Chapter 5
“Trust not the smiles of kin, for even roses grow thorns when ambition blooms.”
Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner
Marco returned inside without Molly, who said she might have an appointment for tea before heading farther into the gardens at the back of the house.
Entering the library from the terrace doors, he immediately noted that Nicholas and his journals were absent.
The only sign that he had been there at all was the askew ottoman and the tray of tea, which appeared untouched.
Firming his jaw, Marco considered that the most likely suspect was the uncle who had once been second in line to inherit the barony, but was now fourth with the revelation of his and Angelo’s existence.
The younger man possessed both personal motive and a close connection to the original murderess, Lady Blackwood.
Was Nicholas’s limp sufficient to prevent him from climbing upon the roof?
Marco doubted it. It was clear he must keep a watchful eye upon him.
A movement in the corner of the room drew his attention, and he saw that Lorenzo was browsing through the shelves with a bored expression.
“Lorenzo? What are you about?”
His friend flinched, clearly startled from his thoughts. “Marco! I am merely keeping myself occupied. Sebastian has gone to visit his family and left me to amuse myself.”
Marco caught the note of complaint. The other man was intense by nature, a man with a crusade, and his single-minded devotion to his pursuits often prevented him from appreciating the obligations that weighed upon others.
“To be fair, Sebastian has been absent from England for six years, and his family must be eager for his company.”
“It is not the purpose of this journey.”
Marco snorted softly. “Ah, but your own devotion to family is legendary, my friend. You of all men understand that Sebastian must attend to his duties.”
Lorenzo answered with a wry laugh. “You are not wrong. Still, I am impatient to see our affairs here in London resolved.”
The two men had never revealed the true reason for accompanying him and Angelo to England, but Marco was certain it had everything to do with Lorenzo’s ancestor, the one he had spoken of so often over the years of their acquaintance …
Matteo di Bianchi, whom Lorenzo claimed had been among the greatest painters of Leonardo’s time.
There was scant evidence to support the assertion, yet given his friend’s formidable knowledge of art, and his profitable dealings within that world, Marco accepted that there must be substance behind the claim.
“Have you seen Angelo?”
Lorenzo nodded, returning his attention to the books. “He has come back from a walk. You will find him finishing his breakfast.”
Marco thanked him and hurried toward the breakfast room, eager to speak with his brother about what had transpired in the garden. The brush with death, not the moment of unguarded intimacy with the unexpectedly compelling Molly.
Upon entering the breakfast room, he found Angelo concluding his meal with two footmen in attendance. His brother looked up with a broad grin. “Marco, you must accompany me on a walk later. This neighborhood is magnificent.”
“We shall see. May I speak with you? Privately?”
Angelo lifted his brows in question, but finished the remaining eggs on his plate with haste.
Marco took the moment to address Duncan, the head footman who had greeted them at the docks the previous day.
He inquired about access to the roof, and Duncan, offering no comment on the peculiar nature of the request, explained that the route was complicated and volunteered to escort them himself.
Marco accepted, then turned to find Angelo rising to accompany them.
Molly entered the walled garden alone, finding Madeline seated upon their bench, waiting for her with a cart of tea.
Her ploy to rid herself of Miss Dubois had proved quite effective, and she relished these stolen moments with her friend.
Marco had mentioned something about visiting the roof after their harrowing brush with death, but she required time to steady her thoughts, particularly after the sudden tumble in the grass that had unsettled her so deeply.
Neither of them was ready to address what had passed between them.
“I did not think I would see you before you left!”
Madeline lifted her head from the book she was reading and smiled. “I insisted upon tea with you before we depart. Simon is quite impatient to be gone, but given that we did not even share supper together last evening, I wished to bid you a proper farewell.”
Molly found herself unexpectedly nostalgic as she dropped onto the bench with a glum pout. “I shall miss you! An entire household of men and nary a woman in sight with whom to speak.”
Madeline’s lips quirked into a mischievous smile. “What of your Miss Dubois?”
