Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
“And as he looked at it, his guide cried: ‘Behold the beast, with tail of serpents in the sands of fire!’”
Dante’s Divine Comedy
M olly tiptoed past the sleeping Miss Dubois, determined to seek out Marco for a private conversation. She had not slept a wink after finding him in the library. His expression had been haunted, exhausted, and she wished to verify for herself that he was all right, but Miss Dubois’s presence had prevented any genuine conversation.
They had all got back to bed so late that her chaperon had not yet stirred, even past the normal hour of her waking, and Molly had finally concluded that this was an opportunity to not be missed.
Letting herself out into the hall, Molly hesitated when she heard her name being called out.
Blast! The poodle is up!
She tried to think what to do, casting about the hall before rushing toward the door that led to the servants’ staircase. Not in the mood to wait out another opportunity, Molly elected to run for it instead. Behind her, she heard the door to Miss Dubois’s bedchamber open, and the woman called out again.
Molly shut the door to the staircase, which connected every floor, including the attic and basement levels, determined to continue on. The interior was dim, lit only by the low light of wall sconces. Racing down the steep, narrow steps to the ground level, she threw open the door as she heard Miss Dubois enter the staircase above her, accompanied by a shimmer of light from the sunlit hall. Molly stopped, realizing she was being chased like a fox with hunting hounds on her tail.
If she took a direct route to look for Marco, her chaperon would soon catch up with her. Even now, the creaking of the wooden stairs announced she was descending.
Leaving the door ajar to suggest she had indeed taken this path, Molly turned back into the staircase. Quietly, she slipped down farther into the basement level, being careful to not turn an ankle on the well-worn stairs.
Miss Dubois would never look for her down in the servants’ domain. Perhaps she could exit the house and search for Marco through the terrace windows. Even summon him outside to converse. If she were fortunate, perhaps she would even avoid the servants.
Reaching the lowest level, approximately midway up the length of the building, Molly stopped to orient herself so she could find the exit to the garden. To her left she could hear the sounds of the kitchen, which she had visited on occasion, and not wanting to encounter the staff, she turned right. She thought she was heading toward the servants’ hall, with the doors to the butler’s pantry and housekeeper’s room on either side.
To her right, a door suddenly opened, causing her to shriek in surprise as her palm flew up to cover her hammering heart, and she came eye to eye with MacNaby, who had a ledger tucked under his arm.
The butler’s brow furrowed. “Miss Carter?”
“I was … looking for the kitchen.”
Through the door she could see a modest and exceptionally well-appointed butler’s pantry. It was lined with stained beech cabinets, which were capped with workspace counters, and the upper sections were shelves enclosed by glass doors. Neatly labeled drawers ran up in a stack in one section of the cabinetry and fine pieces of silver and china could be seen through the immaculate windows, with a small desk just in view tucked against the opposite wall with account books neatly stacked next to quills and an inkstand.
The spine of one book was oddly out of place?—
“It is this direction.” MacNaby started to close the door behind him, apparently reluctant for her to view the room, and Molly quite forgot her manners as she tilted her head to view that spine for an extra second before the room disappeared, to?—
“I wanted to learn about the tea that Mr. Scott made for the people affected by the fire,” Molly murmured in explanation while her thoughts raced. If she had any standing in the household, she might demand he reopen the door. This notion made her painfully aware that she was currently alone in a dim hall with a man considerably stronger than herself and the best thing for it was to pursue her pretense and follow him to the kitchen. She smiled broadly as the butler pulled a key from his hip pocket and locked the door with a decisive click.
“Quite a rabbit warren down here,” she commented nervously, as she swallowed her fear.
MacNaby nodded politely, but Molly could see something in the depths of his eyes that was cold and angry. At her intrusion belowstairs? Or something else?
Entering the kitchen, she made a show of asking the stunned cook and kitchen maids about the brew that Angelo had made for those who had inhaled smoke from the fire, while MacNaby made to leave, mentioning he had a tradesman in the servants’ hall waiting for his return.
The kitchen staff could not answer any questions, the gentleman having prepared the tea in the kitchen but with his own stash.
“Oi can’t say for certain, miss. Think there was licorice root, an’ oi saw chamomile flowers, that oi did. Might be best to ask the gentleman ’imself, eh?” queried the astonished cook, wiping her hands dry on her apron. Molly hoped Cook found her invasion delightfully eccentric, rather than the lunacy of a woman gripped by terminal stupidity, well aware her ruse was as thin as paper.
Thanking them for their assistance, she headed back to the servants’ staircase, her original mission thwarted by a far more pressing concern. Racing up two flights to the second floor, she exited to make her way to her bedchamber. She should find the others to inform them what she had seen, but her instincts told her it would take too long and she needed to return immediately—while Walter MacNaby was still speaking with the tradesman.
