Page 6

The new Lady Campbell was Molly’s dear friend, and an unusual choice for the son of a baron to wed, for Lady Madeline Scott was in trade, working with her mother at Bigsby’s Stone Manufactory. After Simon had inherited a Scottish viscountcy from his mother a few weeks earlier, he had finally been freed of suffocating expectations and pursued a love match with Madeline. Now he was no longer the heir to his older brother’s barony, a circumstance Madeline had revealed Simon privately welcomed.

Molly hurried down the gravel path, entering the garden that unified the two miniature estates, which had been built nearly a century earlier by the Aldritch brothers. The two brothers had created the shared garden, and when they had sold the estates, they had ensured that the garden would remain intact, protected by legal clauses included in the deeds. It was a beautiful space, bordered by silent stone gods staring down, with a great urn of potted plants at its center. Ordinarily they would be flowering in profusion, but not so late in the year.

Madeline was waiting for her on the bench below the urn, a cart laid out with tea by her side, a thick pelisse protecting her from the November chill, and a parasol crooked in her arm to shield her from the morning sun.

“Molly!”

“I am sorry I am late.”

“Do not be silly. This is hardly a formal arrangement.”

Molly sank onto the bench and sighed. “Miss Dubois chose to lecture me about appropriate mourning periods. She has grown ever more obnoxious now that she is my chaperon.” Molly emphasized the French pronunciation with sarcasm. “Any restraint she may have practiced has completely vanished since Simon promoted her to paid companion.”

Madeline laughed, her amber eyes bright in the sunlight. “The yapping poodle? Yes, Simon has mentioned more than once that he feels terrible he has not yet found an adequate companion to take over. Rest assured, he is working on it.”

“Amongst all the other arrangements he has to see to? I thought he was merely being polite when he stated that.”

“Not at all. He is doing his best to see to all the details before he turns the management of the barony over to his nephew from Florence.”

“The schooner bearing the Italians has arrived. Miss Dubois informed me that carriages have been sent to collect them from the London docks.”

Silence fell as they each contemplated the revelations of the past few weeks, Madeline finally responding in a thoughtful, worried tone. “They will be met with quite a muddle. I hope this Marco Scott proves equal to the challenge.”

The squawking of herring gulls was deafening when Marco peered with growing horror over the docks of London from the swaying deck of the schooner that had been their home for these past three weeks.

The gulls were perched on the ledges of the enormous brick warehouses lining the docks, the self-serving beggars swooping down to pick at scraps between the legs of the bustling crowd. Sailors from ports across the world, weather-beaten porters, and well-dressed merchants milled about, while dockworkers with bared arms and filthy trousers hoisted crates back and forth using a system of pulleys. Huge sailing ships overshadowed their smaller schooner, which was intended only for passengers and light cargo. They rocked with the motion of the water while tall masts soared up, up, up into the sky above them, their sails neatly furled and thick rigging drawn taut. Cold air carried the odors of salt, soot, and rotting fish to assail his senses, underscored by tobacco and spice.

Once his ears grew accustomed to the shrieking of the birds, Marco could make out the clanking of pulleys hoisting goods, the bells and horns signaling the arrival of ships from far-off places, the shouts of coarse men laboring over crated imports and exports, the gruff bark of unfamiliar tongues, and traders whistling as they hawked provisions for the long voyages ahead.

It was nothing short of appalling to a gentleman of quality who had been raised among the gracious streets and piazzas of Florence.

“This seems neither green nor pleasant.”

“The London docks are the busiest in the world. Do not judge England by this, my friend!” Sebastian chuckled, patting Marco’s shoulder with good-natured encouragement before walking away to inspect their luggage.

“I think it is all rather … what is emozionante? … Exciting,” Angelo remarked, his keen interest in the commercial activity ashore evident in his bright eyes.

Lorenzo paid no heed to any of them, quarreling with one of the sailors over the rough handling of his prized trunks, and Marco briefly wondered what those chests contained to provoke such caustic concern.

After a lengthy disembarkation, the four men were finally settled in a fine carriage. The carpeted interior was richly appointed, with leather squabs and generous stuffing. Marco leaned back and watched the crowded streets as they crept through traffic. After some time, the congestion eased, and they passed graceful manors interspersed with trees and gardens.

The carriage gathered speed, the wheels drumming against the road and occasionally jolting over the uneven surface as Marco’s lids drifted shut. They had risen early to observe their progress along the Thames, and the rocking motion of the vehicle soon lulled him into drowsiness.

A sharp, violent lurch sent his eyes flying open, only to see his great Nordic friend hurtling toward him before a broad, powerful shoulder collided with his ribs.

“Whoa! Whoa!” The coachman’s panicked cry rose from above, barely audible over the thunder of the horses’ hooves as they struggled to halt, while searing pain radiated from the point of impact. Marco yelped in surprise as the entire carriage tipped precariously, a horrifying crack, wood against earth, splintering the air. The four men were thrown about the interior with loud shouts of protest as the chamber rolled, elbows and knees flailing as they scrabbled for purchase until it finally came to rest. They lay in an ignominious heap, the carriage overturned and Sebastian landing atop them all, his formidable bulk pinning them fast while Marco found himself crushed against the roof.

Is it still a roof if it is on the floor?

Marco panted, his heart pounding as he tried to catch his breath, but each pull of his lungs worsened the pain in his chest, and he suspected he had cracked a rib.

Sebastian was the first to move, finding purchase to lift himself and heave his mighty shoulder against the door. It bulged but failed to open as the rest of the men slowly disengaged to squat against the walls.

“Is everyone all right?” Angelo peered around with worried eyes, ever the pharmacist attentive to the welfare of others.

Sebastian made no comment, fidgeting with the latch before attempting another powerful crash against the carriage door.

Lorenzo raised his head, his face gray with shock. “I appear to be unbroken.”