Page 33 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Eight
Miss Turner’s bright-red cloak swayed as she headed to the cottage. Peter Dutton helped one sister into the cart, doffing his hat when the Pallinsburn housekeeper walked by. The young man watched her like a cheerful puppy in want of a tasty bite.
“She’s not for you, my lad. Not for you,” Marcus uttered under his breath.
Yet, he couldn’t lay claim to her. Miss Turner had gifted him with her trust. He couldn’t abuse it despite the flirtation flowing naturally between them, a current she fought hard.
When was the last time a woman stirred him like this?
Her strokes to his cravat tantalized him more than artful ballroom banter. He was far from London’s elegance…grimy with work-worn gloves on his hands and dirt on his face. As he walked to his front door, his achy strides reminded him he wasn’t as young as Mr. Dutton, nor was he accustomed to hard labor. Putting on his best smile, he’d not scare off the youth. He needed him.
“Mr. Dutton. Do you have your delivery pouch?”
“Right here, milord.” Peter patted the cart’s sideboard. “Can I interest you in a broadsheet? Two for a shilling.”
The lad hefted his leather pouch from the cart. “TheGazette, theEdinburgh Times…some pamphlets. Take your pick.”
They stood near the front door’s lamplight, riffling through old broadsheets, the edges ripped and curling. One pamphlet caught Marcus’s eye. He thumbed through the yellowed publication and smiled. This would be powerful ammunition with Miss Turner.
“I’ll take this, theGazette, and theEdinburgh Times.”
“Thatpamphlet?” The lad screwed up his face. “It’s free. Nobody wants it.”
Marcus pulled coins from his waistcoat pocket and dropped them into Peter’s hand. He added another one. “For the delivery.”
Mr. Dutton counted the coins. “You gave me too much, milord.”
Marcus inclined his head away from the cart. “A word in private?”
They walked three paces.
“Keep the extra shilling.” Voice quiet, Marcus set a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I’ve a job for you, but you need to keep it between us.”
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for a woman.”
Mr. Dutton flashed a smile. “Then you’ll be wanting a trip to Learmouth village, milord. There’s a pair of buxom redheads at the public house who’d be glad to make your acquaintance.”
Marcus chuckled. “Not quite what I’m looking for. I’m trying to locate an older woman, Maude Turner, a family acquaintance. Have you heard of her?”
“Can’t say I have,” Peter said, scratching sparse chin whiskers. “I go Tillmouth way this week. Coldstream next. I can make inquiries.”
“Good lad.” He slapped Peter’s shoulder and dipped his head near the youth’s ear. “Remember, complete discretion. No one must know.”
“I understand.”
“Good. There’s another shilling if you find anything.”
Peter Dutton climbed onto his cart. Ruby Dutton sat on the driver’s seat beside her brother, flashing too much ankle.
“Good eve to you, milord,” she purred, setting her hood on her red curls.
Grinning, Marcus tipped his hat and sketched a bow. As the cart pulled away, Ruby Dutton blew a saucy kiss, the artful tilt of her chin the sign of a woman in search of trouble. It wouldn’t do to encourage her. Less than a year ago, he would’ve pursued Miss Dutton and the Learmouth redheads. Now, he couldn’t muster interest.Was he losing his edge?
Tucking the papers under his arm, he pushed the warped front door. Wood squeaked, and the weighty door swung wide. “Must fix that.”
He froze on the threshold, his feet heavy. Everything was…cozy and warm. His grandmother’s red and yellow carpet was spread over a clean floor. Tapers lit her favorite leaf-shaped sconces on polished paneled walls. The aroma of fresh-baked bread floated from the kitchen. His gaze bounced from the stairs to the repaired parlor doorway. Miss Turner’s handiwork?
