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8

“In the great houses of England, secrets do not hide in the shadows. They are folded into linens, tucked into books, and whispered behind locked doors.”

Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner

“How do we search for the missing journal?” Angelo asked when they entered the library, which they tended to gravitate toward, having some of their things stacked on a table.

Marco sighed heavily. “I suppose … we … Honestly … I do not know.”

His brother nodded. “We could begin on this floor. Search all the public rooms, starting here in the library. Then we will tackle one floor at a time.”

“What of private rooms? Or servants’ quarters? Or the butler’s pantry or kitchen cupboards? How do we explain what we are doing to the staff in the kitchen?” Marco was genuinely interested in hearing what his bright and optimistic brother would come up with.

Bemused, Angelo paced up and down in deep thought, until he spun on his heel to face Marco. “I do not know. If we begin with this floor, we will rule it out. Along the way, as we gain some experience in searching, we will calculate the next step and then the next, until eventually, we will finish the search.”

Marco groaned. It sounded like a tiresome task that might take the better part of the week in a house of this size filled with decades of accrued furnishings, books, objets d’art, and a thousand other nameless things. “We should get started.”

Heading to the end of the room, they each tackled a different stack, dropping down on their haunches to peer at the lowest shelves. Marco ran a fingertip over the spines of the books to help him focus as he sought a book the same size and binding as those Nicholas had in his possession. Perhaps Molly’s search would fare well, and she would unmask Miss Dubois as Lady Blackwood’s accomplice. One could hope, after all.

After ten or more minutes, his thoughts were turning decidedly maudlin with such a repetitive task as he began a new set of shelving. Embarking on this journey had set him on a path of danger, and he felt a twinge of nostalgia for the simplicity of life in Florence.

Angelo interrupted the pangs of homesickness with an unwanted question. “You hold Molly in some esteem?”

The sudden shift of subject pushed him out of kilter, not being prepared to discuss what had happened. “Molly is … courageous. Of course I hold her in my esteem.”

His brother snorted a half-laugh. “It is plain that you find her”—Angelo paused, searching for the English word—“comely.”

“What would you know of that?”

“I saw how you were looking at her when we entered the baron’s study. It has been a long time since I have seen that expression.”

Marco stopped, turning to scowl at his brother in irritation. “What expression?”

Angelo paused, cocking his head as if he was working something out. “A mixture of yearning and regret. It is how you looked when you were tutoring Mr. Dashwood and his sister. Before she …” He did not complete the sentence, grimacing his own regret for mentioning it.

“Before she died.” There was no point in skirting around the truth. Even now, the sense of loss echoed in the region of his heart, but perhaps the distance from Florence was helping because it was not as sharp as it had been.

“Molly might heal your heart?” Angelo asked, his face hopeful.

Marco turned away to continue his search. “That is ridiculous. We must see to my duties here and then return to our home in Florence.”

Despite his rejection, the desire to spend more time with the young lady was compelling. She had—what was the Scottish word Sebastian had explained to him during their long voyage?—gumption. Molly had gumption, along with a presence that drew the eye and lingered in the mind. The memory of her nearness returned to trouble him, as did the scent of cinnamon that had been present in the spiced tea they had drunk during the meeting in the study. He resolutely pushed the thoughts aside to continue the tedious task of checking the shelves.

A change of subject was in order, Marco decided, recalling their conversation on the roof just yesterday. “Have you learned anything about what brings Sebastian and Lorenzo to London with us?”

Angelo chuckled. “You are changing the subject.”

“What of it?”

His brother relented as he continued his perusal of his shelf. “I overheard them discussing that the lady whom Lorenzo wishes Sebastian to visit is still in London, despite the lateness of the Season, and has not left for the country.”

“Lady? As in a noblewoman?”

“I believe so. Sebastian said he will call on her when he is ready, but his reasoning sounded like a polite evasion, intended to delay. His reluctance is frustrating to our Italian friend.”

Marco burst out laughing. “Delay Lorenzo? Does he not know better?”

Angelo grinned, continuing his task with great earnestness. “They have an unusual partnership, but it works somehow. Sebastian is good-humored, while Lorenzo is more exacting by nature. Between the two of them, they sell a great deal of art. I suspect our friends are far wealthier than we know because neither of them spends much coin. I heard from a customer that they sold a sizable collection to a comte for several thousand pounds just before we left Florence.”