Entering her room, she quickly crossed to the secrétaire à abattant which held her papers, a drop-front desk which had been here when she had arrived in London. Pulling out the second drawer, she felt around the back of the drawer until her fingers found the small purse in a surge of triumph.
Pulling it out, she untied it and dropped the contents onto the desk. Two brass, hooked picks, gifted by Madeline the prior month.
Her friend had used them in her quest to help Simon uncover the true killer, and when Molly had heard about how Madeline had picked the lock on Lady Blackwood’s desk, she had coaxed her friend to show her how to do so, too. It had been nothing but an idle lark to fill her otherwise boring days, but now it was going to perhaps solve the mystery of the devil at Marco’s heels.
Hurrying back downstairs, she snuck down the basement corridor to listen at the servants’ hall. She could hear MacNaby’s subtle brogue complaining about overcharges on a grocery account, confirming her way was clear. Returning to the butler’s pantry door, she dropped to one knee, inserted the picks, and pressed her ear to the door.
Each second was infinite as she listened for the clicks, knowing that MacNaby could appear at any moment. Or a footman. Or a maid. Her palms were damp with nerves as she tried to focus on the task at hand, nearly swooning with relief when she tried the handle and the door swung open.
Entering quickly, she shut it behind her and crossed to the desk, but the book that had brought her here was missing. She inhaled, thinking hard, and swung her head around to view the room. MacNaby must have stopped in here on the way back to the servants’ hall, suspecting that Molly had caught sight of what he was concealing within this territory set aside for the most senior of servants. It was wily, a measure he had taken just in case, likely not sure that she had seen it. Which meant he would not have had time to do anything more than move the book to a temporary hiding place because he had been en route to finish his meeting.
Walking over to the cabinets, she began pulling them open as quickly as she could while maintaining her silence, leaning down to crane her neck and peer within the depths of their interiors. She found china platters and silver chargers. One cabinet had tureens, but no book. Moving on, she found platters and sauceboats, and even vases for centerpieces, but no book. Not even behind the larger items. Moving over to the drawers, she drew them open, careful not to jostle the contents to avoid making a noise. There she found cutlery, ladles, and tea strainers, but there was no sign of the book.
Molly mumbled a curse, trying to think. She had been in here for at least several minutes, and her time was running out.
Suddenly a flash of inspiration hit, and she returned to the cabinet with the tureens. Dropping down onto her haunches, she took a second to study them before reaching for the silver lid of the largest tureen. Lifting it, she blinked, restraining a crow of victory. Within its sizable interior was a leather-bound journal, with ornate gold tooling and an embossed thistle on its front cover.
“You have become quite prone to accidents. Or someone is attempting to kill you, my friend. Two accidents in four days?” Lorenzo was tense, flinging his arms out in emphasis of his declaration.
“Three,” interjected Angelo from his position at the window, where he was peering out to the garden with his arms folded to signal his worry.
“Three!” cried Lorenzo. “What is this?”
“It is nothing,” Marco insisted, boneless in his exhaustion. He had been awake since the fire, and coupled with the physical exertion of fighting the flames, he was wholly wrung out.
“We must tell them the truth, fratello . If that fire had spread, everyone could have been killed.” Angelo’s admonishment was unexpected. Marco turned to look at his brother, wordless, while his brother cocked his head in encouragement.
Marco sighed heavily. “Yes, someone is trying to kill me.”
“Why?” Sebastian leaned forward in his chair, his expression uncharacteristically earnest. All of them looked rather haggard after spending half the night up in the aftermath of putting out the fire.
“I cannot explain all of it because it is a private family matter. But we suspect someone in the house is trying to clear the path for my uncle Simon to inherit.”
Sebastian frowned. “Would that not mean Lord Campbell is involved?”
“No. Lord Campbell left London to protect his wife. Her bloodlines are not acceptable to whoever is behind this.” Marco tried to think what to say without revealing the involvement of the late Lady Blackwood. “I cannot tell you all the details, but Lady Campbell is a target for this blackguard who is after me. Lord Campbell removed her to safety by taking her to his estates in Scotland, with servants from her own household. I am confident he is not involved.”
“What of the third accident? What was that?” Lorenzo interjected.
Marco coughed hard, attempting to clear his throat of the ashes he had breathed in. “A jardinère fell from the roof the day after we arrived. I was able to leap out of the way.”
“Porca miseria!” Lorenzo cursed, resuming his pacing of the library at a frantic pace that could have powered a machine.
Sebastian fell back, whistling through his teeth. “Three accidents in four days! It is true, then. You are a marked man.”
