For a Scot's Heart Only, page 23
Aunt Maude shook her head. “Margaret’s not at Neville House, dear. She sent a note last night, saying she couldn’t come after all.”
Mary’s throat clogged, but she managed a whispery, “That can’t be. Miss Dalton sent her off in a hack yesterday.”
Yesterday she had enjoyed a ride on a pleasure barge with Mr. West. Yesterday she had toured a garden and sneaked kisses with Mr. West. And yesterday something happened to Margaret.
She took a step forward, white-hot fear seizing her.
Dear Margaret . . .
The knot in her throat was growing, truth coming with it. The entry was cramped and not a soul said a word, their worried glances bouncing from one to another. Mary took another step, but nothing was stable. She slumped against a small table, the bowl on it rattling.
She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Margaret is gone.”
Thomas, Cecelia, Jenny, and Aunt Maude crowded her, their frantic, fear-pitched voices spearing her with questions.
“Where could she be?” Cecelia asked.
“Do you think she ran off with a young man?” was Jenny.
“Are you sure she’s not at the shop?” was Aunt Maude.
Above the fray was Thomas. His voice was the iron thread she grabbed.
“Does this have anything to do with your hunt for Jacobite gold?” which silenced the room.
He towered over everyone and stood outside the cluster of worried women crowding Mary. If they turned to him, she wouldn’t know. She was cold . . . so very, very cold.
Sweet Margaret, her one responsibility in this life, was gone. Taken.
Only one name came to mind—Lord Ranleigh. The cur.
Was his threat to Thomas not enough? Did he think taking Margaret would bring her to heel? Fury reached up through her knees and made her stand straight, a steely, fortified anger, infusing her spine and setting her course. Ranleigh was messing with the wrong woman.
She looked to the maid. “Jenny, my cloak, if you please.” To Cecelia, “Have you a pistol I may use?”
“No, but Alexander does. Two of them. I’ll load them for you.”
Mary watched her race upstairs. It was gratifying, Cecelia’s quick support, no questions asked. Thomas was an obelisk in the background, his mouth grim. One message from him prevailed—I am with you.
She felt it in the marrow of her bones.
“Pistols?” Worry clouded Aunt Maude’s face. “What are you going tae do, dear?”
“I’m going to bring Margaret home.”
Chapter Thirty
Margaret is missing.
Words to prod Mary when she charged the front door of Maison Bedwell, the pistol in hand hidden in her cloak. She rued the day she crossed paths with the brothel’s owner.
“Mary,” Thomas soothed. “Please, exercise caution.”
She turned a sharp chin at him. “I said you could accompany me as long as you stayed out of my way.”
Her calm resolve formed in Cecelia’s cozy entry had crumbled. She badly needed it again. The black lacquer door was her River Styx. Once she crossed it, she would become unbeatable or face her own death. Either way, there’d be no going back.
“Please give me the pistol,” he said.
Thomas already had the second pistol tucked in his breeches at the small of his back. And he wanted hers?
“No.” To emphasize her point, she pounded the butt on the door. “This isn’t the time for half measures. Either I have your full support or none at all.”
His green-blue eyes were fathomless.
“You know you have it.”
Tension uncoiled a small degree. She wanted to weep. She wasn’t alone. His word was as solid as oak and his presence more so. Considering Thomas’s profound offer, she ought to give something in return.
“You have my word—I won’t shoot to kill,” she said, mollified.
“Glad to hear it. The day’s too lovely for prison.”
She cracked a smile. “It is . . . and you dressed so handsomely.”
“I wore my best waistcoat for this promenade of ours.”
A sweet jest. It wasn’t lost on her. Thomas was standing in front of a brothel when he ought to be across the river in Southwark, tending his business. This entire day had been a shocking detour. Cecelia’s small but luxurious robin’s egg blue carriage had taken them from Dowgate. She hadn’t said much on that ride. Thomas seemed to understand her need for quiet.
Now they were in noisy King’s Square like two outlaws girded for plunder.
