Page 16

“But, Sebastian, we must secure the painting. It is essential to our cause.”

“I am well aware, but it must wait for another day.”

“Pig misery! You always have excuses! What is it about this woman that makes you such a craven?”

Molly recognized the curse. Her mother had loved music and opera, but she had also possessed a wicked sense of humor and kept a copy of The Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, so Molly had enjoyed a remarkably well-rounded education. The thought instigated a sharp pang of longing for her irreverent parent. It had been just the two of them since her father had died a decade earlier, and it was still a strange adjustment to recall that Mama had been buried months earlier. She shook it off, for she was weary of dwelling in gloom. Two deaths and two near-deaths within this household over the past few weeks had done nothing to improve her spirits, so she resolved to pursue her newfound interest even if it could not lead to anything lasting. There was no reason not to savor Marco’s presence while she could. Other than befriending Madeline, his compelling appearance was the only happiness she had truly known this year.

“Mind yourself!”

The last was growled in a menacing tone, and nothing was said for several seconds until, finally …

“My apologies.”

Molly took this as her signal, silently backtracking a few feet before bringing her slippers down hard on the wooden floorboards to announce her approach before she entered the breakfast room. As she suspected, the only guests it contained were the Norse brother of the Duke of Halmesbury and his artist friend, both of whom were finishing their meals with earnest intent while two footmen stood at attention by the sideboard where the breakfast platters were laid out. The servants’ presence explained why the men had been speaking in Italian. It had been for privacy, she supposed.

“Good morning, Lord Sebastian. Signor di Bianchi!” she exclaimed with good cheer, despite her disappointment that Marco was nowhere to be seen. She was soon settled in her seat to eat her eggs and ham when Miss Dubois rushed in with a nervous expression and Molly’s gloves clasped in her hand.

Molly ate in silence with Miss Dubois, the two men departing soon after she had seated herself, and wondered what to do next. Thankfully, she had arranged more than one delay for her intrepid chaperon, but perhaps she ought to ensure she located the elusive Italian before she played her next card. It had been a novice mistake to send for the gloves too early, and the gambit was now wasted.

Eating her meal in haste, with a grumbling Miss Dubois complaining that she had not finished her tea, Molly pulled on her gloves and began searching the rooms before finally finding Marco in the library. Nicholas was seated in a wingback chair near a window with his injured leg propped upon an ottoman and a stack of expensive journals arranged on an end table. He was reading with evident distaste from one of the thick, leather-covered tomes, tooled in ornate gold patterns along the spines and borders, a detailed thistle embossed upon the front cover. Isla Scott’s journals might well have been custom-made, judging by their lavish presentation.

Ignoring him, Molly focused on Marco, who was seated near a library table reading what appeared to be account books, far simpler and more businesslike than Nicholas’s collection. He was dressed in buckskins that hugged his lean, muscular legs with disquieting perfection. His black coat and snowy white linen threw his sooty hair, olive skin, and soulful eyes into elegant relief, while his black riding boots gleamed in the morning light. She had heard of the craftsmanship of Florentine tailors, and Marco’s appearance was ample proof of their skill.

“Good morning, Marco,” she chirped in a voice that was rather more breathy than she had intended. Miss Dubois shot her a look, but Molly ignored it. During her meeting with him and Simon the day before, she had solicited an agreement to use their given names. She had reasoned, with Simon as witness, that they were of a similar age and shared a familial connection.

It was a shameless ploy, for she had earlier argued that they were not related by blood. Was she playing both sides? Indubitably. Had Marco appeared perplexed, still uncertain how they were connected beyond his role as her trustee? Unquestionably. Had Molly wished to hear her name spoken in his deep, accented voice? Without a doubt.

“Buongiorno, Molly.” He rose to make a small bow, and Molly blinked in a shiver of delight to hear her name shaped by his accent, while doing her utmost not to blush like a chit in short skirts, as she had done yesterday on more than one occasion. A measure of experience in courtship would have served her well just now. For a woman of her years, she possessed a surprising ignorance of flirtation.