“I understand if you wish to end your visit. Perhaps you and Lorenzo can move to your brother’s home?”
The Norseman scowled. “Do not be absurd. We accompanied you as friends. We will remain to help defend you.”
“I cannot ask that of you. I cannot even tell you the specifics of why this is happening.”
Lorenzo stopped his pacing. “Sebastian is right. We understand enough. Someone in the house is trying to kill you, and we must all remain vigilant while you uncover who it is. Meanwhile, the more friends you have around you, the more difficult it is to make these attempts.”
Angelo nodded, still staring out the window. His usual cheer was lacking—the stark possibility of fatality had muted his brother’s spirits. “I agree. We must all remain watchful and, at night, we must lock our bedchambers so we cannot be harmed in our sleep.”
“As if we are children afraid of ghouls and goblins lying in wait beneath the bed?” Marco’s tone was sour, but his mood was worse.
“Exactly so,” Angelo shot back in a rare show of fury. “You could have been burnt to a crisp if you had not woken in time.”
“Maledizione!” Marco growled, wishing he could find a corner to curl up and fall asleep. Except that inevitably led to more of the awful dreams he had been suffering from since he had arrived.
“It is time to change our tactics, brother. Perhaps locking our doors is not enough. Perhaps we need to keep watch through the night. We cannot allow anything to happen to you.”
As tempers rose between Marco and his brother, Sebastian rose to his feet to tower over them. “We have not had much sleep, so I understand the impulse to quarrel, but I believe we can plan out security measures to protect Marco from further … accidents.”
Marco inhaled deeply, digging deep within his soul to find a measure of composure, until he finally nodded in acceptance of Sebastian’s proposal.
Suggestions were thrown back and forth, and over the next thirty minutes they hammered out a plan to protect himself, the baron, and Angelo before his friends left to eat their breakfast. Angelo waited at the door for him, as Marco rose to his feet, his entire body protesting with stiff rejection of movement.
As he stood, a familiar face appeared in the window across the room, pressing against the glass which fogged with her warm breath. Molly’s eyes found his, and she gestured for him to join her, lifting her hand to reveal something he did not expect.
“Angelo, go ahead. I must see to something before I eat.”
Shrugging, his brother strode off, eager to find repast after their long night. Marco closed the library door, then crossed to open the terrace doors and was somewhat dismayed at how happy he was to see her. “Molly?” he called in a low voice.
She ran over, holding her skirts up, and Marco took a moment to enjoy the sight of her exuberance as she held the journal up again in triumph. Her obvious excitement dispelled the horror of his nightmare, in which her hair had been burning and her face twisted in pain. The urge to pull her into an embrace was overwhelming, but he stepped back to let her in the room.
“I found it! It was in the butler’s pantry! MacNaby attempted to hide it, but I did not let it stop me.”
Marco grabbed her by the upper arms, alarmed at the unknown risk she had taken to obtain the journal, intermixed with pride for her enterprise. He had long since recognized she was unique, but he was still startled by the extent of his feelings. Dropping his forehead to hers, he sucked in the smell of fresh cinnamon—not the stench of burning from his terrible dreams—and just enjoyed holding her for a second before letting her go to step back. He should not toy with her by giving her false hopes when he still wished to return to Italy to tutor.
“You can tell me the rest later, but right now I should send for MacNaby so he can explain this.”
She nodded and handed him the journal, her eyes shining in the morning light, and Marco was tempted to lean in for a kiss.
This provoked a mixture of reactions, nearly knocking him off his feet with their sheer force. Relief that she was well, dread at this ongoing campaign to kill him, perplexment that the butler might be behind it. Those did not even take into account his alarm at finding the fire blazing last evening, the horror of discovering Molly in the fiery otherworld of his nightmares, or the fact he did not know what path to choose for his future. It all coalesced to revive his earlier temper to a sudden boiling point?—
“Where is your chaperon ?” he demanded.
Molly flinched as if he had slapped her across the face. “I … well … I wanted to speak with you in private to ensure you were … well. After the fire.”
“You must stop running off from her! It is not safe—you could ruin yourself if you continue this way!”
Molly blinked rapidly in surprise, her face falling. “I … am sorry.”
When she turned to walk away, Marco saw her distress, appalled at his outburst as he watched her depart. He wanted to call her back. To explain why he was being such a cad. That he had even argued with his own brother just a half an hour earlier, something that had never happened before.
Fantastic, you beast! Add shame to your list of stupido reactions!
Looking down at the recovered journal, he realized he would have to make it up to her later. First, he must find MacNaby and demand an explanation to secure this household. Rubbing his tired eyes, he strode out of the library to seek the butler because lives hung in the balance.