For a Scot's Heart Only, page 5
Mary pinched a pleat in her petticoat. Cecelia and her tall barrister were a sight, fingers interlocked as if holding hands was second nature. As if they craved each other’s touch and couldn’t go another minute without it. The tableau was transcendent. The beauty painful to watch, like a painting of a bright and glorious land she’d never get to visit.
No, what passed between Cecelia and Mr. Sloane was more than love. It shimmered.
She had to look away.
The rest of the room did the same. Chins dipped and the floor was studiously examined. They bore witness to something sublime—something none of them had. But Cecelia . . . a mother. The first of the women in their league. What a surprise.
Motherhood. She couldn’t fathom it.
Eventually, the bed ropes creaked as though announcing the transfiguration ended and they should all get down to business. Mary quit her careful study of the vinegar bowl to find Cecelia sitting up and Mr. Sloane plumping a pillow behind her back.
“I can’t decide on a rushed wedding—very soon, of course,” Cecelia said. “Or do I confirm my reputation as a wicked woman, bear my child, and wed Alexander next spring?”
Aunt Flora splashed fresh tea into her cup. “That’s for you tae decide, dear. But one thing is certain. You canna be gadding about. Not in your condition.”
Aunt Maude got up and helped herself to a biscuit. “Our thinning numbers make searching for the gold a wee bit difficult.”
“While I’m all for recovering as much of the treasure as possible, we have a bigger problem to consider.” Cecelia paused, eyeing each woman. “The Countess of Denton.”
Collective groans followed the mention of that woman’s name.
“A pox on her.” Aunt Maude sank into a chair brought up from the kitchen. “She was brazen enough tae shoot Mr. MacLeod. She’ll be coming for us next.”
Rory MacLeod, another Highlander who came into their league by accident. The Countess of Denton had shot him in the back late at night on London Bridge. Why, exactly, no one could say. For a brief time he’d been her ladyship’s private footman, the title given to men she hired for a lusty connection.
“Lady Denton is still in Scotland, and she doesn’t know Mr. MacLeod survived,” Aunt Flora said, between sips of tea. “But I canna say I want tae keep hunting for the gold, not with Cecelia with a bairn on the way.”
Cecelia set a protective hand on her midsection. “I’m afraid we have a narrow margin of time to decide our fate. The countess must return before month’s end because she’s selling one of her business concerns.”
Mary shifted in her chair. “Which one?”
“The Chelsea Porcelain Works. Nothing of import.”
“Then we have two or three weeks,” Mary said to the room. “For one last hunt.”
But faces were long. Chasing the gold had taken its toll.
“Ladies,” Mary implored the room. “We need the last of the treasure to purchase sheep. Remember? We did promise to replenish Clanranald MacDonald’s herds. Our final task.”
Aunt Maude bit into her biscuit and chewed fast. “But who will search for the gold with you?”
“I’ll go with her,” Margaret said brightly.
“Certainly not,” Mary shot back.
“I’m not a child, Mary. I know what happens in brothels.”
Her sister’s I know what happens in brothels set her teeth on edge. “I’ll not ask how you’ve come by this knowledge, but you in a brothel is out of the question.”
Margaret eyed her, indignant. “But it’s perfectly acceptable for you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But it’s what you meant.” Margaret sat taller. “Must I be a dull spinster like you before I get to do anything?”
A chorus of gasps spilled, but Mary wrapped herself in cool silence. Inwardly, she smarted as much from the insult as Mr. Sloane witnessing their squabble. The barrister, at least, had the grace to busy himself wringing a new cloth.
Margaret swallowed hard and lowered her ink-dark lashes. “Forgive me,” she mumbled. “I—I didn’t mean to be cruel.”
“Thank you.”
Mary was rigid and armored and not fooled one bit. A layer of rebellion simmered under Margaret’s contrition. She couldn’t blame Margaret, nor could she let go of the deep tie binding them. No guidebook existed for a sister raising a sibling. In the highlands, their life had been comfortable. An easy cadence marked by one season flowing into the next—until the war. Coming to London upset the natural order, especially when Margaret turned eighteen. Since then, the two of them were increasingly at loggerheads.
