Page 48 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“No bother at all. We have reason to celebrate. Mr. MacDonald informed me a moment ago that the two of you are betrothed. Does that make this... marriage number three, Mrs. Neville?”
“It is. Perhaps third time’s a charm.”
Will was again Mr. MacDonald and the ungentle barbs were out. Anne wanted to parry her ladyship’s verbal thrust, but she had nothing. Nothing at all. Speaking her mind was a talent she possessed, but cruel wit was a level to which she’d never stoop. Words mattered, even in the face of overwhelming odds. But all was not lost. She breathed in Will’s presence, his sunshine and steadiness. He had an imprint of the key and he had her secret. Both were in his safekeeping.
Hope lifted her chin. “Tea might be just the thing, my lady.”
The countess’s brows rose a fraction. Anne smiled back. She’d studied her adversary. Agile in the art of set downs and intrigue, her ladyship knew when to regroup and retreat. The countess watched Mr. Styles drive his handcart down North Audley Street.
“How odd. A rag-n-bone man coming to the front door.” A regal hand settled in the crook of Will’s elbow. “Shall we?”
The countess had staked her claim. From the doorstep, Anne watched their amble. Only a sliver of light squeaked between her ladyship’s head and Will’s upper arm. Wretched emotions and late summer’s warmth coated Anne’s skin.She needed a bath and a brandy and to unpeel that woman from Will.
“I prefer beer.” MacLeod’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “But tea it is.”
A flirt, a ruffian, and he was her ladyship’sverynew private footman.
“Indeed.” She set a hand on his sleeve, and they stepped inside the cool marble entry.
Why wasn’t Will putting distance between himself and the countess?
An inner voice taunted,Whydo you care?You’ve got the key, now get the gold.Just make sure the countess doesn’t ask too many questions.Anything to divert her ladyship was good. Wasn’t it?
Low laughter rumbled beside her. “Careful, Mrs. Neville. Your glare could melt ice.”
She willed her legs and her attitude to match MacLeod’s relaxed nature. This was only tea. She could do this. When they passed through a gilt-trimmed doorway, her face was forward but her gaze dropped to MacLeod’s dusty boots. He must’ve ridden the bay. Could he not tolerate long stints alone with the countess in her carriage? Or was her new private footman simply an outrider? Mr. MacLeod’s role with the countess didn’t matter. One singular fact did. A new actor—a highlander—had entered the stage, and he was probably after the gold.
Chapter Fifteen
Will folded himself into the small carriage, gusting a long exhale.
“I was afraid I’d have to send a search party to find you.” His cousin scooted over for Anne, who was presently squashing herself onto the shared seat. Cecelia’s bright smile faded at Anne’s grim visage. “Something went wrong.”
“Verra wrong. Lady Denton returned home earlier than expected.” He tossed aside his tricorn and planted himself beside it. “Something about poor grouse hunting.”
His cousin banged the ceiling, and the vehicle lurched forward.
“The countess,” Anne said, ripping off her straw hat. “Couldn’t find creatures to hunt in the countryside. So, she came to the City with a mind to hunt for something—or someone—else.”
Her gaze pinned him. She was in a mood with tendrils sticking to her cheeks, and stray hairs haloing her head. One side of her gown was off . . . wilted, he’d say. Her skirt drooped off one hip while puffing properly on the other. Annewas in a tiff and the walk back to St. George’s Chapel didn’t burn her ire. Their walk fueled it.
Conversation had been a balancing act, him soothing her ruffled feathers while otherwise holding his tongue. Grosvenor Square, and by extension South Audley Street, swarmed with servants returning from their half day. They had to be careful. Anne, however, had been a hissing cat once they left Denton House. In her anger, she’d thrown caution to the wind, while the countess, in the safety of her home, had thrown veiled insults over tea. Sharp darts. Subtle digs. The Countess of Denton had hunted for Anne’s weak spot during their brief respite—all delicately done as was her ladyship’s way. Anne’s clothes, her station, her lack of wealth, and classic beauty. Anne had gamely absorbed them all, smiling blandly, engaging in a verbal swerve and deflect. He knew why. She focused on the prize: taking back Jacobite gold.
Ancilla was another story—a woman crossing paths with the man who’d scorned her.
Her poor behavior was pride, simple as that.
Both women would recover. More importantly, with the wax mold in his pocket, their task was done. A good day’s work.
“We should celebrate.” He shrugged off his coat. The carriage was stifling.
Cecelia clapped. “Yes, let’s do!”
“No, let’s not.” Anne’s mouth pursed.
“Do we have an imprint of the key, or not?”
“We do, but there’s a new wrinkle. Lady Denton has a new private footman,” Anne said. “One Mr. Rory MacLeod.”
