Page 22 of All Scot and Bothered
“Trustye?” he scoffed, pushing off the desk as if he needed distance from her odious presence. “I think ye are a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Miss Thistledown.”
“Better that than a sheep in wolf’s clothing,” she bit back. “You politicians, forever bleating and being led about by the herd, snarling as though you had teeth with which to bite.”
The vein in his forehead pulsed as his skin mottled, taking on a deep-purple hue. “How dare ye—”
“How dareI?” she echoed. “I’ve enjoyed Emmental cheeses with fewer holes than the so-called evidence notated in this warrant.” She folded up the document and tossed it to his side of the desk. “Furthermore, one must ask oneself what a justice of Her Majesty’s High Court is doing down from his lofty bench, kicking in doors with common footpads, and terrorizing the respectable young ladies of my school in the middle of the afternoon. This stinks to me of a political move by a man with hopes of being the next Lord Chancellor. And I refuse to be fodder for your aspirations.”
He stalked around the desk, and Cecelia fought a flush of panic.
“The nonexistent respectability of yer employees notwithstanding”—he stabbed a finger at the wall separating the residence from the school—“I am going to make ye the same promise I made yer gutter-harpy of a predecessor.” He towered over her, and it took every fiber of self-containment Cecelia possessed not to jump away and flee.
She remained seated, staring straight ahead, not looking up for fear that was ceding some kind of power.
And also, that her wig might slip off.
His next words pierced through her with all the strength of a Spartan’s lance.
“When a child goes missing in this city, I’ll kick in every door of every establishment like this one until I find the culprit, starting with yers.” Ramsay placed one hand on her desk and the other on the back of her chair. He leaned down, bringing his lips terrifyingly close to her ear.
“And know this, I’ll hang anyone who was responsible for captivity. For degradation. And for possible murder.” His breath was hot against her ear and neck, sending little thrills of exquisite terror down her spine. The sweet scent of it mixed with the starch of his jacket, the cedar-fresh aroma of linen, and something darker, muskier, plied her senses and muddled her wits until his next sentence.
“I carenotif rope is wrapped around a bearded throat or one that’s… elegant and lily white. It all stretches the same.”
Cecelia fought the urge to bring her hand to her throat, fearing any reaction might make her appear guilty.
He straightened. “Surrender the ledgers and accounts with the names of yer clients.”
“I do not know the whereabouts of such ledgers,” Cecelia claimed honestly before crying, “Just what do you think you are doing?”
He wrenched open the drawers of her desk and began to rifle through the contents. “I have the authority to search everywhere. So ye stay right where ye are and keep yer hands on the desk.”
Cecelia complied as beads of sweat trickled betweenher breasts and from her hairline. There were too many factors—the heat of the stifling cape, the relentless summer sun, the child at her feet she’d been tasked to protect, and the fear that he might find what he was looking for. She didn’t truly know Henrietta, after all. Not enough.
And yet she wanted to hope.
“There is a compartment hidden here.” He groped beneath the drawer to her left, and his features tightened victoriously as he found the dial. “What is the combination?”
“Aeneid,” she whispered.
He stared at her, unblinking, his features carefully blank before he moved the dials and discovered the now-empty secret compartment.
“What was here?” he demanded.
“Something Henrietta hid before I arrived,” she answered honestly.
Cecelia was a breath away from a conniption when Sir Ramsay slid her chair back to open the thin desk drawer directly in front of her.
She didn’t know which shocked her the most—that he could move her occupied chair with the strength of one arm, or her fleeting, absurd urge to test the texture of his gold locks as he bent to investigate the contents of the drawer.
When he found only a collection of writing implements, stationery, and a magnifying glass in the thin drawer, Cecelia deflated her lungs in relief.
“Nothing of note here, my lord,” reported a constable. “Nor in the private bedrooms, either. Unless you want to confiscate items such as this.” He brandished a book.
Cecelia squinted but could not make out the title from across the room without her spectacles.
“Bring it here.” Ramsay reached for it, and the constabledeposited it readily. Upon opening it, he made a disgusted sound and dropped it as though it had burned him.
Cecelia suppressed a giggle, lodging it firmly in her throat. The book landed open to an erotic depiction. A man stood erect in all possible ways, and a woman knelt before him, his shaft disappearing into her willing, open mouth. Beneath the photo, a lewd and detailed list gave instructions for fornicating thusly.