She groaned, clenching her fists toward the sky in mock despair. “Curses! She does not count. She is an entirely different species, far more a vain vessel in the mold of Lady Blackwood than a true companion.”
“I see you have laid aside your mourning attire. Did the poodle finally wear you down?”
Molly stiffened, uncertain whether she wished to confess the true reason for her change of dress before she had made sense of her own thoughts. It seemed dreadfully frivolous to admit she had wished to appear her best because of Marco. “I … decided it was time.”
“I think you look quite becoming. Those colors suit you.”
She glanced down at her gown, noticing that it was a trifle creased after the morning’s disturbances. “Thank you.”
“With four new bachelors in your home, have any of them caught your eye?”
Molly blushed, studying her kid gloves while feeling warmth creep up her neck and into her cheeks. “Not especially.”
Her friend laughed softly as she closed her book and set it aside. “Perhaps you may write to me when you are ready to speak of it.”
“Do you think … if I were to meet a gentleman … how would I go about encouraging a courtship?”
Madeline considered this. “I imagine it is not so very different from forming a friendship. One speaks of common interests, learns the other’s character, and if affection is meant to grow, it will do so in its own time.”
Molly leaned forward, her curiosity overcoming her instinct for reserve. “And if it does not? You waited so long for Simon to come up to scratch. Is there nothing I might do to … hasten matters?”
The question gave Madeline pause, and Molly felt a flicker of guilt when she saw the shadow pass through her friend’s eyes.
“We did remain apart far too long. If I were to alter anything, I would have worried less about society’s strictures and trusted my judgment sooner.
It was difficult to reconcile propriety with my more determined nature, but once I set aside those restraints, Simon and I found our way forward. ”
“But forging your own path was not without danger.”
“The poisoning?”
“You could have died.”
“Not a customary risk of courtship,” Madeline conceded, “but without risk, life lacks meaning. There can be no achievement without some peril. You must decide what is worth the cost. What would your mother advise, were she here?”
“To say what fits, not what is fitting.”
“There you are. Trust your instincts and speak honestly.”
Molly gave a small nervous laugh. “That is far easier to consider than to accomplish.”
“I suspect that when the moment presents itself, you will act. Simon and John have both remarked upon your fortitude in nursing the baron when he was in need. My husband is quite regretful to leave you behind with only Miss Dubois for company. He had hoped to leave you with more humored company.”
Shaking her head, Molly reached to clasp her friend’s hand.
“Do not concern yourself with my troubles. Securing your safety must come first. Even now …” Molly wished to confide what had occurred, but to do so would reveal the subject of her recent distraction, and she was not yet prepared for that.
Recalling that Marco had only just escaped what might have been a second attempt upon his life, she realized Madeline must depart for Scotland despite her desire to prolong their visit.
“Thank you for taking the time to share tea with me, but you must go. It is not safe to delay when Lady Blackwood loathed you with such seething venom. If there is an accomplice lingering about, I could not bear it if you were placed in danger again.”
Madeline turned her palm to give Molly’s hand a final squeeze before rising. “Good fortune with your gentleman. Write to me, if you wish.”
Molly watched the viscountess depart and then found her thoughts returning, unbidden, to her ever-watchful companion.
Miss Dubois had known Marco would be in the garden, and her errand to retrieve the bonnet would have afforded ample opportunity to make her way to the roof.
Could the French poodle be a devotee of Lady Blackwood’s dark legacy?
Might she seek to carry out her former mistress’s wishes from beyond the grave, motivated by misplaced loyalty?
The notion sent a chill through her, and she rose to prepare a cup of tea, grateful for a moment of solitude free from the constant nipping vigilance of Miss Dubois.
Returning to the bench, she inhaled the rich fragrance rising from the cup and allowed herself a quiet moment of reflection.
She wondered what her mother would say about handsome Italians with grave, compelling mouths and an air of quiet authority.
Would she approve of Molly’s artful maneuvering to secure a few moments alone, or caution her against the peril of yielding too readily to unguarded feeling?
Molly smiled faintly into her tea, suspecting she already knew the answer.