Page 39

“Oh. And the journal?”

“Nicholas is reading it now. He confirms the missing years appear to be present.”

“That is good.”

“Molly … I wish to apologize and explain about earlier. Is there any chance of losing your companion so you might visit me in the study?”

She shook her head, a single silken curl loosening to brush her cheek, a sight that unsettled him far more than it ought. “Miss Dubois is quite displeased about this morning. She is watching me like a hawk today. See?”

Marco glanced back toward the breakfast room to find the fierce French poodle eyeing them with narrowed, reproachful eyes. Perhaps she resented the interruption to her meal. The woman did seem particularly devoted to her dining hours, if the drive to Elmstead was any indication.

“When may we speak?”

Molly’s lashes lowered, shading her eyes, and Marco wondered if she considered refusing him after his unjust rebuke. The irony of his request, that she slip away from her chaperon after he had just admonished her for doing so, could not have escaped her.

“This afternoon. She will leave me in my bedchamber to read while she sees to my”— Molly colored, and Marco realized what she had been about to say. The implication alone stirred an unwelcome heat through him, and he forced himself to breathe evenly as she finished—“laundry, so I may meet you in your drawing room.”

“That room suffered damage in the fire,” he replied, his voice roughened despite his efforts at restraint.

She nibbled at her lower lip in thought, and Marco had to summon every shred of discipline not to lean in and claim that tempting mouth. He resisted as fiercely as he had battled the flames only hours before, suspecting that exhaustion had loosened not only his temper, but his self-command as well.

“Then meet me in the formal drawing room at the top of the stairs. I will come in about two hours.”

“Grazie, Molly. I swear I shall be on my best behavior.”

She pulled a faint face at that, appearing almost disappointed as she returned to her breakfast, though Marco had no leisure to puzzle over it. The sound of Sebastian approaching from the servants’ staircase drew his attention at once, and he turned on his heel to learn whether MacNaby had been found.

“Did you find him?”

His Nordic friend shook his head. “I am afraid not.”

“Accidenti! I feared he might bolt!”

“Duncan tells me the butler may have stepped out on an errand,” Sebastian continued, “but he was surprised to find the butler’s pantry standing open, with signs of disarray. From the look of it, I believe MacNaby may have gathered some of his belongings and fled.”

“That would make sense.”

“I wonder how he knew we had discovered his involvement?” Sebastian pressed, clearly seeking an explanation, though there was no simple one to give him. Revealing the existence of the journal would only invite further questions.

“We shall need to speak with the baron about engaging someone to search for him,” Marco said at last. “I confess I do not know how such matters are typically handled in England.”

“I could call upon my brother and inquire whether he has resources,” Sebastian offered. “He seems familiar with”—he broke off, evidently at a loss for words to describe the strange circumstances of which he knew only fragments—“whatever is unfolding here.”

“Sì! The duke’s man who visited me in Florence mentioned Runners. Call upon His Grace. Perhaps he can assist us in hunting MacNaby down, so we may at last understand what this is about.”

“And what of the servants?” Sebastian asked. “Do we tell them anything?”

Marco rubbed at his temples, weighing the question. “I think not. We must proceed as though MacNaby has merely stepped out on business. If we alarm the household, one of the servants might frighten him away before we learn anything further.”

“Agreed,” Sebastian said. “Perhaps the duke can advise us on how best to proceed. This is well beyond my experience, whereas he has dealt with unusual legal matters on behalf of his wife’s brother, from what I understand.”

Molly was experiencing a mix of reactions to the morning’s events. On the one hand, they now had a suspect. On the other, much to her disappointment, the vexing Miss Dubois was not guilty of attempted murder. How convenient it would have been if she could finally have rid herself of the woman entirely. Alas, the evidence suggested Miss Dubois was innocent of any truly heinous crime.

“Ze servants, zey are slipping without Lady Blackwood to manage ze ’ouse.”

While Molly could agree that the late Lady Blackwood had ruled the household with an iron hand and exacting standards, she had found life here markedly more pleasant since the baroness had removed herself from this mortal coil.

“She was a gracious baronezz, who knew well ’ow a grand ’ouse’old should be kept. If she were ’ere, never would we ’ave such a terrible fire!”