For a Scot's Heart Only, page 24
Mary reached for him under the table. “Thomas is with me. No matter what.”
He clasped hands with her. Her intervention was full of bravado. He knew the truth. Her palms were damp and her hand a little shaky. She owed him an explanation about nighttime meetings and papers, and when the time came, he’d put his foot down. But this moment had its sweetness—Mary Fletcher needed him.
He gave her hand a tender squeeze. Mary’s gray gaze slid to his, softer and reassured.
“The most likely reason Ancilla took your sister is she wants something from you,” Ranleigh said.
“But you don’t really know, do you?” Mary shook her head. “Enough of this. I need to start looking for Margaret.”
Ranleigh leaned forward. “And where would you start?”
“With the hack she took yesterday at twilight,” Mary said, rising. “Someone on White Cross Street is bound to remember the number plate on the back . . . at least part of it.”
“Wait.” Ranleigh stood up. “I’m willing to put my considerable resources into finding your sister.”
“You’re welcome to join us, my lord.” Mary picked up her pistol and dropped it into her petticoat pocket. “But I’m not wasting another minute here.”
Thomas got up, collected his pistol, and tucked it into the back of his breeches. He couldn’t regret this short-lived parley. But Ranleigh was rounding the table, emphatic.
“Miss Fletcher. Believe me, I want your sister safely returned to you. But you and West are only two people, while I have more than a dozen men at my disposal. Men trained to ask the right questions. Men who can sniff out trouble.” He extended an arm toward his henchwoman. “And if that’s not enough, Ilsa’s part bloodhound. She’s the best tracker I know.”
Mary brushed back hair from her eyes, her face troubled. Thomas stood beside her. This couldn’t be an easy decision, but she alone had to make it.
Ranleigh reached for Mary but stopped short, his hand curling to a fist midair.
“I know my cousin. I know her habits and the places she goes when she steps outside of the law. Get those papers for me and I will unleash Ilsa and a team of men to find your sister. Please,” he added softly. “Let me help you.”
Mary’s mouth wobbled from a sad, sad smile.
“That’s the thing, isn’t it? If you were a good man, you would help me. But your help comes with a price, which means it’s not really help at all.”
Ranleigh’s arm dropped to his side. He took the much-deserved verbal blow, his shoulders straight and his eyes hooded. Outside the gaming room’s closed doors, footsteps pattered. The brothel was waking up. Business would soon be underway, or at least preparation for it.
Mary pinched the bridge of her nose. “Let’s imagine for a moment that I’m agreeing to steal those coveted papers. What does it mean exactly?”
“Tomorrow night Ancilla is attending a ball at my brother, the duke’s, home at Park Place,” Ranleigh said. “That’s your opportunity.”
“And in return, you’ll hope to find my sister by then?”
Ranleigh assured her, “We will do our utmost to make that happen.”
“But you can’t guarantee it.”
“No.”
Desperate unshed tears glittered in Mary’s eyes. “I don’t know.” She pressed her lips together. “The time might be better served if I searched for Margaret. I—I can only imagine how awful this has been for her.”
“Mary.” Thomas touched the small of her back.
He’d go to hell and back for this woman, but certain truths were undeniable. Ranleigh had the resources, the knowledge, and the experience Mary needed. It pained Thomas to put in a good word for the well-shod blackguard. For Mary and her sister’s sake, he would.
He was gruff, advising her. “Listen to him, Mary. He’s Margaret’s best hope.”
If Ranleigh was surprised by the support, he didn’t show it. The dark lord was focusing on Mary alone.
“When the people we love are threatened, it’s natural to leap into a fight. But, Miss Fletcher, you have no idea what this fight is about. The only thing you have is your fear and your anger, and that will blind you to common sense.”
“Am I supposed to do nothing?” Mary’s voice was watery and indignant. “Just . . . wait?”
“The best thing you can do right now is go about your day and make plans for tomorrow night. The element of surprise is on our side.”
“It’s helpful for you if I fetch those papers, but not for Margaret.”
