Chapter 11
“It is the boldest fox who risks the hounds for a taste of freedom.”
Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner
Molly 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 exchange.
They had all gone back to bed so late that her chaperon had not yet stirred, even past the usual hour of her waking, and Molly had finally concluded that this was an opportunity not to be missed.
Letting herself out into the hall, Molly hesitated when she heard her name being called.
Blast! The poodle is up!
She tried to decide 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, and continued on with determination.
The interior was dim, lit only by a cupola above.
Racing down the steep, narrow steps to the ground level, she threw open the door just as she heard Miss Dubois enter the staircase above her, accompanied by a shimmer of light from the sunlit hall.
Molly stopped short, realizing she was being chased like a fox with the hounds close upon her tail.
If she took a direct route to look for Marco, her chaperon would soon catch her. Even now, the creak of wooden stairs announced her descent.
Leaving the door ajar to suggest she had taken that path, Molly turned back into the staircase. Quietly, she slipped farther down into the basement level, careful not to turn an ankle on the well-worn steps.
Miss Dubois would never look for her 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, she might avoid the servants altogether.
Reaching the lowest level, approximately midway along the length of the building, Molly paused to orient herself so she could locate the exit to the garden.
To her left came the sounds of the kitchen, which she had visited on occasion, and not wishing to encounter the staff, she turned right.
She believed 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 opened suddenly, causing her to shriek in surprise as her palm flew up to cover her hammering heart, and she found herself face-to-face with MacNaby, who held a ledger tucked beneath his arm.
The butler’s brow furrowed. “Miss Carter?”
“I was … looking for the kitchen.”
Through the open door, she glimpsed a modest yet exceptionally well-appointed butler’s pantry.
It was lined with stained beech cabinets capped with broad work counters, the upper shelves enclosed behind glass doors.
Neatly labeled drawers ran in a vertical stack along one section of cabinetry, and fine pieces of silver and china gleamed behind immaculate panes.
A small desk stood against the opposite wall, account books stacked neatly beside quills and an inkstand.
The spine of one book sat oddly out of place—
“It is this direction.” MacNaby began to close the door behind him, apparently reluctant for her to view the room further, and Molly quite forgot her manners as she tilted her head to study that spine for one extra heartbeat before the room vanished from sight.
“I wished to learn about the tea Mr. Scott prepared for those affected by the fire,” Molly murmured by way of explanation, though her thoughts raced ahead of her words.
If she possessed any authority in the household, she might have demanded that he reopen the door.
The notion left her suddenly aware that she was alone in a dim corridor with a man considerably stronger than herself, and that the wisest course was to maintain her pretense and follow him toward the kitchen.
She smiled brightly as the butler drew a key from his hip pocket and locked the door with a decisive click.
“Quite a rabbit warren down here,” she commented nervously, forcing herself to swallow her fear.
MacNaby nodded politely, but Molly could see something in the depths of his eyes that was cold and angry. Was it irritation at her intrusion belowstairs or something else entirely?
Entering the kitchen, she made a show of asking the stunned cook and kitchen maids about the brew that Angelo had prepared for those who had inhaled smoke from the fire, while MacNaby made to leave, mentioning that he had a tradesman waiting for him in the servants’ hall.
The kitchen staff could not answer her questions, the gentleman having prepared the tea in the kitchen but using his own private supply.
“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 intrusion delightfully eccentric, rather than the lunacy of a woman gripped by terminal foolishness, well aware that her ruse was as thin as paper.
Thanking them for their assistance, she headed back toward 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 toward her bedchamber.
She should find the others to inform them of what she had seen, but her instincts told her it would take too long, and she needed to return immediately while Walter MacNaby remained occupied with the tradesman.
Entering her room, she crossed quickly to the secrétaire à abattant that held her papers, a drop-front desk that had been in place when she arrived in London. Pulling open the second drawer, she felt along the back until her fingers closed around the small purse with a surge of triumph.
Drawing it out, she untied the cord and tipped the contents onto the desk. Two small brass-hooked picks, gifted by Madeline the previous month.
Her friend had used them in her efforts to help Simon uncover the true killer, and when Molly had heard how Madeline had picked the lock on Lady Blackwood’s desk, she had coaxed her to teach her the skill as well.
It had been nothing more than an idle diversion to fill her otherwise tedious days, but now it might hold the key to uncovering the devil at Marco’s heels.
Hurrying back downstairs, she slipped along the basement corridor and paused to listen at the servants’ hall.
She could hear MacNaby’s subtle brogue complaining about overcharges on a grocery account, confirming that 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 wood.
Each second stretched into eternity as she listened for the faint clicks, knowing MacNaby might appear at any moment or a footman or a maid.
Her palms grew damp with nerves as she forced herself to focus on the delicate task, nearly swooning with relief when she tested the handle and the door swung open.
Entering quickly, she shut the door behind her and crossed to the desk, but the book that had drawn her here was missing.
She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to think, and swung her head about to survey the room.
MacNaby must have stopped in here on his way back to the servants’ hall, suspecting that Molly had glimpsed what he was concealing within this territory reserved for the most senior of servants.
It was a wily precaution, a measure taken just in case, likely because he was not certain she had seen it at all.
Which meant he would not have had time to do anything more than move the book to a temporary hiding place, since he had been en route to conclude his meeting.
Crossing to the cabinets, she began opening them as swiftly as she dared while maintaining her silence, bending low to crane her neck and peer into their depths.
She found china platters and silver chargers.
One cabinet held tureens, but no book. Moving on, she discovered more platters and sauceboats, even vases intended for centerpieces, but still no book, not even tucked behind the larger pieces.
Turning to the drawers, she slid them open one by one, careful not to jostle their contents and betray herself with noise. There she found cutlery, ladles, and tea strainers, but no sign of the missing volume.
Molly muttered a curse beneath her breath, her thoughts racing. She had been in the pantry for several minutes already, and her margin for escape was narrowing with every heartbeat.
Then a flash of inspiration struck. She returned to the cabinet containing the tureens. Dropping onto her haunches, she paused to study them before reaching for the silver lid of the largest vessel. Lifting it, she blinked, restraining a cry of triumph.
Within its generous interior lay a leather-bound journal, its cover worked with ornate gold tooling and embossed with a thistle at its center.
“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 to emphasize his declaration.
“Three,” interjected Angelo from his position at the window, where he was peering out toward the garden with his arms folded, a posture that betrayed his concern.
“Three!” cried Lorenzo. “What is this?”