay of the manor, but so did she. Maybe not as well as him, but Elmstead boasted displays of old swords and rifles in the halls. Or she might find an opportunity to lock herself in a room or closet to await a rescue.

They left the structures of London behind, the rhythmic clopping of shod hooves on packed earth marking their passage between tall hedgerows. MacNaby, ever the resourceful senior servant, had secured a Shire—a large, powerful draught horse well suited to pulling substantial weights over long distances. By her estimation, the horse stood a full eighteen hands high—a bay with a striking white feathering of silky hair around its fetlocks that added to its handsome appearance.

The gentle giant pulled them along placidly, and Molly found the steady drive a balm to the initial panic that had coursed through her. It gave her time to think. To plot.

“Are you doing … this … to ensure Simon inherits the title?” Her question broke their long silence, and MacNaby started from his introverted bemusements.

“It is none of your business, Miss Carter.” His growl was guttural with menace, the pistol pointed straight at her heart.

Molly’s thoughts raced as she tried to think what she might talk about to establish a rapport. Surely, if they were friendly, it would be more difficult for him to do anything dastardly?

Finally, she nodded. “I agree. However, you have taken me hostage and you have a pistol pointed at me in a most threatening manner. I would propose that it may have become my business?”

MacNaby frowned, peering down at the pistol as if he were surprised to see it. “The pistol is the reason you should hold your tongue!”

Despite his barking, Molly was not entirely convinced he was committed to his task. She had interacted with MacNaby daily since joining the Scott household, and he did not strike her as an evil man. Lady Blackwood had been an enigma, and as it turned out, her veneer of perfection had hidden a corrupted soul. But MacNaby? She was sure she could reason with the butler.

She nodded again, her eyes on the road ahead of them. “I can do that but … It is just … Simon seems so happy since his nuptials. He has married his childhood love, visited his estates in Scotland. He even bought shares in the stone manufactory. It is the happiest I have seen him since I joined the household.”

MacNaby straightened, scowling at her fiercely. “Shut it!”

Molly’s heart skipped a beat as he swung the pistol in her direction with deliberation, and she swallowed hard as she tried to calculate whether it was worth the risk to continue talking.

They fell back into a silence, broken by the creak of the wagon and the metallic clank of the wheels, which mingled with the rustling of cold wind through the hedgerow leaves. Molly tried to warm her bare hands with a quick rub, all the while keeping the reins steady.

The late autumn chill crept from her fingers to her wrists, numbing her limbs, and her coat proved woefully inadequate against the prolonged exposure. Yet it was the thought of dying without ever having truly lived that sent the deepest chill through her veins.

Marco had just finished meeting with the duke’s runner, Briggs, who had written notes in a small notebook. Marco and Nicholas had discussed what they could and could not reveal to the man, and he felt considerably better that Briggs had assured him that several runners would begin the search for MacNaby. He might be missing from their household, but it did not mean the butler would not sneak back in and attempt to kill him in his sleep again.

Several hours had passed since the family meeting, and there had been no word of MacNaby’s whereabouts yet. Rising from the baron’s desk, and without anything to occupy his time, Marco decided that perhaps he should find Molly to learn what he had said to upset her so. Striding across to the door, he swung it open and bumped into a soft body, which emitted a low shriek in a French accent. He dropped his gaze to find the tiny chaperon, shivering and clasping herself in protection as if Marco was attempting to whip her.

“Miss Dubois? My apologies! Are you well?”

The servant glowered at him, but then her sharp little chin quivered fiercely, and she unexpectedly burst into tears. Marco blinked in alarm, not sure what to do.

“I am so sorry, Miss Dubois! I did not mean to hurt you. Should I summon a doctor?”

“ Non … it ees not zat, Monsieur Scott … I must tell you … somezing.”

Marco exhaled in a puff, relieved to hear that he had not inadvertently injured the companion.

“Please, come in and have a seat. I shall request some tea to calm your nerves.”

Miss Dubois nodded, brushing past him to sink into an armchair at the window where she covered her face and sobbed quietly. His brow furrowed in consternation. Perhaps Miss Dubois and Molly’s tense relationship had descended even further. Was she here to tender her resignation?

Marco walked over to ring the bell, then pulling out a handkerchief, he crossed to the sobbing servant to thrust it in her hand. She took it, wiping at her face, but her misery did not diminish. He looked about, trying to think what to do and feeling torn. He did not care for the shrewish companion, sympathizing with Molly for the position she was in because of his and his companions’ presence in the household, but a crying woman must be dealt with gently.

“Miss Dubois, please, I will assist you. What is it?”

“I do not know ’oo to speak to … I thought perhaps you should know … Duncan said you ’ad met with a runner, so I thought …” Her words were garbled as she cried into his pristine linen square.

