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Her friend had used them in her efforts to help Simon uncover the true killer, and when Molly had heard how Madeline had picked the lock on Lady Blackwood’s desk, she had coaxed her to teach her the skill as well. It had been nothing more than an idle diversion to fill her otherwise tedious days, but now it might hold the key to uncovering the devil at Marco’s heels.

Hurrying back downstairs, she slipped along the basement corridor and paused to listen at the servants’ hall. She could hear MacNaby’s subtle brogue complaining about overcharges on a grocery account, confirming that her way was clear. Returning to the butler’s pantry door, she dropped to one knee, inserted the picks, and pressed her ear to the wood.

Each second stretched into eternity as she listened for the faint clicks, knowing MacNaby might appear at any moment or a footman or a maid. Her palms grew damp with nerves as she forced herself to focus on the delicate task, nearly swooning with relief when she tested the handle and the door swung open.

Entering quickly, she shut the door behind her and crossed to the desk, but the book that had drawn her here was missing. She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to think, and swung her head about to survey the room. MacNaby must have stopped in here on his way back to the servants’ hall, suspecting that Molly had glimpsed what he was concealing within this territory reserved for the most senior of servants. It was a wily precaution, a measure taken just in case, likely because he was not certain she had seen it at all. Which meant he would not have had time to do anything more than move the book to a temporary hiding place, since he had been en route to conclude his meeting.

Crossing to the cabinets, she began opening them as swiftly as she dared while maintaining her silence, bending low to crane her neck and peer into their depths. She found china platters and silver chargers. One cabinet held tureens, but no book. Moving on, she discovered more platters and sauceboats, even vases intended for centerpieces, but still no book, not even tucked behind the larger pieces.

Turning to the drawers, she slid them open one by one, careful not to jostle their contents and betray herself with noise. There she found cutlery, ladles, and tea strainers, but no sign of the missing volume.

Molly muttered a curse beneath her breath, her thoughts racing. She had been in the pantry for several minutes already, and her margin for escape was narrowing with every heartbeat.

Then a flash of inspiration struck. She returned to the cabinet containing the tureens. Dropping onto her haunches, she paused to study them before reaching for the silver lid of the largest vessel. Lifting it, she blinked, restraining a cry of triumph.

Within its generous interior lay a leather-bound journal, its cover worked with ornate gold tooling and embossed with a thistle at its center.

“You have become quite prone to accidents. Or someone is attempting to kill you, my friend. Two accidents in four days?” Lorenzo was tense, flinging his arms out to emphasize his declaration.

“Three,” interjected Angelo from his position at the window, where he was peering out toward the garden with his arms folded, a posture that betrayed his concern.

“Three!” cried Lorenzo. “What is this?”

“It is nothing,” Marco insisted, all but boneless with exhaustion. He had been awake since the fire, and coupled with the physical exertion of fighting the flames, he was wholly wrung out.

“We must tell them the truth, brother. If that fire had spread, everyone could have been killed.” Angelo’s admonishment was unexpected. Marco turned to look at his brother, wordless, while Angelo cocked his head in encouragement.

Marco sighed heavily. “Yes. Someone is trying to kill me.”

“Why?” Sebastian leaned forward in his chair, his expression uncharacteristically earnest. All of them looked rather haggard after spending half the night awake in the aftermath of extinguishing the fire.

“I cannot explain all of it, because it is a private family matter. But we suspect someone in the house is trying to clear the path for my uncle Simon to inherit.”

Sebastian frowned. “Would that not mean Lord Campbell is involved?”

“No. Lord Campbell left London to protect his wife. Her bloodlines are not acceptable to whoever is behind this.” Marco paused, choosing his words with care. “I cannot tell you all the details, but Lady Campbell is also a target for this blackguard who is after me. Lord Campbell removed her to safety by taking her to his estates in Scotland, with servants from her own household. I am confident he is not involved.”

“What of the third accident?” Lorenzo demanded. “What was that?”

Marco coughed hard, attempting to clear his throat of the ash that still lingered there. “An urn fell from the roof the day after we arrived. I was able to leap clear.”

“Porca miseria!” Lorenzo cursed, resuming his pacing of the library at a frantic pace that might have powered a mill.

Sebastian leaned back, whistling softly through his teeth. “Three accidents in four days. It is true, then. You are a marked man.”

“I understand if you wish to end your visit,” Marco said wearily. “Perhaps you and Lorenzo could remove yourselves to your brother’s home.”

The Norseman scowled. “Do not be absurd. We accompanied you as friends. We will remain to help defend you.”

“I cannot ask that of you. I cannot even tell you the specifics of why this is happening.”

Lorenzo halted his pacing. “Sebastian is right. We understand enough. Someone in this house is trying to kill you, and we must all remain vigilant while you uncover who it is. In the meantime, the more allies you have about you, the more difficult it will be for these attempts to succeed.”

Angelo nodded, still staring out the window. His usual cheer was absent. The stark proximity of death had muted his spirits. “I agree. We must all remain watchful, and at night, we must lock our bedchambers so we cannot be harmed in our sleep.”

“As if we are children afraid of ghouls and goblins lurking beneath the bed?” Marco’s tone was sour, but his mood was worse.

“Exactly so,” Angelo shot back in a rare flash of fury. “You could have been burned alive if you had not woken in time.”