Miss Carter and the Baron’s Heir (Dazzling Debutantes #10)

Prologue

“Nothing alters a man’s opinion of his ancestry quite so swiftly as being told he must wear it.”

Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner

Silence cloaked the room, heavy as velvet, after the pronouncement.

The seconds dragged, each one stretching into what felt like minutes, as Marco remained lost in his thoughts.

He supposed he should not be entirely surprised, given his parentage, but the reality of it settled upon him with an unfamiliar weight.

His gaze lifted. His mother, a handsome Italian dame with a mane of silver hair drawn neatly into a chignon, was staring blankly at the wall opposite her.

Perhaps she was admiring the rich landscape framed in gold where her eyes rested.

More likely, however, she was staring into the deep recesses of her mind.

Mamma had long since given up hope of reconciliation with the Scotts.

Their unexpected visitor must have dredged up all manner of old sorrows.

Memories of her late husband, Peter—Marco’s father—and his fruitless attempts to correspond with Marco’s grandfather before Peter’s untimely death from a fever more than twenty years earlier.

To Marco’s left, his younger brother, Angelo, lounged with an air of incredulity, his legs sprawled out as he rubbed his jaw in dismay. He looked for all the world like someone trying to solve an impossibly intricate mechanical puzzle befitting the engineering mind of Leonardo da Vinci himself.

Finally, Marco returned his attention to the man from England.

Their visitor was something of a chameleon, this Englishman who represented important nobility.

Marco found it difficult to place his age.

He could be in his thirties or in his fifth decade.

He had a certain vitality, despite his understated clothing and composed manner.

His eyes, which could have been gray, blue, or green depending on the angle, spoke of great experience.

A seasoned professional who had seen things.

His clean-shaven jaw suited the tidy and meticulous nature of his posture.

Marco assessed that some might find him handsome, while others would forget they had ever met him at all.

Clearing his throat, Marco broke the oppressive hush in the elegant drawing room. “You are here to inform us that I am … to become the future Lord Blackwood?”

Mr. Long nodded, his lean face folding into an expression of measured sympathy, as if he could sense the storm churning within Marco’s breast.

“That is correct. Your uncle, Lord Blackwood, has no sons to inherit the title. Your father was second in line until his untimely death. Therefore, you, Mr. Scott, are the heir. You will be the next Baron of Blackwood.”

“But … I am a Florentine,” Marco replied, his voice taut with disbelief.

Long’s lips curved into a polite smile. “You may live in Florence, but half of you is English, Mr. Scott.”

Marco raked a hand through his dark curls, agitated as he muttered, “Maledizione.”

“Do not curse, son,” his mother chided, bringing him back to the present.

Marco released a humorless chuckle. “Scusa, Mamma, but truly, if there was ever a time to curse, is this not it?”

To his astonishment, his mother’s lips twitched, and a moment later, she burst into laughter. The sound was startling, spilling into the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Angelo swung his head around, caught off guard by the abrupt shift in mood, before joining in as Marco and their mother gave way to gales of incredulous laughter.

They struggled to draw air from the force of it, tears of mirth gathering as they tried to comprehend how the tides had turned, washing them out to sea in a tempest of waves and stinging rain.

The very floor beneath Marco’s feet seemed to heave beneath the weight of this unforeseen visit.

To his credit, Long refrained from censuring their lunacy, studying the gloved hands resting on his knees while he waited for the laughter to die down. Marco supposed he was accustomed to delivering unsettling news on behalf of his employers.

Mamma dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief before turning to their visitor. “Scusa, Mr. Long. We have waited over two decades for notice from Britain. I confess we had abandoned hope of … riconciliazione?”

The last was directed to Marco to assist with translation. “How do you say this … reconciliation, Mr. Long? We had given up hope of reconciling with my father’s family.”

His mother bobbed her head in agreement. “My late husband wrote many letters, as did I, but none were ever answered.”

“I understand the unexpected nature of this news.” It was an adept response, acknowledging the bizarre tenor of their conversation while not hinting at his opinion of Marco’s grandfather, the late Lord Blackwood, who had not communicated with Peter or his family since their argument over Peter’s intent to marry Marco’s mother.

She had mourned his father’s death for years, before eventually remarrying an old friend of the Romano family.

