Lord of Intrigue (Inconvenient Brides #10)

Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

“Here must all distrust be left behind; all cowardice must be ended.”

Dante’s Divine Comedy

C reeping dread was making her hands and feet both numb and tingly as the wagon passed through the gates of Elmstead. Her earlier fears had been realized. Just outside of Edgware, MacNaby had directed her to bring their vehicle to a stop within a copse of trees, and ordered her to remove her stockings.

That in itself had caused a surge of panic, but it had turned out he had merely wanted them to tie her wrists and ankles so he could send a message back to London. She had lain in the bed of the empty wagon, a tarp beneath her shivering body, and stared up at the sky without seeing a thing. Lost in her thoughts, she had begun to contemplate the worst outcomes.

She could be killed!

Her breast heaved as if she had lost her breath, thinking what it would feel like to have a musket ball pierce her chest or head. Would she die immediately or slowly in abject pain?

After about five minutes of panic, she had realized there was an alternative outcome. What if she survived unscathed, but Marco was killed in her stead?

Despite her will to remain composed, tears had eked out the corners of her eyes to run down her cheeks, the icy weather affixing them painfully to her skin rubbed raw by the incessant and brisk breeze.

How would she live with herself if she were the cause of his death?

Why had she sent Claudette Dubois away?

Did she wish for Marco to arrive to rescue her, or would she rather he remained safely in London to leave her to her fate?

Sheer relief had made her head giddy when MacNaby had returned to untie her and instructed her to drive them to Elmstead. At least she had some measure of control back with the freedom of her limbs restored.

As they drove between the archway of elms, Molly licked her lips and regretted it when the cold wind gusted against the moistness. Teeth chattering, her legs bared against the elements that swept up under the skirts of her gown, she tried to think what to do.

Considering the possibility of Marco’s arrival to rescue her made her fairly lose her mind at the thought of him lying dead on the floor while she sobbed and lamented her role in his demise. The thought of his youthful face wreathed in the pallor of the eternal mists, innocent of any wrongdoing other than a happenstance of birth, was nauseating.

She supposed, as a member of the weaker sex, she should accept her role in this terrible comedy of a tragedy. But she could not bring herself to act the damsel in distress. She would have to risk the ire of her captor because failing to act, failing to prevent Marco from being harmed because of the deluded phantasies of a dead woman, was too awful to consider.

She would have to risk debating with the butler. If the words of great orators could echo through the millennia, surely she could convince one misguided man to abandon his murderous quest—especially when the originator of that quest was no longer in this world to urge him on.

If she failed, if he hurt or killed her, she would enter through the gates of midnight with her honor yet intact.

Molly brought the wagon to a halt in front of the manor, which loomed eerily in the silence, framed by the iron gray of twilight. It had seemed so inviting on their last visit, but now, under these grim circumstances, it leered with a menacing air in the half light, its darkened windows like the gap-toothed smile of a cackling hag.

There was a caretaker when the manor was closed up, but it was an old man who could not help her, even if he was somewhere inside. Molly could count on no one other than herself.

Fortifying her courage, she inhaled deeply to steel her nerves. “You have hurt no one yet, Mr. MacNaby. It is not too late to repudiate Lady Blackwood’s request.”

The butler growled in outrage, turning an angry face to glare at her with madness lurking in his eyes. “You know nothing of what you speak! If you do not shut it, Miss Carter, I shall tie you up and gag you to force some quiet!”

Was there a special place reserved in hell for him? He who had allowed the vibrant Molly to be left defenseless? Would his departed father be disappointed in him to learn of his failure if he were to visit from the afterlife?

A lurch of the carriage brought Marco back to the moment as he stared out at the gathering darkness, and he slipped his fingers into his pocket to caress the gold watch. His thoughts returned to how his father had been disowned by his grandfather because of his father’s desire to wed his mother. How Peter Scott had left everything he knew—everyone he knew—to return to Italy with Mamma. How he had married her, given up his life in England, to do right by her. In comparison, Marco had weakly vacillated between returning to Florence and committing to the Blackwood title. His final conversation with Molly in the formal drawing room had been to inform her that she should not get her hopes up.

Now she was a hostage at Elmstead. She might die at the hands of a madman, a madman who had taken her as bait for Marco, and she would believe she died in place of a man who had not held her in sufficient esteem to make her his wife.