Ranleigh touched her sleeve. “My cousin is blissfully unaware that the four of us know your sister is missing. Let Ancilla think she has the advantage.”
Mary wavered beside Thomas. Not searching for her sister was a sound idea. And terribly distressing. Bright tears began rolling down her cheeks. Each droplet pricked Thomas like a knife. Mary sniffled when he pushed back her hood and cupped her jaw. Tears slid, salty and slow, wetting his hand until eyes as mysterious as North Sea storms met his.
“We’ll face this together,” he said.
“Together.” Mary sniffled again and gave Ranleigh the barest nod. “I’ll do it.”
A partnership was forged, quick details exchanged, ending with a request from Mary.
“My lord, I need to write a note and have our coachman deliver it to my friend.” Mary added, “She’s the one who can get me into Lady Denton’s home tomorrow night.”
Ranleigh nodded. “Of course. Let’s go to my study.”
They were migrating to the door and near the empty faro table when Miss Thelen called Mary.
“Miss Fletcher.”
Mary turned. “Yes?”
The henchwoman was alone by the table.
“I will lead the search for Margaret.” She fisted a hand over her heart. “You have my word. We will find her.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The carriage ride from Maison Bedwell to White Cross Street was an exercise in control. Mary’s mostly. She watched passing traffic from the safe confines of their splendid carriage, while Thomas watched her. He reveled in the tender things. Her gold medallion bouncing in the well of her neck. A sacred place, that sweet slope. He would dip his finger there, trace her collarbones, her peach-soft earlobe—to comfort her, if she’d let him.
The Mary Fletcher who’d left Bedwell’s was not the same woman who’d charged into it.
Could be she needed to collect her thoughts. Turning his hat over and over, he wished she’d share some of her musings. It was a bit of irony, this wanting a woman to talk, when most men of his acquaintance wanted a woman’s silence.
“You look like you belong in this carriage,” he said, trying to make conversation.
“Do I?” She stopped her vigil of the world outside and folded both hands in her lap.
“You do.”
Her gaze traced silky, gold-tasseled ropes looped in the corners. “I always thought this carriage was silly excess.”
Those luxurious ropes did have him wondering.
He pushed down on his plush seat. Butter-smooth leather had just the right give under his hand. “You must admit, tufted leather is preferable to hacks with stingy seats.”
The smallest of smiles curved her mouth. “Stingy-seated hack rides can be just the thing.”
Her gaze lingered on him. A tiny flame of happiness fought for survival in her eyes. The weak flicker gouged him as severely as any harpoon, tearing his heart. The Mary Fletcher he knew and loved had vanished.
He squinted at the carriage floor.
What happened in Ranleigh’s study?
He tried to make sense of it. They’d left the gaming room and gone to Ranleigh’s study. Mary had dashed off her note. There’d been two minutes, possibly three, when she’d tarried at Ranleigh’s desk, waiting for the ink to dry. A footman had beckoned Thomas into the hall with a message about their carriage. Behind him, voices clashed in a hushed argument. He’d checked the room. A flash of malevolence came from Ranleigh, but nothing more. Mary had left the study, present in body, but not in spirit.
She’d swept by him, murmuring, “Let’s get out of here.”
He’d been all too happy to oblige, but Mary had kept a polite distance. Racing off unescorted out of Bedwell’s, him trotting after her.
Ranleigh had watched it all from his study window like a dark crow.
Presently, they were crossing Beech Lane, and Mary had returned to staring at the world beyond the carriage window. It could be the farce was getting to her. He couldn’t fault her for it. What happened to her sister was unthinkable and silence was her way to handle it. If anyone took his mother or sisters, he’d tear London apart looking for them. But this remoteness of Mary’s niggled him. Something else was afoot.
He pinched the corner of his hat. “Mary, what happened in Ranleigh’s study?”
She dragged her pained gaze to his.
“I saw what looked to be a brief argument,” he said.
“It was nothing.”
A blatant lie, and now Lord Ranleigh was with them, unseen poison. What hold did the man have on her? He tossed his hat on the seat and crossed his arms. He should’ve shot the cur when he had the chance.
