Chapter 15
“It is a bitter fate when a man discovers too late that love is his strongest armor and his deepest wound.”
Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner
Creeping dread was making her hands and feet both numb and tingly as the wagon passed through the gates of Elmstead.
Her earlier fears had been realized. Just outside of Edgware, MacNaby had directed her to bring their vehicle to a stop within a copse of trees and ordered her to remove her shoes and stockings.
That in itself had caused a surge of panic, but it had turned out he had merely wanted them to tie her wrists and ankles so he could send a message back to London.
She had lain in the bed of the empty wagon, a tarp beneath her shivering body, and stared up at the sky without seeing a thing.
Lost in her thoughts, she had begun to contemplate the worst outcomes.
She could be killed!
Her chest rose sharply as if she had lost her breath, thinking what it would feel like to have a musket ball pierce her chest or head. Would she die immediately or slowly in abject pain?
After about five minutes of panic, she had realized there was an alternative outcome. What if she survived unscathed, but Marco was killed in her stead?
Despite her will to remain composed, tears had eked out the corners of her eyes to run down her cheeks, the icy weather affixing them painfully to her skin rubbed raw by the incessant and brisk breeze.
How would she live with herself if she were the cause of his death?
Why had she sent Claudette Dubois away?
Did she wish for Marco to arrive to rescue her, or would she rather he remained safely in London to leave her to her fate?
Sheer relief had made her head giddy when MacNaby had returned to untie her and instructed her to drive them to Elmstead. At least she had some measure of control back with the freedom of her limbs restored.
As they drove between the archway of elms, Molly pressed her lips together against the cold and flinched when the wind gusted sharply against her face. Teeth chattering, her skirts offered little protection against the elements that swept beneath them, she tried to think what to do.
Considering the possibility of Marco’s arrival to rescue her made her fairly lose her mind at the thought of him lying dead on the floor while she sobbed and lamented her role in his demise.
The thought of his handsome face stilled by the pallor of death, innocent of any wrongdoing other than a happenstance of birth, was nauseating.
She supposed, as a member of the weaker sex, she should accept her role in this terrible comedy of a tragedy.
But she could not bring herself to act the damsel in distress.
She would have to risk the ire of her captor because failing to act, failing to prevent Marco from being harmed because of the deluded phantasies of a dead woman, was too awful to consider.
She would have to risk debating with the butler. If the words of great orators could echo through the millennia, surely she could convince one misguided man to abandon his murderous quest, especially when the originator of that quest was no longer in this world to urge him on.
If she failed, if he hurt or killed her, she would enter through the gates of midnight with her honor yet intact.
Molly brought the wagon to a halt in front of the manor, which loomed eerily in the silence, framed by the iron gray of twilight.
It had seemed so inviting on their last visit, but now, under these grim circumstances, it leered with a menacing air in the half light, its darkened windows like the gap-toothed smile of a cackling hag.
There was a caretaker when the manor was closed up, but it was an old man who could not help her, even if he was somewhere inside. Molly could count on no one other than herself.
Fortifying her courage, she inhaled deeply to steel her nerves. “You have hurt no one yet, Mr. MacNaby. It is not too late to repudiate Lady Blackwood’s request.”
The butler growled in outrage, turning an angry face to glare at her with madness lurking in his eyes. “You know nothing of what you speak! If you do not hold your tongue, Miss Carter, I shall bind your hands and gag you to force some quiet!”
Was there a special place reserved in hell for him? He who had allowed the vibrant Molly to be left defenseless? Would his departed father be disappointed in him to learn of his failure if he were to visit from the afterlife?
A lurch of the carriage brought Marco back to the moment as he stared out at the gathering darkness, and he slipped his fingers into his pocket to press against the gold watch.
His thoughts returned to how his father had been disowned by his grandfather because of his father’s desire to wed his mother.
How Peter Scott had left everything he knew, everyone he knew, to return to Italy with Mamma.
How he had married her, given up his life in England, to do right by her.