Marco gave a nod of appreciation. “I thank you for traveling so far. You may inform the Baron of Blackwood that I have no desire to inherit his title. He may dispose of it as he sees fit.”

Long showed the first sign of tension, a slight swallow that caught Marco’s attention.

Is there more yet to be revealed?

“As I stated, I represent Lord Saunton and His Grace, the Duke of Halmesbury. Your uncle, Lord Blackwood, is unaware of my visit to Florence.”

“Then I suggest you inform him that the visit occurred, and that I have formally renounced my interest in his barony.”

Mamma shifted in her armchair, her long fingers smoothing the silk of her skirts. Marco’s stomach sank. The measured gesture was a sure sign she had thoughts to share, and they would likely be aired once they were alone together.

Meanwhile, Mr. Long adjusted his cravat, a pristine white linen tied in a simple, practical knot that suited his reserved demeanor. His hesitation drew Marco’s attention once more.

“I must admit, Mr. Scott,” Long began, his voice carefully composed, “despite my storied career, I have never delivered news quite like this. Your claim to the title … it brings with it a far more pressing concern. You see, the duke’s father-in-law, Lord Filminster, was murdered … to conceal your existence.”

The room froze as the words hung in the air.

Mamma gasped audibly, her hands clenching over her knees.

Marco’s brows rushed together into a perplexed scowl as he cocked his head in question. “Scusa … Perhaps my English is not as good as I believed—”

“You heard correctly,” Mr. Long interrupted, shaking his head. His tone was low but steady. “Lord Josiah Ridley intended to notify the Home Office that you were the rightful heir. He was killed to prevent him from sending the letter.”

Slowly, Marco turned to his mother.

She was leaning forward now, her expression anguished. “Josiah Ridley … He is dead?” Her dark eyes glistened with sadness as she questioned their visitor, her voice strained by emotion.

“Who is Filminster, Mamma?”

She licked her lips, her poise intact even as her distress showed in the faint crease of her brow.

To Marco, she was the very image of Florentine grace and sophistication, despite the turmoil that swirled around them.

She turned to face him. “He was a friend of your father’s.

They attended Oxford together and corresponded often, until your father … became ill. His letter of … cordoglio?”

“Condolence,” Marco supplied without hesitation.

His mother gave a small grateful nod. “Yes, his letter of condolence was very kind.”

Marco clenched his jaw, willing the conversation to end.

This news was an unnecessary burden for his mother, a wound reopened after decades of healing.

And as for him, he had no desire to dig into the English roots that had brought him nothing but pain and frustration in the years since, nor to unearth loyalties long buried and better left so.

Rising abruptly to his feet, his patience at an end, Marco towered over their visitor, and his tone turned sharp. “What has any of … this … to do with us? These are British affairs for British people. You may inform your employers that we have been made aware.”

Mr. Long did not flinch under Marco’s pointed words.

Instead, he remained seated, his calm demeanor unchanged as he responded, “The duke would very much appreciate your assistance in bringing the killer to justice. His Grace is prepared to pay for your travel arrangements. You should know that the duchess is distraught over her father’s murder, and the duke …

he has dedicated himself to helping others, particularly those with complicated origins such as your own. ”

Marco’s scowl deepened.

“Setting aside His Grace’s wishes,” Long continued, his tone softening, “would you not like to visit your ancestral home? To see the places where your father grew up, to learn more about his life, and to better understand the noble line you are descended from?”

Marco’s gut twisted as Mr. Long deftly spoke to the buried desires of his youth.

The man from England was clever, his arguments calculated to strike where Marco was most vulnerable.

Those long-held dreams, the ones that had brought nothing but heartbreak, stirred within him, raw and unbidden.

Years ago, he had tried to bridge the chasm to his English roots, and the bitter failure had left scars he had learned to hide.

Now, this conversation scraped at the veneer of happiness he had painstakingly constructed, unleashing memories that left him unsteady with their force.

His mother must have noticed the shift in his mood. “Mr. Long,” she interjected gently, her tone measured and polite, “my sons and I need time to discuss this. Perhaps you can return tomorrow, once we have had time to … digerire?”

“Digest,” Marco responded.

“Yes, once we have had time to digest.”