Loyal Thomas . . .
Mary was humbled, knocking on the door again, reasonably this time.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Thomas touched the brim of his hat, a gentle salute. “Anything for you.”
His words settled in her heart as Maison Bedwell’s door opened. The footman, Connor, blocked the entrance. He was sleepy eyed, sliding an arm into his pink velvet livery.
“Good morning, Miss Fletcher, Mr. West. What brings you to Bedwell’s?”
Mary was quick to tuck her pistol into her cloak. “Oh, Connor. Do you ask that of all the patrons? Or just me?”
The footman finger-combed unruly hair. “It’s the hour, miss.”
Thomas’s pocket watch had just reached eleven o’clock when they’d exited Cecelia’s pretty carriage.
“Does passion really care what time it is?” she asked sweetly.
“No, miss.”
“Then we can agree, you need to let us in.” When Connor hedged, she added, “You do know I paid handsomely for the Red Rose room. Lord Ranleigh made no mention of limited hours.” To Thomas, “Did his lordship say anything to you?”
“Not that I recall.”
Connor sighed and stepped aside. “Will you be needing wine in your room, miss?”
“No.” She waved him off. “And I’ll keep my cloak. By the by, is Lord Ranleigh up and about?”
“He’s not accepting visitors, miss,” was the footman’s cryptic answer.
Thomas removed his hat but kept his greatcoat on. Like her, he scanned their environs. Ranleigh could be anywhere: next door, or deep in the bowels of his brothel, sleeping off his victory, or he could be scurrying through London like a cockroach in service to the crown.
She needed to draw him out.
As Connor was closing the door, she laid her trap.
“When it’s convenient, please give Lord Ranleigh a message.” She eyed the frescoes smiling down on her. “Tell his lordship I might have given him the French Pox.”
Connor went white around the gills. “Miss?”
“Nasty business. When I last visited his lordship, we didn’t use a French card, and . . .” She batted the air. “Well, a man ought to know, don’t you think?”
The footman nodded emphatically. “Of course.”
“Don’t worry about us,” she said, linking arms with Thomas. “We know the way.”
They meandered through the cavernous entry. If she had her bearings right, Connor was darting off to the doorway that connected to the kitchen. MacLeod had given her an idea of the layout belowstairs. She ascertained that either Connor was exceedingly hungry or Lord Ranleigh was belowstairs.
Thomas’s biceps were tense. “You and Ranleigh haven’t . . .”
His unfinished question hung awkwardly. She couldn’t bear that he felt the need to ask if she’d been intimate with Lord Ranleigh. She stopped their progress by the empty gaming room and tipped her face to his.
“There is only one non-suitor for me.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “The French Pox. That was clever.”
She touched a button on his waistcoat. “Thank you.”
“It was forward of me asking, but you’ve not said much and . . .” His shrug was eloquent. “These are strange times.”
Thomas’s voice scraped with contained emotions. She was miserable, being the cause of his uncertainty and he a staunch ally. But he had to know, beneath her calm, emotions seethed like a kettle about to boil over.
“You are very, very dear to me, but please understand . . . I must get Margaret back. I’ll do anything—anything to save her.”
Thomas covered her hand with his. Solid, tanned from the sun, and scarred like hers and so, so strong.
“I am with you, Mary. In full measure, for whatever it takes.”
Her lips parted and her throat was parched from worry. She would’ve soaked up more of his strength but heel strikes broke the silence. Ranleigh was crossing the entry hall.
“Miss Fletcher, back so soon and with the most interesting news about my health.”
She pulled away from Thomas, the pistol still hidden from view. Miss Thelen was donning a man’s black frock coat, trailing Ranleigh. Mary was relieved. The henchwoman packed only one weapon this morning, a knife tied to her thigh.
“Bad news is one way to flush out a rat,” Mary shot back.
The dark lord sauntered forward, lace cuffs feathering his hands. “What’s this? And here I thought you were anxious to begin our connection.”
Air stirred beside her. Dear Thomas. Waves of irritation were rolling off him.
