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“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.

Duncan led them up a servants’ staircase. Ascending behind the tall footman, Marco noted the moment they reached the third floor, where his chambers were situated. He had been placed in the deceased baroness’s rooms, which were well appointed for a gentleman. He wondered whether the marks of their former female occupant had been removed, for the colors and furnishings were entirely suitable for his use.

The footman continued onward, climbing to the attic level and guiding them along a long corridor. One side appeared to house the servants’ quarters, while the other consisted of storage rooms. Duncan led them to the end of the passage, where he opened a window that overlooked the roof. Pointing outward, he indicated the walkways and ladders required to traverse the building safely. Leaning out, Marco observed stone-faced gods watching the surrounding neighborhood from their pedestals, interspersed along the low parapet that skirted the roofline. The roof itself was cluttered with chimneys sending smoke into the chilled sky, decorative turrets, and the domes of cupolas that admitted light to the floors below.

Marco inspected the window for any sign that might indicate deliberate access, but it was well used, and there was no reliable means of determining whether someone had passed through it within the past hour. Angelo waited without comment, though he could not help but be perplexed by this unusual errand.

Thanking the servant, the two brothers gingerly climbed through the window and made their way toward the side of the building where Romulus loomed. Reaching the towering statue, Marco examined the now-empty pedestal near the god’s feet where the urn had once stood. He then moved carefully to its twin, studying it for comparison.

Uncomfortable with heights, he took care not to glance over the parapet at the three-story drop below, to say nothing of the basement level, which was enough to make him feel faint merely to contemplate.

Angelo leaned forward to peer downward, his perplexity dissolving as understanding dawned.

“Were you below when it fell?”

Marco nodded. “It was a narrow escape.”

“Was it deliberate?”

Returning to the empty pedestal, Marco took his time before answering. “The urns are secured only by their weight, unlike the statue, which is both cemented and dowelled into the roof. If one were choosing a weapon, this would be the obvious one. And here, near the edge … you see the chipping? It suggests the urn was forced outward.”