“Runner?” Marco echoed in perplexment.

“It ees Miss Carter. I cannot find ’er anywhere.”

Marco suppressed a smile. Her mistress had managed to escape again. Her weeping seemed a bit of an overreaction, but the Frenchwoman had not impressed him with her composure before, so it did not seem all that surprising.

“Come, Miss Dubois, there is no reason to cry. I shall help you look for her, then.”

The chaperon shook her head. “ Non , I ’ave searched for ’er. For hours! She ees simply not ’ere. I think you must call the runner back, no?”

He frowned, walking over to take a seat. “How long has she been missing?”

“Since your meeting zis morning, yes?”

Marco tensed. Confusion and fear were just two of the emotions that surged through his body.

“That was some hours ago.”

“Oui.” Her voice was muffled and lashes flickered up as if to assess how irate he might be. Anger started to prickle as comprehension trickled in, and Marco realized what the tears had been about. Miss Dubois was not crying out of concern for Molly, but rather she was afraid of how it affected her position. It would appear the diminutive chaperon might harbor some anxieties about finding a new position in the wake of Lady Blackwood’s death, and had delayed informing him of Molly’s disappearance in the hopes she would reappear without the necessity of taking responsibility. He had been right—she was a dreadful companion!

“Maledizione!” He sprang to his feet. What if the butler had somehow got hold of her? Molly could be lying dead somewhere. Had MacNaby concluded Molly had taken Lady Blackwood’s journal? Would he attempt to get it back from her or harm her out of vengeful wrath? Marco should have taken steps to protect her, but they had believed that it was he, Angelo, and the baron who were at risk. “Where did you last see her?”

Miss Dubois flinched at his curse, but he did not have the patience to deal with her.

“I went to fetch ’er gloves, so she might visit ze garden.”

Without an acknowledgment, he ran from the study. They needed to mount a search immediately. Duncan approached down the hall, en route to answer his earlier summons with the bell, and Marco quickly dispatched the head footman to gather the other servants to search for Molly.

Then, striding into the library, Marco found Angelo reading a book and sipping a cup of coffee, the aroma rich in the cold air. To Marco’s nose, Angelo must have brought some coffee with him from Florence.

“Molly is missing.”

Angelo snapped his book shut, getting to his feet. “What is this?”

“Miss Dubois lost track of her after our meeting this morning, and has not seen her since.”

“Then we must search for her.”

“I have sent Duncan to gather the servants. They will search the house, but Miss Dubois informs me that Molly was on her way to the garden when she last saw her.”

“Do you think MacNaby might have returned?”

“Molly only disappears from Miss Dubois for short periods.”

Angelo arched an eyebrow, his curiosity evident about how Marco was aware of Molly’s habits, but he did not comment as they headed out through the terrace doors into the cold without their overcoats. Marco was not quite ready to discuss his numerous clandestine encounters with the young lady, which would reveal too much. Angelo would know this was unusual behavior for his older brother.

They searched through the gardens but found no sign of Molly until Marco entered the walled garden and saw that a small square of lacy linen had been dropped beneath the stone bench. Hurrying over, he knelt down to get it. It was embroidered with M and C, and his blood ran cold as he realized Molly might have left it here as a signal.

Running from the walled enclosure, he entered the mews to question the grooms, where he learned that MacNaby had keys to a recessed entrance where he sometimes let merchants in who were delivering through the alleyway.

He rushed out into the alley and looked about, but there was no sign of anyone. Running down to the end, he checked the street to no avail, then backtracked to check the street on the other end of the block. His intuition told him they were gone. He would need to summon the runner back.

Hurrying back into the gardens, he hollered for his brother until he appeared around the side of the house.

“Any sign of her?”

Angelo shook his head.

“I think MacNaby took her.” Marco held up the lacy handkerchief to display the initials, and Angelo rubbed his face in distress.

Guilt racked Marco as he blurted out, “We should have informed the servants!”

“It would not have helped if he took her from here. It does not appear he entered the house.”

“This is my fault.”

“That is a leap, fratello . MacNaby is trying to kill you, not her. There was no reason to suspect he would take Molly.”

His brother’s assurance did not help. All he could think about was his vision of Molly in hell, with her face covered in soot and her hair burning with molten lava. How disturbing it had been to witness her suffering in the world of dreams, only to wake to this living nightmare where she could be killed by a madman in search of revenge.

If she was harmed, it would break him in two, and he realized that despite his best efforts, Molly Carter had found her way into the very heart of him. Her forthright nature, her sensual form, her courage living in a household beset by such devious curses! It was more than he could bear, to think of something happening to her.