The very concept made his gut coil and writhe in protest, but what did his regrets matter when it was Molly whose life was in the balance? He would pass forever into Dante’s City of Woe if he were to fail her now.

Was she terrified? Did she know he would come for her? Did she blame him for putting her in harm’s way? These were all questions that plagued because he had too much time to think, and they could do nothing effective until they reached the manor.

“Molly ha grande coraggio.” Angelo’s voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

Marco scowled, barking back before he could stop himself, “She should not require great courage. She plays no part in this.”

“Starà bene quando la raggiungeremo.”

“Dear Lord, I hope so! If she is harmed because of me—” Marco stopped, too overcome by rage and fear to complete the sentence.

Sebastian stirred from his bench, moving his gaze from the window to regard Marco with sympathetic gray eyes. “It is not your fault, my friend.” Then he frowned. “At least—I do not think it is your fault? I confess I have a thin understanding of what is happening here.”

Lorenzo snorted, muttering a curse beneath his breath. “I have no understanding what is happening here.” He glanced at Marco. “But if you need us to fend off a maniacal butler, we are here for you.”

Marco nodded in appreciation. He might yet be a stranger to England, but it had been a wise choice to travel with family and friends at his side. Even if he succeeded in distracting MacNaby, he might not be able to save Molly in the aftermath. It was going to take working together to secure her safety.

They lapsed back into silence, the night arriving so that all he could see were the hedgerows racing by in the glow of the carriage lamps, and he could not help but feel he was Dante entering hell itself. He half expected to pass through its gates, to read the inscription, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

The sound of the carriage wheels rumbling through the night was loud in his ears, or else he was certain he would have heard the laments and wails of fellow tortured souls who had neglected their duty. He had allowed a woman as compassionate as Molly, a woman full of life, to be caught by a criminal. Even if they succeeded, what if MacNaby had hurt her? Or— His stomach lurched, and he closed his thoughts off from considering her innocence removed without the presence of love. He had already entered hell. There was no reason to descend further into its fiery pits.

Fortunately, the carriage drew to a halt, and Duncan appeared at the window to open the door and lower the steps.

“We are close, sir. The lane to the manor is beyond this copse of trees.”

Marco nodded, descending to walk down the road and peer in the direction they were traveling to. It took a few seconds for his eyes to accustom to the full dark of night, but eventually he could make out the outline of the archway of elms on the horizon against the star-studded firmament with only the moon to mark the difference between the earth and the heavens with its silvery light.

The rustling of the wind through the trees, and the hoot of an owl hunting, were the only sounds in the great, empty darkness.

Angelo came to stand by his side.

“The dark will hide our approach.”

Sebastian arrived, gazing in the same direction. “It is a good night to catch a scoundrel.”

Lorenzo joined them last. “A thorough thrashing is in order.”

Marco again reminded himself of his good fortune that he had comrades with him, even if he were a stranger to this island realm. “England is turning out to be rather unpleasant,” he finally commented.

Angelo cocked his head. “I would propose we are on a fine adventure with a beautiful woman awaiting rescue and fine friends at our side. It might not be the day you wished for, but it is the day the fates have bestowed on you, and a life of no risk is a life not worth living, perhaps?”

Lorenzo nodded in agreement. “No truer word has been said. I do not know this Miss Carter well, but I think a magnificent prize awaits you at the end of your quest.”

“If I survive the quest,” muttered Marco. “Angelo, I need you to promise me if I am … unable … to assist Molly myself that you shall see to her well-being?”

Angelo paused, and Marco turned to find his brother in deep thought. “I shall go in your stead! If I wear an overcoat and hat, I can approach the house as you. MacNaby will not be able to tell the difference.”

“No. This is my responsibility.”

“But you are the heir. And Molly and you deserve to walk the future together.”

“And if I lose both you and her tonight? How shall I live with myself? No, this is my task to undertake.”

“But … what if he simply shoots you the moment you arrive? How will I live with myself if I allowed that to happen?”

Marco reached out to pat his younger brother on the back. “Then you take my place as the baron’s heir, and you see to Molly’s future knowing that I gladly entered to save her.”

It took some discussion, but Angelo finally relented on his offer. They calculated that Angelo, Lorenzo, and Sebastian would approach the manor from the back, while Marco would ride up to the front. They considered including Duncan, but decided against asking the servant to risk life and limb.