Aunt Flora crossed the room and checked beyond the curtain, a gentle reminder that they faced bigger troubles than sisterly quarrels.
Nighttime meetings augured risks of men waiting in the shadows.
“Mr. MacLeod can go with Mary,” Aunt Flora said, letting the curtain drop. “He’s handy with his fists. He’d protect her should trouble arise.”
“He’s proven his loyalty tae us,” Aunt Maude chimed in.
Nods of agreement circled their gathering, but the room’s fire flared hotly at Mary’s back. Mr. Thomas West came to mind even though Mr. MacLeod was the reasonable replacement for Cecelia.
“I’ll speak to Mr. MacLeod,” Mary said.
Despite visions of the scarred pirate dancing in her head, she was sensible, informing the women of Mr. West’s request to use their warehouse in Southwark—and the Betty Burke painting in Madame Bedwell’s gaming room, which raised eyebrows. Who were the members of this secret society? And why did they operate in London?
Each question sent furtive glances that yes, they were onto something. But like a poorly made wooden puzzle box, not all the pieces fit.
Aunt Flora scrunched her nose. “I canna believe these people are true Jacobites.”
“Neither can I,” Aunt Maude said, swiping another biscuit.
Mary shot a covert Tell them glance at Cecelia, who was toying with the lace trim on her wrist. This was the burden of secrets—what to reveal and when.
Cecelia cleared her throat. “The Countess of Denton is part of the secret society that meets, or used to meet, at Maison Bedwell.” All eyes were on her, shocked. She snorted indelicately. “But we can all agree Lady Denton is not a Jacobite.”
“I’d like tae see her try and claim herself as one,” Aunt Maude grumbled. “Highlanders would toss her out like bad fish . . . the grubby woman.”
The women tittered softly, their chairs creaking. Mary checked the room. Question marks could very well have sprouted from Aunt Flora, Aunt Maude, and Margaret’s heads, such was the weight of this latest news.
Aunt Flora pinned Cecelia with a grandmotherly stare.
“How do you know this? Is this something your spies shared?”
Cecelia’s shrug was small and guilt laden. “It’s a recent discovery. But I dare not say any more.”
“You don’t need tae protect us, lass,” was Aunt Flora’s gentle admonishment. “We’re here tae help.”
But this was what Mary, Cecelia, and Anne had done since their first days in Arisaig. They’d looked after the older aunts and they’d looked after little Margaret, who wasn’t so little anymore. Their league was unraveling in unexpected ways. With Anne gone and now learning Lady Denton had entrenched herself in a Jacobite society . . . well, Aunt Maude said it best.
The older woman slapped the side table. “It’s a world gone mad. That’s what it is.”
“And we must decide what to do about it.” Mary injected this wisdom, which met with mute stares. The fireplace crackling cheerily, she nudged the conversation. “Cecelia, do you have anything to report from our night at Bedwell’s?”
Cecelia shared that she’d found nothing, a cleaned-up tale, omitting what floor of the brothel she’d searched. She finished with frothy gossip about a pompous duke whose wig had caught on a sconce.
Cecelia giggled. “So deep in his cups he was. The old sod didn’t know what was happening until it twisted sideways and the sausage curls hit his nose.”
Knees cracking, Aunt Maude got up from her chair with the evening’s final bit. “Flora and I plan tae take more food tae the poor souls at Tenter’s Ground.”
Chairs scraped, a sign their meeting was coming to an end. Dishes clinked as Aunt Maude set about tidying up.
“You know,” Aunt Flora began, “we could use an extra pair of hands at Tenter’s Ground. What do you say, Margaret? Can you lend a hand?”
Aunt Maude beamed. “That’s a fine idea.”
Margaret picked up the plate of half-eaten biscuits.
“I don’t know . . . We’re so busy at the shop.”
“Our shop will be fine.” Mary added her cup to the tray, her smile an olive branch. “Wouldn’t you like a week of freedom?”
Margaret was doe-eyed and contrite.
“Oh, Mary . . .”