“Is there someplace we can talk discreetly?” she asked.
“In a brothel?” Ranleigh laughed. “Of course.” He gestured to the empty gaming room. “This should suffice.”
The dark lord was casual this morning, his shirt open at the neck and his queue plainly tied. He wore black velvet and dark circles under his eyes, the price of late hours. The four of them formed a line and went into the long chamber ripe with lingering smells of unwashed men and stale air. Miss Thelen tossed back a loose braid and stood hip-cocked against the wall. Lord Ranleigh dispensed with niceties and took the chair at a gaming table in front of her. Thomas was strategic, closing the door.
Mary swallowed hard. Fear and anger competed inside her. Both emotions could be helpful if handled properly—like the pistol in her trembling hand. To calm herself, she gripped the butt until the metal filigree bit her skin.
“Where is Margaret?”
Ranleigh linked both hands on the baize. “Margaret who?”
“Don’t play coy with me.” She raised her pistol and pointed it at him.
Ranleigh blanched and his henchwoman sprang off the wall as though she’d leap over the table and end this threat. Mary had no doubt she could. To make sure the henchwoman understood the gravity, Mary pointed the pistol at her heart.
“Don’t. Move.”
Ranleigh raised his hands in a show of peace. “Easy now. I thought you were here for friendlier reasons.”
“Clearly not,” she snapped. “I don’t have patience for you, my lord. I’ve had a bad day.”
Ranleigh’s gaze traveled over her. “I can see that.”
Her hair was loose from clutching her skull, her eyes pained with unshed tears, and her stomacher boasted a tiny rip from her fretting fingers, which would be visible where her untied cloak had parted. She didn’t care.
“It’s the new look for women hunting rats.” She advanced on him, frustrated and angry. “Where is Margaret?”
“Who is Margaret?” Ranleigh asked, agitated.
“My sister!”
Miss Thelen took a half step around the table. “Put that away. You’re not a killer.”
Thomas produced his pistol and aimed it at the henchwoman. “Back away.”
The henchwoman glared at Ranleigh and said a string of angry foreign words. “Skit! När det gäller den här kvinnan har du slutat använda båda årorna.”
Thomas chuckled as if he understood. “Now, now, Miss Thelen. Arms up and your back to the wall.”
A scowling Miss Thelen complied, positioning herself in front of an awful brothel portrait.
Mary glared at the henchwoman and asked Thomas, “What did she say?”
“An old Swedish adage about not using both oars.” Thomas glanced at her, amused. “Miss Thelen is convinced, when it comes to you, Ranleigh can’t think straight.”
The dark lord was rigid and steely eyed as if he could, by force of will, change this interview. Mary’s blood was racing, her hands were sweating, and she might’ve been wild-eyed, addressing him.
“What? You’ve nothing to say?”
"Not with a pistol pointed at me.”
Oh, he was a cool one.
“Your henchwoman might be right about me not being a killer, but a flesh wound won’t stop your mouth from running.” She cocked the pistol with a shaky hand. “Let’s test that theory, shall we?”
“I don’t have your sister,” Ranleigh growled and put his arms up like Miss Thelen. “Harming innocents is not my usual practice, but she can’t be all that innocent if she’s stealing Jacobite gold.”
“A rich jab, sir. Thank you, but I’ll remind you that I’m the woman pointing a pistol at you, and you are the very same man I met last night who told me he’d do anything for the crown.” She smirked, having placed delicious emphasis on anything. “You can try and dress up what you do, Lord Ranleigh, but you’re just a rabid dog on a leash.”
Ranleigh’s brows slanted tersely, and his chest was expanding under the increasing ebb and flow of aggravated breaths.
“It appears, Miss Fletcher, that you and I have a choice. We can trade insults, or we can work together to get your sister back.”
Mary startled and checked Thomas. He was stoic beside her.
She stepped closer to the gaming table. “What do you mean?”
“I’d wager half my wealth that my cousin took her.”
Ranleigh was too definitive. She took another step.