“I’ll go to Neville Warehouse, check on business,” he said. “Mr. MacLeod will be there. I’ll inform him of what we’re doing and to keep Margaret’s disappearance a secret.”
Annoyance tightened her features. “Yes, we’ve gone over this. I’ll have the coachman deliver my note to Cecelia.”
Mary’s stare went right through him, cool and remote, while he chewed on his frustration. He had no idea how to reach the woman. Or why her sudden distance. As the carriage rumbled to a stop, she looked ready to flee. Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays was outside, her haven. Mary reached for the door, not waiting for the coachman.
Thomas followed her out. “Mary . . .”
She turned to him, wisps of hair blowing across her cheeks. “Yes?”
“I will come back and look after you.”
“About that . . . It’s really not necessary. I’m used to looking after myself.” Mary studied the ground, misery sinking her shoulders. “Please know that I am grateful for your help . . . all of it,” she whispered. “But I want you to go away.”
He felt his eyes rounding. Was he dismissed?
She raised her head slowly, her eyes lifeless. “Don’t come back. Not tonight. Not ever.”
A bolt of shock stilled him.
“Mary . . .” He reached for her and she flinched as though his touch would scald her. “What is this?”
“I’ve rethought our . . . connection, and I simply can’t find satisfaction in it.”
He stared, dumbfounded. She didn’t need him? Not for comfort and kisses? Or to help her steal the blasted papers in Ranleigh’s Machiavellian trade to get her sister back? Thomas huffed, looking at nothing in particular. He was hamstrung, unable to clarify this befuddling turnabout in the middle of White Cross Street.
Then, there was his stunned pride. Behind that emotion was reason. What passed between them had burned swift and bright—perhaps too swiftly.
“I might be fooling myself, but I’m certain at our last connection the stars did shimmer and the moon did shine brighter. For both of us,” he said pointedly.
If anything, they shared that.
“I shall be forever grateful, but this . . . you and I . . . are done.”
“Mary . . .” Her name was a strange whisper on his lips.
Silence prevailed. Her eyes were shuttered until she curtseyed.
“Thank you, Mr. West.” And she ran into her shop as though the devil nipped her heels.
His jaw dropped. She bloody curtseyed to him. He ought to move on, but his feet were glued to the ground. The road was busy. Pedestrians bumped him. Midday sunlight made everything crystal clear. Standing outside the window, he could see Miss Fletcher was a sylph inside her shop until she disappeared past the yellow curtain.
This had to be some misguided wish to protect him (not a rejection of their passion, or so his pride assured him). Seconds fled as he considered which of the two explanations was true. More time would’ve passed, except the coachman coughed into his balled fist.
“Sir, if it’s Neville Warehouse you’re wanting, we ought to go. London Bridge and all.”
“Yes. To Neville Warehouse.” He was too old to stand like a lovelorn swain outside her shop.
Thomas climbed back into the blue confection of a carriage. Once White Cross Street was behind him, another piece to Mary Fletcher’s puzzle came back to him—her midnight meeting with Ranleigh. She’d never told him the substance of it.
Staring out the window, he dragged a knuckle over the glass. It was time to acknowledge an unpleasant fact.
His siren was keeping another secret.
Mary stirred the simmering pot on her workshop stove. The glue’s woodsy smells steamed her nose. Flour, water, alum, and a few drops of birch oil. Her hands trembled too much for needle and thread, and touching baleen made her cry. She hiccupped and went to the worktable where strips of linen waited. Dear Thomas. Losing him was almost as heartbreaking as the thought of losing her sister.
She dipped her rag in a pot of glue.
Oh, Margaret, where are you?
Was she tied up? Had she eaten? Was she hurt?
She slapped the rag on linen and began smearing it with glue. Leaning into her labor, loose hairs fell forward. She swiped them off her face with the back of her hand, sniffling and careful to keep her sticky fingers from touching her hair. More tears threatened to come. Signs of Margaret were everywhere, each kindness a stab to Mary’s soul. The stairs to their garret swept clean. The bed tidy. Margaret’s latest arrangement in the shop window. How talented her sister was. Colorful streamers on white fabric, the entire display like colorful candies on meringue.
