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“A determined lady with a chaperon is still a determined lady … just one with a shadow.”

Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner

NOVEMBER 30, 1820

“No more colors of mourneeng. Zis ees mieux. Not very good, but mieux.”

Molly curled her lips in repressed aggravation. She was not prone to sarcasm, but Miss Dubois brought out some of her baser instincts, to be sure. “I am thrilled that you slightly approve of my attire.” She was not. She did not care a whit what the poodle thought.

“Lady Blackwood would advize to wear silk wiz zo many … admissible?”

“Eligible.”

“Zat ees it! Eligible gentlemen, but zis ees … mieux?” Claudette Dubois wrinkled her delicate nose as she sought the English word, and Molly restrained the impulse to provide it, for she was hardly going to assist her chaperon in condescension. “Better! Zis ees better!”

Molly huffed under her breath, though she was pleased at her reflection. Preparing to retire the evening before, she had decided to turn the page and begin a new chapter. As much as she missed her mother, it had been months since her passing, and it was time to set her sights upon the future.

It has nothing to do with a certain Italian gentleman.

Or perhaps it did, but if his presence served as the motive to lay aside her mourning and consider what she might yet want from this life, then so be it. She had spent the last few years nursing her ailing mother in the country, cherishing her company, yet her youth had slipped quietly by until some would consider her on the shelf, too old to wed. Still, there were gentlemen who might judge her age acceptable.

Truthfully, she did not even know whether finding a match was her aim. She did not yet know what her aim was at all. Until now, her sole concern had been to pass through each day without succumbing to grief long enough to consider her options. The recent drama of the Scotts had been a gloomy but effective distraction. It was such a relief to feel interest in anything after months of existing in a removed, almost distant, state from the world at large. The loss of her closest companion, a wonderful and amusing parent, had arrested time itself. The rest of the world pressed on while one remained outside it, an observer standing in the cold with one’s face pressed against the glass. Yesterday, time had begun to move once more, as though she had found her way back into the world of the living.

Molly suppressed a grin at the memory of Miss Dubois’s ire at being placed, quite literally, in such a position the afternoon before. She was not vindictive by nature, but after enduring the poodle’s condescension since Lady Blackwood’s death, it had felt like retribution for every rebuke swallowed in the name of peace. Miss Dubois’s unrelenting admiration for the murderous dowager baroness, whom she appeared to adore with single-minded devotion, was grating, though Molly could not entirely fault her. The woman revered appearances above all else and remained blissfully unaware of her former employer’s darker deeds.

Or is she?

Molly glanced at the servant fussing over her gown, straightening and smoothing it as though Molly would not walk away and undo those minute adjustments within seconds. She nearly groaned at the reminder that Simon was departing London, and with him any immediate hope of a new companion.

How fanatical is she about the dead dowager baroness? Would she know how to sabotage a carriage wheel?

Miss Dubois appeared far too delicate to engage in anything approaching such manual labor.

Molly returned her attention to the mirror. Her military-inspired spencer, the sort that had become fashionable during the Napoleonic Wars in homage to the soldiers, was green, with sleeves of gold and attractively fastened with black loops and ornate buttons running down the front. The matching gold bodice was hidden from view, but her skirts matched the spencer, and the ensemble brought out the gold and green flecks in her hazel irises while complementing her complexion. She hoped it might draw eyes … a very particular, soulful pair that had appeared in her dreams throughout the night.

She was eager to descend for breakfast, and she had the beginnings of a plan to distract her chaperon. But even the presence of her dogged shadow could not hinder her interest in seeking out the intriguing Marco Scott.

Once they were in the hall approaching the breakfast room, Molly decided it was time to enact the first part of her strategy. “Miss Dubois! I have just realized I have come down without my gloves!”

The poodle paused, peering down the corridor and then back to Molly’s bare hands, clearly at a loss as to what to do.

“Do you mind? I plan to go to the gardens after breakfast, and it is ever so cold.”

Miss Dubois was torn, both of them aware that there were now six unmarried men in residence, and only four could claim any familial relationship with Molly, which meant she was firmly on duty as chaperon. But her sensibilities as a lady’s maid made the pull of clothing duty nearly irresistible.

“Oui, I shall fetch zem for you and return right away.”

“The green ones. To match my gown.”

Molly smirked as the maid walked away. Miss Dubois believed she would be gone only a few minutes, but Molly had deliberately tucked one of the gloves into the wrong drawer during the night, and she hoped it would take ten minutes or more to locate. Time she intended to spend in search of Marco. It was ruthless, but she would not allow the irritating companion to thwart her effort to learn more about the intriguing gentleman.

Molly hurried toward the breakfast room, hoping to find Marco there, but a conversation in Italian brought her to a halt. It sounded somewhat heated, and she hesitated, a mild flare of guilt stirring as she lingered at the threshold. But she had a purpose for her day, and she would not be deterred from achieving it.

“You must call on the lady today, dear friend.”

“I cannot, Lorenzo! I have promised the duke I would visit Markham House today. He is quite put out that I did not inform him of my arrival.”