“Sir, I don’t presume to know what’s going on, but if Miss Carter’s in danger, I’d like to help.” Duncan had approached soundlessly, making Marco flinch in surprise. He supposed servants were accustomed to discretion, careful not to impose their presence on their employers.

“I cannot ask that of you.”

“You haven’t, sir. I’m offering freely. I’m a good man to have by your side in a fight.”

Marco considered him through the gloom. The Scotsman was tall, broad of shoulder, and muscular—the perfect footman favored by the upper classes to display their wealth. “If you are certain? I am afraid I cannot explain much of our purpose. Only that Mr. MacNaby has taken Miss Carter hostage, and we must retrieve her at all costs.”

Duncan nodded, his square face calm and steady. “Miss Carter’s a fine young lady. I don’t know what MacNaby’s playing at, but I wish to help, sir.”

“As footman, Duncan knows the manor better than us.” Sebastian tilted his head in question, waiting for Marco to decide.

He nodded, and his Nordic friend pulled out a dagger from his overcoat to pass it to Duncan. “Here you go, friend. Does MacNaby have access to gunpowder or firearms in the manor?”

“He does.”

“Do you know where we might access some for ourselves? Mr. Scott has only a dueling pistol and a single shot to fire, while we have only blades.”

The footman pointed into the distance. “The gamekeeper has a cottage nearby.”

Lorenzo laughed at this, shaking his head in disbelief. “Visiting the gamekeeper is a much better plan than daggers and clubs. Why did we not involve Duncan before this?”

“Because it is the first time I am managing a rescue, and I did not think of it,” replied Marco. “I suppose we should leave the carriage here with the coachman.”

Sebastian nodded his head to the gelding tied at the back of the carriage. “Bring your mount and we shall set off by foot.”

Within thirty minutes they had obtained rifles, the gamekeeper had elected to join them, and they set off toward the manor. Marco left his friends behind, relieved that Molly would have their protection if he failed to survive the night, and rode off to serve as a distraction. Reaching the front garden of Elmstead, he dismounted to watch the house while he waited for them to get into position. The gelding snickered into the quiet, perhaps Marco’s state of tension communicating to the beast as he watched the house with a pounding heart.

Inside was a killer and his fair Molly. Visions of his nightmare, when he found Molly smudged and burning in hell, plagued him every time he blinked. He wished he could run up to the house right now, and thump the door with all his pent-up anger, but instead he had to wait. Pulling out his timepiece, he squinted in the dark, angling it to catch the light of the moon and check the time to discover he still had ten minutes to wait.

He turned back to the house, noting that one of the windows was lit. That must be where MacNaby was holding her captive. Perhaps he had the caretaker held there, too, whose presence Duncan had informed them of.

Impatience raced through him, but he quelled the desire to pace. It would not do to make unnecessary commotion until he was timed to approach.

He attempted to distract himself by thinking of his journey to England, the revelations of the past few days, and the responsibilities which had been thrust upon him. And he realized he would gladly accept these upheavals of his life if it secured Molly’s life. Checking his timepiece again, Marco sank to his knees in prayer.

Eventually, he rose to his feet. Taking the pistol from the pocket of his coat and the gunpowder in a twist of paper, he carefully loaded the lead shot. His friends were circling the house, and Sebastian had declared he would find the room where Molly was being held so he could break through the window if MacNaby left her to answer the door. It was not much of a plan. Mostly, Marco hoped the butler would let him in and provide an opportunity for him to fire the pistol into the reprobate’s chest.

Marco grabbed the horse by the reins and began to lead it through the garden. The gelding was to help suggest that Marco had arrived alone, so that MacNaby would not be alerted to his friends’ presence.

His heart raced ever faster as he approached the manor. Reaching the front drive, he tied the horse within view of the front door and inhaled to fortify his mind. This might be the final act of his life, and he needed to make it count. Hiding the pistol in the folds of his overcoat, he rested his finger on the trigger guard. His feet crunched on gravel as he approached, and he assured himself that his giant friend was even now peering through the candlelit window, ready to use his bulk to rescue Molly.

Reaching the front door, Marco repeated his prayer for Molly’s safety before taking hold of the brass knocking ring. He lifted it up and brought it down hard to announce he had arrived as instructed.