“Go on. Have fun,” Mary said.
Aunt Flora’s blue eyes twinkled over her stack of dishes. “We’ll have a splendid time of it. Excursions on Tooley Street. A little tea and gossip with friends. Why, even Mr. MacLeod has taken tae reading aloud the Gentleman’s Monthly Intelligencer at night.”
The aunts herded Margaret out of the bedchamber, their chatter trailing cheerfully as they headed to the kitchen where Jenny was packing food for the poor Scots and Irish who made their homes in Tenter’s Grounds.
“Quite a day for our little league,” Cecelia said from the comfort of her bed.
Mary turned around, weary. “Months of boring nothingness, and suddenly, we’re beset with drama.”
“You mean the Countess of Denton revealed as Lady Pink?” Cecelia asked archly. “Or the sisterly variety?”
“Don’t . . .”
“Margaret is nineteen. When I think of what I was doing at her age . . .”
“Which is precisely why I keep a careful eye on her.”
Cecelia’s provocative spark faded. She smoothed the counterpane once, twice. “There are times I forget the roles you have played—mother, sister, and shopkeeper—while I’ve gadded freely about.”
Mary folded her hands together.
“Careful, Cecelia. You’re on the verge of complimenting me.”
Which nursed kindly smiles between them.
“Perhaps you’re owed one or two. Margaret is a credit to your steadfast care, but we both know she won’t set foot in brothels anytime soon. Which reminds me”—Cecelia reached behind the pitcher on her bedside table, her blond curls falling forward— “you’ll need this when you return to Maison Bedwell.”
She held up a large coin. Mary crossed the room and took it.
“I should’ve returned it to you last night,” Cecelia said.
Mary traced Charles Stuart’s profile on polished metal. Only forty tokens had been commissioned, but this was the forty-first, a forgery done in an alcove behind her workroom.
“I made his nose too big.”
Mr. Sloane spoke up from his seat at the edge of the mattress. “Your work is frighteningly excellent, Miss Fletcher.”
Eyeing him warily, she pocketed the token.
“I appreciate the compliment, sir, but I’m still not entirely comfortable with your involvement in our league. You are—or were—a servant of the crown.”
“Relax, Mary. Alexander knows everything. He is the one who gave me the rubbing of the secret society’s coin.”
“Did he?”
Mary angled her face to Mr. Sloane. Arms wide, he bowed silent acknowledgment.
She shot a reproving glance at Cecelia. “We keep too many secrets from each other.”
“That’s my fault,” Mr. Sloane said. “I asked Cecelia to keep certain facts to herself.”
“I see.”
Though truthfully, Mary didn’t. Secrets sent fissures through their league. So did the gentleman who required Cecelia’s allegiance to him. It augured another break in their little family, and she was still smarting from the loss of Anne Neville. To a man, of course—Will MacDonald.
Men—they were often at the heart of what went wrong in her life.
“Because of recent events, Alexander’s given me leave to share those facts with you.” Cecelia shined with admiration for the man sitting on her bed. “He’s the reason we know about the secret society, not one of my spies. Alexander found their names and a rubbing of the coin in that coded ledger, which the Duke of Newcastle had asked him to investigate.”
Mary bit back the urge to say that Alexander had also been tasked to investigate Cecelia. But times were changing, and they needed to focus on weightier matters such as the last of the lost treasure. The secret society, Charles Stuart’s supporters, must have it. The same group that smuggled Charles Stuart into London in 1750. She rubbed the token, its burden heavy in her pocket. Why did they keep the treasure?
Cecelia fussed with her night-robe. “Did anything else happen last night? Aside from you finding the Betty Burke painting?”
A scarred sea wolf came to mind.
“No. My venture into the gaming room was uneventful.”
“Then how did you come by those bruises on your wrist?”
Mary cuffed the mottled spots with her hand.
“A misunderstanding.”
“That’s quite a misunderstanding.” Cecelia’s brows rose a doubtful half inch and she gave Mr. Sloane a speaking glance. “Would you be a dear and fetch some bread for me?”