They returned inside, and Angelo sent a footman with a note to find the runner because Marco’s hands were shaking, unable to hold the quill steady to write the note himself.

“How has he grown so bold? To kidnap a woman?”

“Bold, indeed. Also rather stupid, I think.”

“What do I do? She must be terrified!”

Angelo bobbed his head back and forth with skepticism to this statement. “Fearful, perhaps, but Molly has fortitude. Perhaps I should find Lorenzo and Sebastian? We need to formulate a plan to rescue her.”

A knock on the library door drew their gazes sharply toward Duncan, who stood holding a letter with an apologetic expression on his broad face. “Sir, an express rider from Edgware delivered this,” he announced. “It is from Mr. MacNaby.”

“Edgware?”

“It is a small village in Middlesex, sir, a few miles from here. It lies on the route to Elmstead. You would have passed it on your visit, if I may say so.”

Marco grabbed the letter. Confirming that MacNaby had sent it, he dismissed Duncan and closed the door. Quickly unfolding it to read the contents, his heart skipped a beat. It was true. The butler had taken Molly hostage.

“What does it say?”

“He has taken Molly to Elmstead. By now, they must have reached the manor. He wants me to meet him there without accompaniment.”

“That is rather melodramatic. Does he plan to kill you, then come and murder the baron and I one at a time? How can he know you will arrive on your own?”

“It says if he sees anyone else, he will put a musket ball through her head.”

Angelo threw his hands up in the air. “This is a halfhearted plan at best. He does not seem as committed as he should be, but I shall find Sebastian and Lorenzo, so we can leave for Elmstead. You summon the carriage and a spare horse to approach the manor without companions once we reach there.” The last was said with heavy sarcasm.

“Damn it, Angelo! We must take this seriously! Molly’s life is in danger.”

“I know, brother, but the four of us will execute a rescue.”

Marco hesitated, then relented. He was more certain of recovering Molly with help, despite the dire warnings in the letter. “Call the others.”

While awaiting Angelo’s return, Marco went upstairs to briefly inform the baron about what was happening. He could only hope his uncle’s resulting distress would not harm his vulnerable health. Marco then went to the entry hall and lifted one of the ceremonial daggers from the display on the wall. Testing the edge for sharpness, he gathered up several more and returned to the study. He hunted through the shelves until he located a walnut box. Inside lay a single dueling pistol with a flintlock, along with a few musket balls. The second pistol was missing from its indented space, and a chill ran through him as he realized MacNaby would have had access to the missing weapon.

This was how the butler must have coerced Molly into leaving with him. How long had the servant had the pistol in his possession? Had he tired of making his attempts to murder look like accidents and decided to go a more direct route? MacNaby would have had to have taken it even before Molly had uncovered his corruption.

Soon the four of them waited out in the entry hall for the carriage to be brought around, Marco bouncing on his toes with impatience while Lorenzo distributed the daggers Marco had gathered up.

“I think we should take the rifles, too.”

“I could not find any gunpowder. They are useless,” replied Marco.

“Yet a Brown Bessie can be used as an effective club,” commented Sebastian.

“Then take one.”

Lorenzo and the Norseman nodded, grins spreading across their faces as they each took up a rifle from the display—a circle of firearms radiating outward from a central point on the wall.

Marco pondered their difference in moods. They seemed almost excited to hunt MacNaby to the ground, while he could not stop thinking about what would happen if he failed her. A world without Molly Carter was … inconceivable.

“You hold her in more esteem than I realized, fratello .” Angelo spoke from behind his shoulder, Marco watching the street to see the second the carriage approached.

“I do not desire it—to hold someone in such high regard, knowing the frailty of life. It is … dangerous to one’s state of mind.”

“Molly is not frail.”

“We are all frail.”

“That is rather … pessimista ?”

“I think … Pessimistic. And it is my experience.”

“You mean because of what happened with …” Angelo paused, as if searching the depths of his memories. “Miss Dashwood?”

“ Sì . And our father.”

“Marco, I am disappointed by your cowardice.”

Marco frowned, spinning on his heel to glare at his brother. “Cowardice?”

“Chi non intraprese mai nulla non realizzò mai nulla.”

“He who never undertook anything, never achieved anything?”

“ Sì . You cannot compare Miss Dashwood to Molly. Molly is strong. Unafraid.”

Sebastian chimed in. “Miss Carter? That young lady has gumption. She will be alive and well when we get there—I am sure of it.”

The sound of the carriage approaching had Marco turning back to the window, ripping the door open to hurry outside as fear for Molly’s safety continued to make his heart pound against his bruised ribs with an unrelenting vengeance. His woman needed him.

“I hope so. MacNaby is a lunatic.”