In comparison, Marco had weakly vacillated between returning to Florence and committing to the Blackwood title.
His final conversation with Molly in the formal drawing room had been to inform her that she should not get her hopes up.
Now she was a hostage at Elmstead. She might die at the hands of a madman, a madman who had taken her as bait for Marco, and she would believe she died in place of a man who had not held her in sufficient esteem to make her his wife.
The very concept made his gut coil and writhe in protest, but what did his regrets matter when it was Molly whose life was in the balance? He would pass forever into Dante’s City of Woe if he were to fail her now.
Was she terrified? Did she know he would come for her? Did she blame him for putting her in harm’s way? These were all questions that plagued his thoughts because he had too much time to think, and they could do nothing effective until they reached the manor.
“Molly ha grande coraggio.” Angelo’s voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts.
Marco scowled, barking back before he could stop himself, “She should not require great courage. She plays no part in this.”
“Starà bene quando la raggiungeremo.”
“Dear Lord, I hope so! If she is harmed because of me …” Marco stopped, too overcome by rage and fear to complete the sentence.
Sebastian stirred from his bench, moving his gaze from the window to regard Marco with sympathetic gray eyes. “It is not your fault, my friend.” Then he frowned. “At least, I do not think it is your fault? I confess I have a thin understanding of what is happening here.”
Lorenzo snorted, muttering a curse beneath his breath. “I have no understanding what is happening here.” He glanced at Marco. “But if you need us to fend off a maniacal butler, we are here for you.”
Marco nodded in appreciation. He might yet be a stranger to England, but it had been a wise choice to travel with family and friends at his side.
Even if he succeeded in distracting MacNaby, he might not be able to save Molly in the aftermath.
It was going to take working together to secure her safety.
They lapsed back into silence, the night arriving so that all he could see were the hedgerows racing by in the glow of the carriage lamps, and he could not help but feel he was Dante entering hell itself.
He half expected to pass through its gates, to read the inscription “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
The sound of the carriage wheels rumbling through the night was loud in his ears, or else he was certain he would have heard the laments and wails of fellow tortured souls who had neglected their duty.
He had allowed a woman as compassionate as Molly, a woman full of life, to be caught by a criminal.
Even if they succeeded, what if MacNaby had hurt her?
Or … His stomach lurched, and he closed his thoughts off.
He had already entered hell. There was no reason to descend further into its fiery pits.
Fortunately, the carriage drew to a halt, and Duncan appeared at the window to open the door and lower the steps.
“We are close, sir. The lane to the manor is beyond this copse of trees.”
Marco inclined his head and moved down the narrow road, fixing his attention on the direction of their progress.
His sight required several moments to adjust to the depth of night, but soon, the distant curve of the elm arch revealed itself against the glittering sky, the moon alone distinguishing earth from heaven in a wash of pale silver.
The sighing of the wind through the branches and the distant call of an owl in pursuit of its prey were the only witnesses to the vast, waiting stillness.
Angelo stepped to his side, his presence steady and familiar.
“The darkness will serve us well.”
Sebastian joined them, his gaze trained upon the same shadowed horizon. “An auspicious night for the capture of a villain.”
Lorenzo arrived last, flexing his hands with grim anticipation. “A sound beating would not be amiss.”
Marco reminded himself that he was not alone, despite his foreign footing upon this shore. “England is turning out to be rather unpleasant ,” he remarked at last.
Angelo regarded him thoughtfully. “I should argue we are embarked upon a worthy venture with loyal companions beside us and a lady of rare courage awaiting deliverance. It may not be the path you anticipated, but it is the one Providence has laid before you. A life untested by risk is scarcely a life at all.”
Lorenzo gave a decisive nod. “Well said. I cannot claim great familiarity with Miss Carter, yet I sense that a remarkable reward lies at the end of this undertaking.”
“If I live to see its end,” Marco murmured. “Angelo, I must have your word … if I am … unable … to assist Molly myself, you shall safeguard her future.”
