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Nicholas, Angelo, Lord Sebastian, and Mr. di Bianchi disembarked from the other carriage to join them, Nicholas grousing openly that he required food without delay. At that moment, Marco approached and offered Molly his arm with courteous formality, and together, as a collected party, they made their way inside in search of the breakfast room.

The weather was cool but mild, and the farms surrounding the pleasing Elmstead reminded Marco of Tuscany, prompting him to consider what it might mean to be master of such lands.

Simon’s notes lingered in his thoughts, and looking to the east, he realized he was gazing upon the tenant farm of Mr. Wright and his wife, Mary. He found himself wondering what the future might hold for them, given that they had two young daughters. Would they seek to expand their family? Did Mr. Wright concern himself with the fate of the farm should there be no son to take up the labor in years to come, or would his daughters one day marry, their husbands assuming the work when age made it impossible for him to continue?

This title carried consequence for a great many people, and the weight of such responsibility pressed upon him with unfamiliar force. Marco loved his present occupation as bear leader to the wealthy sons of the aristocracy, for it allowed him to spend his days immersed in art and architecture. Florence was, in his estimation, the greatest city in the world, and he had once imagined walking its elegant streets until the end of his days.

But now, Simon’s notebook had opened a new world, one in which a conscientious lord might improve the lives of many through careful governance. The notion was unsettling, yet quietly intriguing. If undertaken with diligence, he could see how such stewardship might prove deeply satisfying, a life devoted to purpose rather than pleasure. As the future Lord Blackwood, he might safeguard the welfare of hundreds of servants and tenants, and the broader well-being of those who lived within his influence.

This visit to Elmstead placed him at a crossroads, contemplating two possible futures. In this respect, his uncle Simon had succeeded in offering a clarity Marco had not anticipated regarding the role now set before him.

Turning from the window, Marco lifted his gaze to the large oil paintings lining the picture gallery. Generations of Scotts looked back at him, and he was struck by the realization that his own father had once walked these halls. The thought created a gentle tether to the past, as he imagined his father as a boy, running through the corridors, perhaps scolded for excessive high spirits by stern tutors.

“It is very different from the London house,” he observed.

Sebastian was studying a pastoral landscape with keen interest. “This is a Turner. The signature is difficult to discern, but the manner is unmistakable. What do you think, Lorenzo?”

Lorenzo stepped forward, considering the tranquil river flowing beneath a stone bridge, framed by trees. His expression hardened, and he gestured with flagrant disdain.

“Bah … Turner. The Englishman who delights in landscapes and presumes to overturn the perfection of form, light, and composition established by the great masters of the Rebirth. What is this swirling, turbulent brushwork? These hazy, near-formless renderings of nature … it is chaos when set against the precision of Leonardo, the harmony of Raphael, or the grandeur of Michelangelo. His manipulation of light may intrigue, but where is the order, the proportion, the clarity that elevates art to the divine? His skies are dramatic, yes, but do they possess the serenity of a Botticelli horizon or the architectural balance of a Palladian scene? I think not.”

Angelo and Sebastian burst into incredulous laughter, Nicholas scowling with barely concealed irritation, while Molly and the baron exchanged bewildered glances at the spirited denunciation of one of England’s celebrated painters. Marco drew a hand across his mouth in startled disbelief, searching for a fitting response to such ornate arrogance.

Sebastian recovered first. “As you can hear, Lord Blackwood, Signor di Bianchi finds it challenging to express his opinions. We trust that exposing him to a broader range of influences during our travels may yet refine his judgment, so that he might one day have something to say to the world.”

Uncle John shook his head, chuckling at the facetious explanation of their guest’s rude assessment. “I believe that Signor di Bianchi suffers from an overabundance of opinions.”

Marco finally found his tongue in the face of such an unexpected onslaught. “I apologize for our priggish friend, Lord Blackwood. He grew up in rather rustic surroundings and has yet to learn how to conduct himself indoors.” As they were not all family present, he elected the formal address for his uncle.

At this, even Lorenzo chuckled, his expression wry as he reflected upon his vehement dissection of Turner’s talents. “I beg your pardon if I insulted your art, Lord Blackwood. My friends will attest that I am … ardent where my cultural history is concerned, and I allowed myself to forget my manners.”

To his credit, the baron merely shrugged, his amusement evident. “It was certainly diverting. Perhaps when we return to London, you might censure my collection there. It would enliven an otherwise dull afternoon to hear such spirited opinions from one so well versed in Renaissance art.”

Molly laughed softly at this. “A Grand Tour conducted entirely within our galleries. I think it a most excellent notion, Lord Blackwood.”

After that, they visited the garden, the noon sun having warmed the day sufficiently for a stroll. Molly and Miss Dubois accompanied Marco toward the maze at the far end of the grounds. It was formed of evergreen yew hedges, though the oaks, elms, and chestnuts beyond had shed their leaves, which lay brown and russet upon the ground. The fallen foliage rustled beneath their steps as they entered the opening of the living puzzle, but within a few yards Miss Dubois halted abruptly, her expression stricken.

“I do not like zis. Ze walls are too close, and I feel … confined.”

Molly frowned, having told Marco she wished to show him the fountain at the center of the maze. “They are not so close. No closer than the servants’ corridors in the attic at home.”

“But zere are insects, and creeping, crawling zings. Ze baronezz never made me do such trials.” The chaperon shuddered.

Molly’s irritation was unmistakable when she replied, her tone calm but immovable, and Marco admired the quiet authority beneath her words. “I intend to go on to the center. You may accompany me, or you may wait here.”

Miss Dubois cast a wary look down one path, then turned decisively back toward the exit. “I … eh … I shall remain ’ere. Do not be long!”

Even with her bonnet shading her face, Marco did not miss the brief, restrained satisfaction that crossed Molly’s features as the servant retreated to stand just outside the maze. His lips curved faintly, recognizing the small victory. The life of an unmarried Englishwoman was narrow in its allowances, yet Molly resisted such confines whenever she might, possessed of a spirit more independent than her manner suggested.

“Shall we?”

She took his arm, and he felt the awareness of her at once, subtle but unmistakable. The familiar hint of cinnamon followed, stirring an unwelcome response he did his best to master. He had resolved to maintain distance while he reckoned with the uncertainty of his future, one he had long believed settled, but temptation had a way of presenting itself when least convenient.

Despite her arm resting lightly upon his, he soon found himself being drawn along at a brisk pace. Molly consulted the paper she carried, upon which the baron had written directions to the maze’s center.

“Why are you in such haste?” Marco asked at last, after being guided around yet another turn.

Molly colored. “The sooner we reach the middle, the longer we may remain there.”