“The Countess of Denton? She’s in Scotland.”
“No, I learned this morning that she returned to London two nights ago. She hasn’t gone anywhere, which is unlike her.”
A vein throbbed on the dark lord’s temple and his nostrils flared. He was angry for being caught like this. A man in his position would say anything to escape. Mary shook her head.
“I don’t believe you. It takes weeks to travel from Arisaig to London.”
“If going by carriage, yes. Ancilla, however, took a schooner. Very fast, those schooners.” His near-black eyes narrowed. “If you don’t believe me, ask your friend Mr. West.”
She counted to ten silently in her head. She resented Ranleigh’s logic, but the countess wreaking havoc made sense.
“Mary,” Thomas said. “I’ve gambled enough with the lout to know when he’s playing a sham.”
“And?”
Thomas lowered his pistol. “He’s telling the truth . . . at least what he believes it to be.”
Mary’s elbow gave way, and her arm dropped to her side. Her body didn’t feel like hers anymore. Shock, fear, worry. Wave after wave of distraught was taking control. She had to grip the chair to stay standing. It was all she could do to hold back stinging tears.
She swallowed hard and sought Thomas. “For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“If you both put your pistols on the table, I’m prepared to offer my help.” Ranleigh. His hands were down but his tone was severe.
Mary set the pistol on the baize with a heavy clunk. Thomas was reticent, eyeing Ranleigh. Strange details started coming into focus. Little things like how tired Ranleigh looked, and Maison Bedwell’s gaming room, an ugly place by day. The stench of lost fortunes and ruined families clung to its walls.
How many nights had he gambled in this room? At this very table in front of him? Or any of the tables just like it? He’d left too much hard-earned money in the bowels of this godforsaken place. He’d almost lost his business.
Even worse, he’d almost lost his soul—to Ranleigh.
The dark lord prodded him. “West . . . put down your pistol.”
Thomas studied Mr. Sloane’s excellent weapon. French made, brass fittings throughout. A flintlock Holster pistol befitting a French officer and a gentleman. He smiled fondly at it.
“It’s like Mary said. Your mouth still works even if you’ve got a flesh wound.” Thomas grunted. “Of course, a hole in your foul heart might be just the thing to make my day.”
“Shooting me won’t help your lady love. And it definitely won’t get her sister back.”
Thomas gusted a sigh. He didn’t like Ranleigh being the voice of reason, but he couldn’t argue with the man’s logic.
“Just so we’re clear. This isn’t for you.” He put his weapon on the table with care. “I’m doing this for the Scot’s heart only.”
Ranleigh’s shoulder sank in relief. They were a motley foursome, gathering around the table. The baize had seen better days. Stains smudged the green, and small burn holes dotted the table where Ilsa Thelen took her seat.
Thomas took a seat and bounced his knee under the table. This was bitter medicine, working with Ranleigh. This morning he was gambling for higher stakes. They all were, with Ranleigh and his henchwoman on one side of the table, Thomas and Mary on the other, pistols in front of them.
Ranleigh steepled his fingers. “We need to know what Ancilla wants.”
“I thought she was all about revenge,” Mary said. “This was the crux of your late-night tale.”
Under the table, Thomas squeezed his thigh. He’d come to terms with certain truths this morning: he was breaking his vow to never return to Bedwell’s, and Mary left him asleep after a rousing tumble to meet with the dark turd facing them. Not an excellent morning, as it were.
He gritted his teeth, tempted to shoot the smug bastard after all.
“Forgive me for saying so, Miss Fletcher, but your sister is of no consequence,” Ranleigh said. “Ergo my cousin taking her is for a greater end.”
“You speak as though Margaret is a pawn on your chessboard.”
“It is the game we play.”
Mary was pensive. A game of chess or a game of chance, someone would win and another would lose.
“Does this have anything to do with the papers you want me to steal?” she asked.
Ranleigh’s mouth twisted. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
“What’s the matter, Ranleigh? You look constipated.” Thomas couldn’t regret the jibe.
