Chapter 2
“An English household is a maze of titles, teacups, and unspoken grievances. Navigate with care.”
Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner
Marco’s ribs throbbed with a persistent ache that dulled his senses, but the Blackwood townhouse had quite astounded him.
It had been far bigger than he had anticipated, more akin to a grand villa and formal gardens befitting Rome itself.
Standing next to a twin estate, the manors boasted elegant colonnades, crowned with impressive porticos, and from the rooftop stone gods silently stood watch over the two households while chimneys bellowed cheerful smoke into the chilled air.
He and Angelo had peered at each other in amazement after their carriage had come to a halt, and they had slowly realized they had arrived. Disembarking, they stood staring upward at the edifice.
“This is decidedly not what I expected,” murmured Angelo in a low voice.
“And what, pray, were you expecting, young Scott?” Sebastian came to stand behind them, his tread remarkably light considering his formidable size.
“It is as if we are back in Italy,” Marco replied in his brother’s stead, fully aware why Angelo was nonplussed. “There is an elegance to it that one would scarcely anticipate, particularly after the approach from the docks.”
“And I told you not to judge England by its docks. It is both green and pleasant, is it not?” their Norseman friend asked with dry amusement.
“Sì.” Angelo’s expression was one of undisguised awe.
Entering the house, they were met by Simon Scott, who seemed most concerned over their accident.
Marco realized this was the man who had lost the right to the Blackwood inheritance because of him, but his uncle, who was only a handful of years older than himself, exhibited no resentment at the alteration of his fortunes.
He ushered their party to the mews to discuss what had happened, where they closely inspected the damaged carriage.
They failed to conclude whether the accident had resulted from sabotage, but Simon, whom the servants referred to as his lordship, continued to inspect the damage with keen interest. He appeared troubled when he finally rose from his haunches and declared they should go inside to meet the Scott family, along with Lord Blackwood.
As they walked the path through the garden back to the house, Marco asked the question hovering on the tip of his tongue.
“Mr. Scott, perhaps my understanding of English titles is sadly imperfect. As the brother of a baron, why do the servants address you as a titled gentleman?”
Simon Scott hesitated, causing all five men to come to a halt mid-stride.
His lean face bore signs of strain as he stroked his close-cropped dark beard, and his blue eyes were shadowed.
Marco sensed that there was much to learn about the troubles that had plagued the Scott household in recent months.
“I inherited a title from my mother when she recently passed from this world. Which makes me a Scottish viscount. Lord Campbell, at your service.” He dropped a curt bow, opening his mouth as if to say more, then glanced at Sebastian and Lorenzo as if to remind himself they were in mixed company.
Which Marco could not fault. He and his own brother had not made their friends privy to anything related to the murder or the attempt to prevent information about Marco’s existence from reaching the officials of England.
“We … have much to discuss … But … we should first make introductions and allow you to refresh yourselves. For the present, please address me as Simon. It will avoid confusion with so many Scotts in residence.”
Marco gave a nod of assent, not quite grasping all of it but hoping it would become clearer once they could speak more freely.
The last letter from the duke had been confusing, alluding to events that made Marco’s head reel.
He suspected this was because much of the sensitive information had not been included in the correspondence, details that would otherwise have illuminated its meaning.
They continued along the path, entering the townhouse from the back, and Simon led them into a drawing room down the hall. Marco guessed it was where the family gathered, much as one might expect in a well-ordered household, similar to the one in his mother’s home.
Plump armchairs and settees in a soft dove gray were grouped informally, while ornate cornices and an intricate chandelier commanded the focus of the room.
The walls were covered in watered silk of the same gray, while large oil portraits of ancestors glared at them with the serious demeanors of English nobility, their expressions haughty within heavy gilt frames.
A fire glowed cheerfully in the large fireplace, and leaded glass windows soared to the ceiling across the room, with elegant drapes to frame the view of the garden they had just crossed.
It was early winter, so much of the garden was resplendent in hues of rich browns and deep reds, while some of the foliage yet clung to their evergreen colors.
