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“In every heart lies a reckoning whether born of love, fear, or vengeance. Only the brave dare meet it head-on.”

Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner

Sitting this close to the butler, Molly had discovered that he smelled of silver polish, cedarwood, and starch. Not wholly unexpected, given his profession. She could also smell the sweat of fear seeping from his pores, and now that he had her away from the townhouse, he appeared to be dithering about what to do as she drove the wagon down a street for a couple of blocks. He swung his gaze back and forth as if he were trying to determine a direction. Likely, he did not know where to take her now that he had her.

It would work against her if he grew nervous. If he grew fearful or unsure of himself, he might decide to tie her up. She glanced down at the pistol in his grasp.

Or worse.

Molly tried to think what to do. The man was susceptible to manipulation, according to the secrets they had unraveled. She should continue to cultivate camaraderie with him, she concluded.

“Where are we going, Mr. MacNaby? To the Elmstead manor because it is locked up for the winter?”

He stiffened at her suggestion, but she saw him pause to contemplate it. “Yes … We are heading to Elmstead.”

His demeanor improved as he directed her to turn onto the next street. Molly blew a subtle sigh of relief. They were headed to familiar ground, rather than disappearing into the boroughs of London, where MacNaby might not be the worst peril she faced. Trying to run off from him in a seedy neighborhood could result in a worsening of her current circumstances, but at Elmstead, she would have a single person holding her captive. The drive, with the wagon and just the one horse to pull them, would take a minimum of three hours. Three hours that she was out in the open, with a destination she knew how to navigate. MacNaby might have been easy to convince because he knew the lay of the manor, but so did she. Maybe not as well as he did, but Elmstead boasted displays of old swords and rifles in the halls. Or she might find an opportunity to lock herself in a room or closet to await a rescue.

They left the structures of London behind, the rhythmic clopping of shod hooves on packed earth marking their passage between tall hedgerows. MacNaby, ever the resourceful senior servant, had secured a Shire—a large powerful draught horse well suited to pulling substantial weights over long distances. By her estimation, the horse stood a full eighteen hands high, a bay with a striking white feathering of silky hair around its fetlocks that added to its handsome appearance.

The gentle giant pulled them along placidly, and Molly found the steady drive a balm to the initial panic that had coursed through her. It gave her time to think. To plot.

“Are you doing … this … to ensure Simon inherits the title?” Her question broke their long silence, and MacNaby started from his introverted bemusements.

“It is none of your business, Miss Carter.” His growl was guttural with menace, the pistol pointed straight at her heart.

Molly’s thoughts raced as she tried to think what she might talk about to establish a rapport. Surely, if they were friendly, it would be more difficult for him to do anything dastardly?

Finally, she nodded. “I agree. However, you have taken me hostage, and you have a pistol pointed at me in a most threatening manner. I would propose that it may have become my business?”

MacNaby frowned, peering down at the pistol as if he were surprised to see it. “The pistol is the reason you should hold your tongue!”

Despite his barking, Molly was not entirely convinced he was committed to his task. She had interacted with MacNaby daily since joining the Scott household, and he did not strike her as an evil man. Lady Blackwood had been an enigma, and as it turned out, her veneer of perfection had hidden a corrupted soul. But MacNaby? She was sure she could reason with the butler.

She nodded again, her eyes on the road ahead of them. “I can do that, but … it is just … Simon seems so happy since his nuptials. He has married his childhood love, visited his estates in Scotland. He even bought shares in the stone manufactory. It is the happiest I have seen him since I joined the household.”

MacNaby straightened, scowling at her fiercely. “Shut it!”

Molly’s heart skipped a beat as he swung the pistol in her direction with deliberation, and she swallowed hard as she tried to calculate whether it was worth the risk to continue talking.

They fell back into a silence, broken by the creak of the wagon and the metallic clank of the wheels, which mingled with the rustling of cold wind through the hedgerow leaves. Molly tried to warm her bare hands with a quick rub, all the while keeping the reins steady.

The winter chill crept from her fingers to her wrists, numbing her limbs, and her coat proved woefully inadequate against the prolonged exposure. Yet it was the thought of dying without ever having truly lived that sent the deepest chill through her veins.

Marco had just finished meeting with the duke’s Runner, Briggs, who had written notes in a small notebook. Marco and Nicholas had discussed what they could and could not reveal to the man, and he felt considerably better that Briggs had assured him that several experienced men would begin the search for MacNaby. He might be missing from their household, but it did not mean the butler would not sneak back in and attempt to kill him in his sleep again.

Several hours had passed since the family meeting, and there had been no word of MacNaby’s whereabouts yet. Rising from the baron’s desk and without anything to occupy his time, Marco decided that perhaps he should find Molly to learn what he had said to upset her so. Striding across to the door, he swung it open and bumped into a soft body, which emitted a low shriek in a French accent. He dropped his gaze to find the tiny chaperon, shivering and clasping herself as though he meant to strike her.

“Miss Dubois? My apologies! Are you well?”

The servant glowered at him, but then her sharp little chin quivered fiercely, and she unexpectedly burst into tears. Marco blinked in alarm, not sure what to do.

“I am so sorry, Miss Dubois! I did not mean to hurt you. Should I summon a doctor?”

“Non … it ees not zat, Monsieur Scott … I must tell you … somezing.”

Marco exhaled in a puff, relieved to hear that he had not inadvertently injured the companion.