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Mamma shifted in her armchair, her long fingers smoothing the silk of her skirts. Marco’s stomach sank. The measured gesture was a sure sign she had thoughts to share, and they would likely be aired once they were alone together.

Meanwhile, Mr. Long adjusted his cravat, a pristine white linen tied in a simple, practical knot that suited his reserved demeanor. His hesitation drew Marco’s attention once more.

“I must admit, Mr. Scott,” Long began, his voice carefully composed, “despite my storied career, I have never delivered news quite like this. Your claim to the title … it brings with it a far more pressing concern. You see, the duke’s father-in-law, Lord Filminster, was murdered … to conceal your existence.”

The room froze as the words hung in the air.

Mamma gasped audibly, her hands clenching over her knees.

Marco’s brows rushed together into a perplexed scowl as he cocked his head in question. “Scusa … Perhaps my English is not as good as I believed⁠—”

“You heard correctly,” Mr. Long interrupted, shaking his head. His tone was low but steady. “Lord Josiah Ridley intended to notify the Home Office that you were the rightful heir. He was killed to prevent him from sending the letter.”

Slowly, Marco turned to his mother.

She was leaning forward now, her expression anguished. “Josiah Ridley … He is dead?” Her dark eyes glistened with sadness as she questioned their visitor, her voice strained by emotion.

“Who is Filminster, Mamma?”

She licked her lips, her poise intact even as her distress showed in the faint crease of her brow. To Marco, she was the very image of Florentine grace and sophistication, despite the turmoil that swirled around them. She turned to face him. “He was a friend of your father’s. They attended Oxford together and corresponded often, until your father … became ill. His letter of … cordoglio?”

“Condolence,” Marco supplied without hesitation.

His mother gave a small grateful nod. “Yes, his letter of condolence was very kind.”

Marco clenched his jaw, willing the conversation to end. This news was an unnecessary burden for his mother, a wound reopened after decades of healing. And as for him, he had no desire to dig into the English roots that had brought him nothing but pain and frustration in the years since, nor to unearth loyalties long buried and better left so.

Rising abruptly to his feet, his patience at an end, Marco towered over their visitor, and his tone turned sharp. “What has any of … this … to do with us? These are British affairs for British people. You may inform your employers that we have been made aware.”

Mr. Long did not flinch under Marco’s pointed words. Instead, he remained seated, his calm demeanor unchanged as he responded, “The duke would very much appreciate your assistance in bringing the killer to justice. His Grace is prepared to pay for your travel arrangements. You should know that the duchess is distraught over her father’s murder, and the duke … he has dedicated himself to helping others, particularly those with complicated origins such as your own.”

Marco’s scowl deepened.

“Setting aside His Grace’s wishes,” Long continued, his tone softening, “would you not like to visit your ancestral home? To see the places where your father grew up, to learn more about his life, and to better understand the noble line you are descended from?”

Marco’s gut twisted as Mr. Long deftly spoke to the buried desires of his youth. The man from England was clever, his arguments calculated to strike where Marco was most vulnerable. Those long-held dreams, the ones that had brought nothing but heartbreak, stirred within him, raw and unbidden. Years ago, he had tried to bridge the chasm to his English roots, and the bitter failure had left scars he had learned to hide. Now, this conversation scraped at the veneer of happiness he had painstakingly constructed, unleashing memories that left him unsteady with their force.

His mother must have noticed the shift in his mood. “Mr. Long,” she interjected gently, her tone measured and polite, “my sons and I need time to discuss this. Perhaps you can return tomorrow, once we have had time to … digerire?”

“Digest,” Marco responded.

“Yes, once we have had time to digest.”

Marco exhaled deeply, relief flooding him despite his certainty that the reprieve was only temporary.

When Mr. Long finally departed, Marco remained in the drawing room with his mother and Angelo. He had expected it … dreaded it, even … and sure enough, Mamma wasted no time broaching the topic he most wished to avoid.

She cleared her throat softly, switching to English, a family tradition, one she insisted upon to honor the memory of Marco’s late father. “It is because of her, is it not? The girl who … died?”

Marco swallowed hard and rose from his seat, crossing the room to stand by the window overlooking the courtyard. The scene beyond was tranquil. Potted plants were neatly arranged around a graceful fountain featuring Eros as a boy poised with an outstretched bow and arrow. Yet Marco’s gaze fixed upon nothing before him, his thoughts drawn instead to a distant memory weighted with innocence lost.

It had been years ago when he first met the Dashwoods. Their visit to Florence had a dual purpose, to introduce their young son to the wonders of the city’s art and architecture and to seek a warmer climate with renowned therapies for their ailing daughter, Catherine Dashwood. A fragile English rose, Catherine had frozen Marco in place the moment he saw her. She was so delicate, so achingly beautiful, so unlike the spirited Italian girls who surrounded him. She seemed otherworldly, an intrusion of quiet grace into his familiar world.

Englishmen often visited Florence during their Grand Tour, but unwed Englishwomen were rare indeed, and Catherine’s arrival had changed everything for Marco.

The Dashwoods had sought treatment at his family’s business, the renowned Antica Spezieria di San Lorenzo. After exhausting every option in London, they turned to the pharmacy’s traditional remedies, prescribed by Catherine’s Florentine doctor. Marco’s grandfather, learning that the Dashwood boy required a tutor, had offered Marco’s services. It had been his first work outside the pharmacy, a thrilling new responsibility. Catherine, despite her frailty, had often accompanied their outings. Together, they visited the Uffizi Gallery and Pitti Palace, where Marco had introduced them to the masterpieces housed within those hallowed halls.

Marco had always been captivated by all things English, a fascination born of the father he never had the chance to know, who had died shortly after Marco’s birth. But no curiosity about his heritage had ever matched his intrigue with Catherine Dashwood. With her flaxen hair, delicately sculpted features, and striking blue eyes, Catherine embodied what he imagined a British lady to be—graceful, demure, and heartbreakingly vulnerable. Yet beneath that fragility lay a quiet strength, a composure that soothed his exuberant Latin spirit and drew his thoughts, unbidden, toward the land of his father’s birth.