Behind her, the butler entered with a tea tray. MacNaby carried it to where Nicholas was seated, placing it upon a nearby table and politely gaining his attention. The household was a little short-staffed, what with the longtime footman, Roderick, having fallen to his death upon news of the baroness’s suicide the month before. She grimaced at the memory, quickly turning back to pose her question to Marco.

“I was hoping to show you the gardens this morning. They are most impressive, even at this time of the year.”

Marco hesitated before giving a nod. “That sounds delightful.” He turned to pick up his gloves from the table.

Molly felt a small thrill of triumph, almost rising on her toes with glee. She had not seen him since the afternoon before. Everyone had settled on retiring early to their rooms, and dinner had been brought on trays to their respective bedchambers.

Molly had shared supper with the baron in his private drawing room, something of a habit since his collapse the prior month, except this time Miss Dubois had been there as well. With Lady Blackwood deceased, Simon away in Scotland for several weeks touring his inherited estates, and Nicholas sunk into the perpetual grump of recovery from his days of hard drinking and carousing, it had become a pleasant evening ritual for her and John as they grew to know one another better by sharing stories about her aunt, who had been his first stepmother, and her own mother.

Last night, however, it had frustrated her beyond measure that there had been no communal supper so that she might partake in Marco’s company, and so she had devised a plan to secure his attention this morning. Simon and Madeline had spent the evening preparing for their departure, while their guests from Italy had been disinclined to socialize after their long journey and the carriage accident.

She smiled, gesturing toward a terrace door. As they reached it together, Molly turned with a contrived gasp to stare at Miss Dubois in consternation. “Oh my, I have quite forgotten my bonnet!”

The poodle scowled before clearly recollecting the late baroness’s admonitions regarding the ruinous effects of emotion upon one’s youthful appearance. Molly could nearly pluck the thought from her companion’s mind as she smoothed her features into placid composure. “You must wait ’ere!”

Marco lifted his dark brows at the impertinent tone, but refrained from comment as Miss Dubois spun on her heel and hurried away. Molly watched her departure from the library on the heels of MacNaby’s exit with quiet satisfaction. Every bonnet had been removed during the night and relocated to a closet beneath the stairs where cloaks were kept, not the cloaks in present use but those long stored away and rarely required. It would take some time for her pestilent chaperon to locate even one. To ensure it, Molly had removed the bonnets belonging to the deceased baroness as well. Even if Miss Dubois abandoned the search and returned, it ought to purchase a good half hour, provided Molly was judicious in her route through the gardens. The servant would expect her to proceed directly to the shared garden, the jewel of the twin estates, and so Molly intended to take a different path and prolong her time alone with the gentleman who had so thoroughly captured her interest.

Glancing toward Nicholas, she confirmed that he remained absorbed in his reading before turning back to offer a bright smile to the man waiting by the terrace doors.

“Shall we?”

He assented, opening the door and stepping aside to allow her to pass, and Molly found his courtesy encouraging.

Outside, he offered her his arm, and with careful composure, she accepted it. He was solid and steady beside her, and Molly was obliged to remind herself to breathe evenly as they descended the steps together. He carried the clean scent of shaving soap and fresh linen, and the awareness of his nearness stirred something unnamed but keen within her. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, schooling herself to restraint as they made their way toward the garden, where she discovered that the weather had softened overnight.

Instead of leading him through the back garden toward the walled sanctuary, though she dearly wished she could take him there, she guided him to the left and around the corner of the manor. It was the least interesting portion of the grounds, consisting mostly of a line of hedges along the property boundary and a narrow stretch of lawn, and Molly searched the attics of her mind for a compelling justification for the route she had chosen.

Peering up, she considered the ivy creeping up the side of the building, but the singular thought that presented itself was to point out that the footman, Roderick, had plummeted to his death from the baroness’s private sitting room on the third floor. That was hardly a subject to enhance the romantic tenor of their walk, so she continued onward in silence, searching for something … anything … else to show him.