He stood up, his bronze eyes discerning. “Of course.” A wise man, Mr. Sloane would dally in the kitchen to give Cecelia all the time she needed. Mary had learned that much about him.
When the stairs creaked his descent, Cecelia confessed, “I go positively weak-kneed for bread hot from the pan, slathered with butter. Of late, I crave it more than a good tup.”
Mary cracked a smile. “Don’t let Mr. Sloane know.”
Cecelia laughed, color returning to her cheeks. Last night they would’ve chewed on every detail of Maison Bedwell on the ride home, except when Mary had climbed into the carriage, Cecelia had already dozed off.
“Come.” Cecelia patted the bed. “Have a seat.”
Mary settled on the plush edge with a rueful, “Now the real meeting begins.”
Arms folding under her bosom, Cecelia was all business. “I don’t like how things are unfolding.”
“Because of the countess.”
“Stopping her may require drastic measures.”
Mary shifted uncomfortably. “We’re not violent women.”
“Lady Denton is.” Iron laced Cecelia’s tone. Though exhaustion painted dark circles under her eyes, she was regal and decided. “You and I must agree—one week and one week only to find the gold.”
“And then?”
“Then we decide what to do about the countess.”
An ugly shiver drifted down Mary’s spine. “I don’t like what that infers. It is foul and unworthy of us.”
Cecelia’s white shift dripped with virginal lace, but her hazel eyes glinted fiercely.
“Lady Denton is foul. And don’t forget, we are her next targets.”
“Still, I cannot accept what you’re suggesting. The war . . .” She swallowed hard. “The war was enough.”
Cecelia reached for Mary’s hand, her fingertips light and reassuring. “Ours has not been an easy life. Just look at the bruises on your wrist.”
This time Mary didn’t bother to cover them. “Time for my confessional?”
Cecelia’s warm hand retreated.
“Tell me how you got them. And do not edit your tale.”
The bed creaked, the fire crackled, and the silence crawled. Just how much would she tell? Her unchaste confessional to a certain scarred hero came to mind. What a saucebox she’d been. She’d not share that.
“You’ll be pleased to know,” she began, “last night taught me that I am not as skilled as you at subterfuge.”
“Learned that, did you?”
Mary’s place had always been a supportive role in their league. Arranging for a dray to haul barrels of gold, waiting in the shadows dressed as a man to hide the barrels, and later melting those gold coins little by little behind her shop’s workroom. Common, needful duties done patiently, efficiently, in the background, as was her way.
“Don’t let my fine praise go to your head,” Mary said. “You failed to mention the distinction between masked and unmasked women at Maison Bedwell.”
“But you managed all the same.”
“I did.”
Cecelia flopped back against her mound of pillows. “What’s your plan for returning to Bedwell’s? Will you play the masked spinster seeking adventure?”
“I was thinking about renting a room in Maison Bedwell.”
Cecelia’s eyes rounded.
“You, renting a room for an assignation? My, how far you’ve fallen, Miss Fletcher.”
She touched her lips as if to hide her smile. “It does feel wanton.”
“Because it is, but a sound idea all the same.”
“I’ll have to use the last of our French livres. A purse full . . . that’s what’s left of our league funds.”
Cecelia’s mouth curved a knowing smile. Pale blond wisps fell around her cheeks, carefree and girlish on the worldly Scotswoman.
“The more interesting question is do you plan to use the room?”
“As a meeting place only.”
“Well, I’m sure Mr. MacLeod—”
“Stop,” Mary said firmly. “Our priority is to find the gold, and oh, by the way, decide what to do about a bloodthirsty countess.”
Which sounded overly prim to her ears.
“Silly of me to consider pleasures of the flesh at a time like this.” Cecelia spoke in such even tones it was clear she didn’t think it silly at all. “Though I can’t countenance why you’re so determined to hunt down the last of the gold.”
“Because we should leave no stone unturned.”
Cecelia wasn’t sold on the explanation. The blonde drummed her fingers on the pillowy counterpane with the softest tap tap tap until she closed the conversational gap.
“Tell me how you came by those bruises.”
