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Angelo turned to Marco, who had not answered because he was attempting to suppress the agony by pressing down on his rib.

“Marco?”

“I … have cracked … rib?” he eventually wheezed.

Sebastian glanced back, his gaze determined as he heaved against the stuck door with another loud thud. From outside, the voices of the footmen could be heard in heated discussion with the coachman. Then the door shuddered as if it were being pulled from without.

The door finally opened, and the servants began to help them out, an icy breeze driving dust into the overturned carriage so that Marco’s eyes burned and he fought the urge to sneeze, knowing it would hurt intolerably to do so.

Soon Marco was lying at the side of the road, peering up into the blue, blue sky while Angelo examined his ribs with careful, professional pressure, testing the area for fractures. “I believe it is badly bruised, possibly fractured, but not broken. We should have it bound as a precaution. I have ointment and bandages, but this …” Angelo glanced at the road and the damaged coach. “It would be best to attend to you at that inn, where you can be made comfortable.”

Angelo’s medicinal trunk was untied from the second coach before a footman was dispatched, along with a coachman, to continue the journey with the remaining luggage, clear the vehicle so it could return for them, and make arrangements for a wagon to collect the damaged carriage.

Sebastian and Angelo discussed the safest way to move Marco, settling upon fetching a sheet from the inn Sebastian had spotted across the road and using it to carry him into one of the public chambers.

Marco was barely listening, concentrating instead on steadying his breathing despite the pain. He was relieved to learn the rib was not grievously damaged, that Angelo could detect no movement beneath his examination, though it was clearly compromised.

Soon he was borne by Sebastian and Lorenzo within the cradle of the suspended sheet, and Angelo had him laid out upon a table in a private dining room just off the main public rooms. A flickering fire warmed the space, and it was a relief to be out of the chill.

Angelo was skilled in the treatment of minor injuries, as were most members of their family, a reputation that drew custom to their pharmacy. He assisted Marco in removing his coat and waistcoat, turning his attention deliberately away as Marco adjusted his shirt. Angelo then applied a camphor-laced liniment with measured care, and the pain eased.

Marco sat up with Sebastian’s help while Angelo bound his chest, then carefully slid down from the table. “I need a specchio … a mirror?”

With Angelo’s assistance, he was reclothed and his cravat tied in a simple knot that would not aggravate the injury, and Angelo cautioned him to keep his breathing shallow to lessen the ache.

“Are you well, my friend?” Sebastian asked from across the room.

Lorenzo stood beside him with a distracted expression, glancing at Marco as though he had only just recalled the mishap. Marco wondered whether he ought to envy or pity the Italian’s single-minded devotion to whatever purpose had brought him to England, even under such trying circumstances.

“England is only faintly green and decidedly not pleasant,” Marco muttered, with lingering resentment.

His friends broke into laughter, Marco managing a small smile at their good humor. Thankfully, no one was permanently harmed.

Angelo did not join in, his face drawn with concern.

“What is it, Angelo?”

“The coachman. He says that one of the wheels showed signs of tampering. As if someone wished to cause this accident. Could such a thing be possible?”

Marco frowned, sobering at the thought of why the duke and Lord Saunton had asked them to visit London. The duke’s father-in-law had been murdered.

“I do not know,” Marco replied after a pause, “but we shall have to discover the truth.”

Sebastian, overhearing this, approached with a perplexed expression. “What is this? You think the accident was intentional?”

Marco stared up at his tall friend, weighing how much he wished to reveal to the men who had accompanied him and his brother. They knew of the future inheritance, but he had not informed them of the murder investigation. It seemed unwise to speak of it openly, particularly when they had come at the duke’s request in the wake of such violence.

Recent news from London had assured them the matter was resolved. The letter had stated it was safe for Marco and Angelo to stay at the Blackwood estate, and the duke had promised to visit and explain what had come to light since Mr. Long had first contacted them in Florence. Until Marco understood the particulars, he did not consider it prudent to discuss the sordid circumstances that had prompted Mr. Long’s visit.

“I can think of no reason,” Marco said evenly. “Perhaps the coachman wishes to conceal inferior maintenance?”

Angelo lifted a brow at that but said nothing further.

“Perhaps this inn can feed us?” he continued. The shift in conversation proved effective. Being a large and energetic man, Sebastian required a generous quantity of food, and within minutes they were seated in the busy dining room. Marco did his best to settle upon the bench in a manner that did not aggravate his injury, sipping a British ale with evident reluctance as he mulled over his mixed feelings regarding the merits of visiting his father’s homeland. It had not been an auspicious introduction to England thus far.

Molly Carter was in her room, reading quietly by the window and reflecting on how dull her life had become since her mother had been laid to rest months earlier. She used to manage the Carter household in between calling on the neighbors with Mrs. Carter and sharing tea and biscuits with the vicar’s wife once a week. Her mother had been an amusing companion, sharp of wit but forgetful of her possessions, which had kept Molly pleasantly occupied. In their small country town, she had felt … useful.

Then she had come to live in the baron’s household. It was all a bit of a muddle, her mother having named John Scott as the trustee of Molly’s inheritance. Her mother had clearly intended the late baron, father to the current John Scott, but the solicitors had rather inconveniently misunderstood and turned her over to the son. Molly had gone along with it, not quite certain where else she ought to go as an unmarried young lady in mourning for her beloved parent, deciding she should determine her future once she had time to collect her thoughts. Which was how she had come to reside in London at the baron’s small town estate.