Angelo hesitated, his brow furrowing in contemplation. “Then allow me to take your place. Cloaked and hatted, I might approach the house unremarked. MacNaby would not discern the difference.”
“No,” Marco replied without hesitation. “This burden is mine.”
“But you are the heir … and you and Molly deserve a shared tomorrow.”
“And if I lose you both in one night?” Marco countered quietly. “I could not bear such a reckoning. This duty rests with me alone.”
“But what if he fires upon you the instant you appear?” Angelo pressed. “How shall I answer for that?”
Marco placed a steadying hand upon his brother’s shoulder. “Then you will succeed me, and you will ensure Molly’s welfare, knowing I did not shrink from the cost of her safety.”
After further exchange, Angelo yielded. It was settled that Angelo, Lorenzo, and Sebastian would advance from the rear of the manor, while Marco would present himself at the front. They dismissed the notion of involving Duncan, unwilling to place him in mortal peril.
“Sir …” Duncan spoke from the shadows, having approached unheard. “I do not presume to understand the matter, but if Miss Carter stands in danger, I wish to lend my aid.”
“I cannot ask that of you,” Marco replied.
“You haven’t, sir,” Duncan said evenly. “I offer it of my own will. I am no stranger to rough work.”
Marco studied him in the dim light. The Scotsman was tall, broad of shoulder, and muscular, the perfect footman favored by the upper classes to display their wealth. “If you are resolved? I cannot provide details, only that MacNaby has seized Miss Carter, and she must be recovered at any cost.”
Duncan inclined his head. “Miss Carter is a lady of worth. Whatever MacNaby intends, I will see it answered.”
Sebastian gestured subtly. “As footman, Duncan knows the house better than any of us.”
Marco assented, and Sebastian drew a dagger from his coat, passing it over. “Here you go, friend. Does MacNaby have access to arms or powder within the house?”
“He does.”
“And where might we acquire the same?”
Duncan pointed beyond the lane. “The gamekeeper’s cottage lies close by.”
Lorenzo let out a short laugh. “Far preferable to daggers and clubs. Why did we not consult him sooner?”
“Because this is my first such endeavor,” Marco admitted. “Leave the carriage with the coachman.”
Sebastian gestured to the tethered horse. “Take your mount. We proceed on foot.”
Within the half hour, they had secured rifles, and the gamekeeper joined their number.
Marco rode ahead alone, comforted that others would shield Molly should he fall.
At Elmstead’s front garden he dismounted, watching the darkened facade.
The gelding snickered into the quiet, perhaps Marco’s state of tension communicating to the beast as he watched the house with a pounding heart.
Within those walls stood a murderer … and Molly.
Visions of his nightmare, when he found Molly smudged and burning in hell, plagued him every time he blinked.
He wished he could run up to the house right now, and thump the door with all his pent-up anger, but instead he had to wait.
Pulling out his timepiece, he squinted in the dark, angling it to catch the light of the moon and check the time to discover he still had ten minutes to wait.
He turned back to the house, noting that one of the windows was lit. That must be where MacNaby was holding her captive. Perhaps he had the caretaker held there, too, whose presence Duncan had informed them of.
He mastered his restlessness. Any misstep would undo them.
He forced his thoughts elsewhere. His arrival in England, the truths laid bare, the duties now claiming him. He would endure every upheaval if it preserved Molly’s life. The moments crept by until resolve hardened into action.
He loaded the pistol with careful hands. The plan was imperfect. He relied upon chance and MacNaby’s arrogance to gain entry.
Leading the horse through the garden, he ensured the illusion of solitude.
At the drive, he secured the reins, drew a steadying breath, and concealed the weapon within his coat. Gravel rasped beneath his boots as he advanced, trusting that his companions even now prepared to intervene.
At the threshold, Marco paused, every thought fixed upon Molly. He lifted the brass knocker and struck, sending its echo through the house, announcing himself as agreed.