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“In the quiet drawing rooms of England, it is not always strangers who plot your end, but those who sit beside you, sharing your tea.”

Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner

DECEMBER 1, 1819

All things considered, when Molly awoke, it was the recollection of their kiss that was foremost in her mind, and Marco’s admonishment to keep away had receded in importance. Patience was in order, but the possibility of something developing between them was not out of the question.

She had no stratagems to spend any time with him, but she would think of something. They needed to talk more, learn about each other, if she was to develop her rapport with him. She could hardly expect to earn his undying esteem, and him to choose to remain here in England, if he had no inkling who she was as a person. They had barely conversed, yet that kiss had made her keenly aware that he truly saw her as a woman.

Miss Dubois had just finished fixing her hair, although Molly was musing that she had done these tasks herself in the past and would happily do so again if she could rid herself of her annoying companion. A knock on the door interrupted the increasing chafing of ignoring the critical prattle she was subjected to each morning, and Miss Dubois crossed to open it. Duncan, the head footman, was revealed, dropping a polite bow.

“The baron requests your presence in the study, Miss Carter.”

She nodded, collecting her shawl as a defense against the morning chill and stopping to pull on her gloves. Then, with Miss Dubois at her heels, she made her way to the lower level.

When she entered the study, she found Nicholas had taken up a seat, his injured leg propped up and the stack of Lady Blackwood’s journals beside him. The baron was seated at the walnut desk, his wispy gray hair a halo around his head, but she was pleased to note the pink in his cheeks. John was recovering since his slow poisoning had been uncovered by Lady Trafford, a skilled healer who had begun visiting on a regular basis to see to his health. Even Nicholas, despite his grumpiness, was filling out. No longer rake-thin, the young man was developing muscle.

“Molly! You look lovely this morning.”

She smiled, a hand coming up to check her hair. Relenting on her mourning period had lifted her spirits more than she had anticipated, and she was enjoying rediscovering her wardrobe from before her mother’s death.

“How are you this morning, John?”

The baron grinned. “Better than yesterday.”

She chuckled in response. It had become a running jest since his collapse, when Molly had been the only one trusted to take care of him. Back then, they had not known who had been behind the attempt to kill him off slowly with micro doses of arsenic. As Molly had joined the household a few months earlier, she was the only person in the house who had not been a suspect other than the baron himself. Those had been strenuous days, but they had developed a friendship from their time spent together.

John turned his attention to Miss Dubois. “I am afraid this is a private discussion, Miss Dubois. Would you mind observing from outside as you did before?”

The Frenchwoman sagged slightly, curtsying with a plaintive “Oui, milord” and departing the study through the terrace doors to take up her post.

Crossing the room, Molly took up a seat in one of the armchairs. “What are we about?”

John tilted his head toward Nicholas. “My brother has completed the reading of the journals.”

Nicholas grimaced, his lean face painted in disgust. “It was as unpleasant as Simon warned. My mother was not a well woman. Reading the details of her madness was horrible but edifying, and I have gained a great understanding of evil.”

Molly winced, recalling that Simon had said they were not suitable reading for an unmarried woman. Which would imply that poor Nicholas, and Simon, had had to sift through intimate indiscretions within the venomous writings.

Volunteering her services two days earlier had been done with severe reservations, but she possessed a sense of duty to the family who had endured so much. If she could have spared them, she would, but Simon had deemed it inappropriate. She supposed that as Isla’s offspring, they felt an obligation to shield others, not to mention to uphold as much privacy and dignity as they could under the circumstances.

John interjected, “We are waiting for Marco and Angelo to join us, so we might discuss the possibility of an accomplice.”

This information was more unsettling than she had anticipated. She desired Marco’s company, but she had yet to decide how to act when she next saw him. After months with no tangible plan for the future, she had glimpsed a possible path, and she wanted to consider it carefully, to understand what it might ask of her before she dared step forward.

Marco and Angelo were just completing their breakfast when the footman who had assisted them the day before to find the roof entered to inform them that the baron had requested they join him in the study. They headed down the hall, entering through the door one at a time. Marco came to an abrupt halt behind his brother, realizing Molly was there.

Guilt over his outburst last evening, as well as having overstepped with an innocent woman, had kept him up all night, so he was still feeling on edge. When he had fallen asleep, he had suffered a variety of disturbing and inappropriate dreams. Being crushed under a falling Romulus, as well as being flung by an overturned carriage. And then there were others, where warmth and nearness lingered with unwelcome persistence, accompanied by the faint trace of spice that unsettled him far more than any threat of bodily harm.

He knew he needed to make up for his poor behavior, but he was not ready to see her yet.

Angelo paused, noticing his hesitation in entering, and followed his gaze to where Molly was sitting. Looking back at Marco, his younger brother raised his brows in query, but Marco did not respond. Comprehension lit up Angelo’s face, and with great deliberation, he walked in to take the seat farthest from Molly.

Marco gritted his teeth at his brother’s manipulation and crossed into the room, dropping into the remaining armchair nearest the lady he was determined not to study too closely. He offered her a curt greeting.

Uncle John straightened at his desk. “I wish to remind everyone present to keep your voices low. Miss Dubois is observing from outside.” He bobbed his head in the direction of the windows, and Marco saw that the companion was leaning against the stone balustrade as she watched their gathering with a resentful expression.