Miss Dalton was at the yellow curtain, her eyes popping. “My goodness, miss. You weren’t jesting when you said you were making buckram. This looks like a year’s worth.”
Undyed linen hung like small banners on a dozen ropes stretching back and forth in the workroom. Half of the linens were dry and half still glistened. Tomorrow they’d get a second coat, and on the third day become buckram—the stiff inner fabric for corsets and stays.
Miss Dalton threaded the maze of shoulder high ropes. “It’s twilight, miss. Do you want me to stay?”
“That’s kind of you, but no.”
The seamstress stood in the forest of cloth. Her forehead wrinkled with worry but she was too well mannered to ask about her employer’s swollen red eyes. An afternoon of solitary crying did that to a woman.
Mary smiled benignly. “Go on. I’ll lock the door when I’m done with this batch.”
They said their goodbyes and Mary stirred the pot again. Work was the best remedy to chase away fear and utter helplessness. Several times she’d been tempted to don her cloak and hunt for Margaret. But the notes in her pocket advised her to stay put and maintain the appearance that all was well.
Miss Thelen was making progress. She had hunted down a hack with the number plate 183—Margaret’s hack. Cecelia had sent word, stating that Denton House’s study window would be left open at ten o’clock tomorrow night. Lord Ranleigh had sent a missive—the search was going well. How tidy, all these arrangements, and she, unable to take charge.
This uselessness was driving her mad.
For comfort, she pulled out Lord Ranleigh’s message and read it again.
Dear Miss Fletcher,
Following the hack number was an excellent idea. We’ve narrowed down your sister’s location to one of three hamlets outside London.
A splotch of ink marred the page as though the dark lord’s quill had hovered while he decided how to state his demand.
Regarding tomorrow night; deliver your package to the mews behind my home. Connor will wait for you. I’m sure you remember him. He’s the Irishman who informed me I have the French Pox.
R.
P.S. Burn this note.
Everything was falling into place. Except for Thomas. She crumpled the note and jammed it into her apron pocket. His stricken face haunted her. The agony in his eyes. His mouth agape, then slowly shutting in an unforgiving line. She had done her worst. Glacial Mary Fletcher. A cold bitch.
Pain was a rock in her belly. She held on to the worktable, a sob climbing up her throat. Her eyes were hot and bleary. She dabbed them with her apron. Oh, she was a mess. When the time was right, she’d explain all to Thomas—if he’d allow her the chance.
The awful turn with Thomas had been Lord Ranleigh’s doing. The scene that morning in his study was the newest wound, refusing to heal. She’d been waiting for the ink to dry on her message to Cecelia when the dark lord leaned in.
“You need to send West packing,” Ranleigh whisper-hissed.
“Why?”
“If Ancilla finds out he’s involved, she will destroy him. Then, she’ll go after his family, his business.”
“You threatened his business,” she shot back.
“To get you to work for me.” His jaw tipped an arrogant angle. “And now you are.”
“Only to get Margaret safely home. Then, we’re done.”
“We most definitely are, Miss Fletcher.” Tension lines bracketed his mouth. “You’ll have to leave London. You, your sister, your league friends—all of you.” His onyx gaze went to the door where Thomas had finished talking with a footman. “You and your league are in the thick of things. Him, you can spare. But that’s up to you.”
She absorbed this, keeping her back to Thomas. He had an uncanny ability to read each twitch, each smile, each frown.
“I thought these papers would spare us all from your cousin’s wrath,” she said.
“Ancilla made a move before me.” Ranleigh shuffled papers. “Everything’s going too fast, and I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep.”
“A fine time to tell me you’re honorable, my lord, when you conveniently can’t be.”
She’d stalked out of Ranleigh’s study and hadn’t looked back. His lordship had neatly put more burdens on her. Tell Cecelia she must leave London? She dreaded that. Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora wouldn’t care. Her league knew what they had gotten themselves into.
