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Molly bit back her response, though she could not prevent the thought from forming clearly in her mind.

But Lady Blackwood, and her dark designs, are the very reason we nearly lost the house, you dreadful woman.

“Zis shows great incompétence from ze servants, all because milady ees not ’ere to keep ze discipline.”

In Claudette Dubois’s version of events, which Molly could at least accept as sincerely held, the household had suffered an unfortunate accident rather than a calculated act of sabotage. Yet if that were so, Lady Blackwood herself had hired these allegedly incompetent servants. Did that not place the fault squarely at the baroness’s door? The poodle’s rambling assertions were both illogical and absurd.

“What would she say of ’er bedchamber being ruined? All ’er beauteeful things!”

Molly suspected Isla Scott would indeed have been furious with MacNaby, but not for the reasons Miss Dubois imagined. More likely because he had failed in his dreadful purpose. If anything further were required to expose the late baroness’s true nature, it was the fact that she had endured Miss Dubois’s corrosive companionship for so long.

Molly glanced at her timepiece and noted that Miss Dubois’s departure drew near. It was best to hold her tongue so as not to delay the removal of her most unwelcome watchdog, particularly as she had an anticipated meeting with Marco to occupy her thoughts.

At first, after his rebuke, Molly had been deeply wounded. But reflection had softened the sting. He had looked pale and worn, as though the weight of his circumstances pressed upon him without mercy. The poor man was wrestling with decisions that would alter the course of his life while narrowly escaping death at every turn. It was worrisome enough to reside in a house shadowed by such peril. She could scarcely imagine the burden of being its intended victim. Molly, at least, was merely collateral to the danger.

“Milady would be gravely disappointed to see what ’as ’appened in ’er absence.”

Molly frowned at the relentless prattle, her irritation mounting. Were the dreadful milady present, after all the evils committed, Molly would be disappointed as well.

But she forced her thoughts back to her own affairs. If she could not secure a match with Marco, perhaps she might ask Simon once more to join his household next door. It would be an imposition, but she suspected Madeline might be persuaded to help her find a position at the stone manufactory.

She would be surrendering her place in polite society, but what, truly, would she be giving up? That of a gently bred young woman tethered to an embittered paid companion? Was such a sacrifice truly so great?

I would not need a chaperon if I were to marry Marco.

She crushed the errant thought at once. It would not do to indulge such hopes. She intended to continue her efforts to bring him up to scratch, but she must also accept the possibility of failure.

“Is it not time to see to my delicates?” The question was pure manipulation, meant to hurry Miss Dubois out, and Molly did not care in the least. She had reached her limit, for now, at least.

Miss Dubois consulted her own timepiece and complained anew about being tasked with the duties of both paid companion and lady’s maid. Molly paid her no mind, knowing Simon had committed to generous wages to secure the woman’s services. Perhaps she should have insisted upon joining the household next door, but when she had raised the matter, Simon had reminded her that she would lose standing in society if she resided among tradeswomen. Despite the impressive success of Madeline’s family, Molly was still ranked above them, despite her lack of accomplishments. Or was it precisely because of that lack?

Great relief followed the click of the lock as Miss Dubois finally departed with a basket of Molly’s delicates. Molly sprang to her feet and crossed to the looking glass, adjusting her hair before hurrying into the hall. After a quick glance for servants, she descended the stairs to the next floor and crossed into the formal drawing room.

The chamber was designed to impress. This level boasted the highest ceilings, with sweeping windows and luxurious drapes falling in elegant cascades. Above, painted frescoes invited lingering study, their intricate details and historical symbolism enough to occupy any lover of art for hours. A richly colored rug anchored the space, while elegant settees and armchairs beckoned one to sit and partake of tea. Exquisite paintings adorned the walls, yet Molly noticed none of it. Her gaze went straight to Marco, who stood at one of the windows.

Her heart stumbled at the sight of him in profile—that distinctive Italian nose, the clean line of his brow, the sculpted curve of his mouth. How could she ever hope to entice a man like him into something so permanent as marriage? Surely, such a gentleman might choose whomever he pleased.

Fortitude, Molly! You have no chance at all if you do not attempt it.

“Marco?”

He turned, and his smile softened. “Molly.”

He crossed the room to meet her, reaching out to close the door behind them.

“I wish to apologize.”

“Yes,” she said quietly, “you mentioned that earlier.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, and Molly recognized the gesture for what it was. Nerves. Was that a hopeful sign or a troubling one? She wished she possessed more experience in courtship to decipher such moments. If only Madeline were here to advise her. Perhaps she truly should write, as her friend had urged.

“I wish to be certain you understand that my … scompósi?”

“Discomposure.”

He nodded. “Sì. My discomposure was not directed at you. I am facing decisions of great consequence, and I do not wish to give you expectations I may not be able to fulfill.”

“I understand.”