Page 44 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“And how do you propose to do this?” she asked. “‘See justice done’ as you say.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d forget about it, if I were you. The attack was happenstance. Life on the wharfs.”
“You’re the shepherdess of a seditious league. Anything bad happening to you is no’ happenstance.”
“I really don’t need protecting,” she muttered.
A poorly dressed man entered the square off North Audley Street, wheeling a squeaky handcart.
“Mr. Styles,” Anne said under her breath, her relief palpable. “Let’s go.”
He stopped and clamped a hand on hers. “Tell me.”
She tried to pull him along. He didn’t budge. Carmine lips pressed into a rigid line.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“You’re no’ the first to say that.”
“What if I don’t want you to investigate my attack?”
The stubborn lass had held too many cards for too long. He could argue a million things, but with Anne, it wouldn’t work. Actions always spoke loudest. The squeaking cart neared Denton House. Birds chirped and Will pulled out the pocket watch, sunlight blindingly bright on the silver.
“One minute and counting, Mrs. Neville.”
Her bosom heaved. She was indignant, her eyes green chips shaded by her straw hat. A stooped rag-n-bone man stopped his cart at the stairs of Denton House. Will had a direct view, but Anne, angled toward Will, couldn’t see, though she could certainly hear the goings-on behind her. The ruse was afoot. Mr. Styles had indeed transformed himself. Soiled shirt, patched breeches, hair untidy. He scratched his head and rifled through a pile of clothes.
“There’s nothing I can say to convince you?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Sweat trickled under Anne’s gossamer kerchief tucked into her bodice. Could be he was pushing his luck, but time wasn’t on his side—for finding the men who hurt Anne or winning her heart. He tucked the watch into his pocket where the lump of wax waited. A footman marchingtoward them eyed Will, his gait slowing. The servant changed course and crossed the street, giving them a wide berth.
“Mr. Styles just popped something white into his mouth,” Will said in a voice for Anne’s ears alone. “At least we’re getting this part right. Betrothed couples have the odd spat, don’t they?”
Her slender nostrils flared. “And you’re making my heart race, but not the good kind.”
“It’s a start, lass.”
To which she glanced peculiarly at him before glancing at Denton House over her shoulder. The counterfeit crank was making a show of rummaging through his cart of clothes, his jaws working.
Anne linked a stiff arm with his. “You want information? Start walking.”
He did, which loosened Anne’s tongue.
“I was alone in my warehouse at Gun Wharf. It was late and there was only one lamp burning. Three men with dark scarves covering their faces entered my warehouse. Two of them ransacked stored goods, though nothing was stolen. The third man came at me. We fought. He knocked me into a post which is how I got hurt. That blow left me dazed and disoriented. I recovered... couldn’t have been more than a minute, but when I turned around, all three were gone.”
Foam squished out the corner of Mr. Styles’s mouth.
“Did you notice anything different about the men?”
“Will!” she hissed, her arm taut against his.
“Anything at all?”
Mr. Styles mounted the steps to Denton House. Anne shook with nerves and anger, her head swiveling from Denton House to Will.