The room was both inviting and foreboding in equal measure.
Simon made introductions, beginning with the baron.
Lord Blackwood, the oldest brother of Marco’s father, rose to his feet with a little trouble.
He seemed aged beyond his years, but he had a warm smile, insisting on shaking hands with all of them as a mark of welcome.
His grip was firm and his color pink, which Marco supposed was good, given that the baron had recently suffered ill health, according to the duke’s letter.
Would his father have resembled the baron if he had lived?
“You have the look of your father, young man. Something about the shape of your eyes and the line of your jaw.” The baron looked bemused, as if staring into the past.
Marco gave a brief bow in acknowledgment. “I have been told as much by my mother as well, Lord Blackwood.”
Next, they were introduced to an attractive young woman with glossy brown hair, lively hazel eyes, and the warm tones of someone descended from Mediterranean roots. Her gown hinted she might be in half mourning, but it was flattering.
“Miss Molly Carter, may I introduce Mr. Marco Scott?”
“Buongiorno, Miss Carter.” Marco took up her gloved fingers and dropped a bow in the Italian manner, which was less formal than that favored by stiff Englishmen.
“Miss Carter is our cousin,” Simon explained.
The young woman inhaled sharply, quickly interjecting, “By marriage! Not … by blood.”
Her color heightened along with her pitch, and after initially cataloging her as a relation unworthy of particular notice as a woman, Marco took another look at the young lady.
He noted his increase in interest as he took in the rich brown curtain of hair caught in a coif.
Her velvet gown of lavender was the perfect foil for her honeyed skin tone and pretty hazel eyes.
Flecks of brown, gray, and green sparkling like jewels set in an oval face with a determined little chin to give it character.
Miss Carter was tall for a woman, just a few inches shorter than himself, and she had a capable air about her despite her obvious bashfulness at meeting him.
To his dismay, Marco found himself enjoying her implied esteem, and somewhere deep in his soul, an echo of agreement sounded in response as he became aware of her in turn.
It would not do. Marco had no plans to remain in Britain, and it was inconvenient that he would be living under the same roof as an attractive female during his stay.
Not to mention that the fragility of Englishwomen was a source of painful reflection.
But Miss Carter’s lashes fluttered in abashment and Marco’s lips curled in response.
The urge to appease her embarrassment very nearly overruled his caution.
“Perhaps you can explain the … complessità?”
“Complexities,” Sebastian responded from behind him with dry amusement, and Marco suppressed a wince that his friend had noted his approval of Miss Carter.
Marco realized he still clasped her fingers and reluctantly released them, affecting a gravity he did not entirely feel as he finished his reply.
He returned his hand to put pressure over his injury in an attempt to distract his English friend.
“Perhaps you can explain the complexities of our relations at a later moment, when we have a free moment?” He did his best to quell any indication of flirtatious interest, but he knew the astute Sebastian would mock him when the opportunity arose.
A glimmer of a smile crossed her features, and Miss Carter’s blush spread out, much to his masculine satisfaction.
Marco moved on quickly before their exchange drew untoward attention from his new family, noting that both Simon and the baron appeared bemused by other worries and had not noted the spark between him and their mutual cousin … by marriage.
Butterflies were all aflutter in her stomach, her heart beating rather too quickly in her chest, and her palms were damp within the confines of her gloves.
Marco Scott had a deeply accented voice that thrilled her to the very tips of her toes and made her yearn for things she did not usually think about.
Courtship. Weddings. Babies with shocks of dark hair and big black eyes.
She did not think of herself as a typical female, so it was quite a revelation to discover that her brain could quite dissolve and her pulse quicken at the sight of a striking gentleman.
As the introductions continued, she observed that Nicholas was grim, shifting on his feet as if his leg might be hurting him.
She winced in sympathy. Ever since he had quit spirits, the young man had suffered both from the lingering effects of drink and the unyielding pain from his injury, which he was taking steps to address with the help of their new friend, Lady Trafford.