Page 52

Sebastian gestured subtly. “As footman, Duncan knows the house better than any of us.”

Marco assented, and Sebastian drew a dagger from his coat, passing it over. “Here you go, friend. Does MacNaby have access to arms or powder within the house?”

“He does.”

“And where might we acquire the same?”

Duncan pointed beyond the lane. “The gamekeeper’s cottage lies close by.”

Lorenzo let out a short laugh. “Far preferable to daggers and clubs. Why did we not consult him sooner?”

“Because this is my first such endeavor,” Marco admitted. “Leave the carriage with the coachman.”

Sebastian gestured to the tethered horse. “Take your mount. We proceed on foot.”

Within the half hour, they had secured rifles, and the gamekeeper joined their number. Marco rode ahead alone, comforted that others would shield Molly should he fall. At Elmstead’s front garden he dismounted, watching the darkened façade. The gelding snickered into the quiet, perhaps Marco’s state of tension communicating to the beast as he watched the house with a pounding heart.

Within those walls stood a murderer … and Molly. Visions of his nightmare, when he found Molly smudged and burning in hell, plagued him every time he blinked. He wished he could run up to the house right now, and thump the door with all his pent-up anger, but instead he had to wait. Pulling out his timepiece, he squinted in the dark, angling it to catch the light of the moon and check the time to discover he still had ten minutes to wait.

He turned back to the house, noting that one of the windows was lit. That must be where MacNaby was holding her captive. Perhaps he had the caretaker held there, too, whose presence Duncan had informed them of.

He mastered his restlessness. Any misstep would undo them.

He forced his thoughts elsewhere. His arrival in England, the truths laid bare, the duties now claiming him. He would endure every upheaval if it preserved Molly’s life. The moments crept by until resolve hardened into action.

He loaded the pistol with careful hands. The plan was imperfect. He relied upon chance and MacNaby’s arrogance to gain entry.

Leading the horse through the garden, he ensured the illusion of solitude.

At the drive, he secured the reins, drew a steadying breath, and concealed the weapon within his coat. Gravel rasped beneath his boots as he advanced, trusting that his companions even now prepared to intervene.

At the threshold, Marco paused, every thought fixed upon Molly. He lifted the brass knocker and struck, sending its echo through the house, announcing himself as agreed.