Page 64 of The Scot Who Loved Me
A sigh gusted out of him. He knew how cruel men and women could be.
Anne grabbed the gate near his hand and held on tight. “Cecelia obtained the names of Dr. Cameron’s guards and we watched them. Their habits, possible weaknesses.”
“I believe you, lass, and I believe the countess was one step ahead of you.”
“She was. By happenstance, I approached the guard, Mr. Wickham, while he was in his cups at a tavern. He told me a cloaked noblewoman armed with ruffians threatened him and his family. He said he had no choice but to let her in to Dr. Cameron’s cell in the middle of the night while he was on watch.”
“And he listened to the conversation and told you.”
“He did. When I asked for the name of this noblewoman, all he could say was he glimpsed a white streak in her black hair.” Anne eyed the bustling river. “That was enough.”
“Does she work alone?”
“We don’t know. Nor do we know how she got Jacobite gold to London and how much of it is out there,” she said, her chin tipping at the City where rooftops bit the sky with uneven teeth.
London was good at chewing up its people. None save the rich and nimble could survive. Anne and her league were to be counted among the latter. Quick and agile, they had forged onward with their clan’s reward in sight, and they were so, so close. The league’s mission added vibrancy to his step—to do good for others. For his clan.
Anne’s voice rose quietly beside him. “I want to go home.”
He flinched, her words punching him. Anne leaned against her crooked gate with longing in her eyes. The same yearning pulsed in him. He’d fought it, denied it, and found rest in various places, claiming them to be his home. But he knew better. Home was more than where a man laid his head. It was in his heart, his soul, in the air he breathed and the kin he shared a life with.
But he couldn’t go back to Scotland. An untenable stance, yet true.
Heavy in spirit, he touched her shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”
They entered her house more tangled and unclear than when they left it hours ago. He’d sought to deepen his bond with Anne, to wooher. Their shop day journey through Southwark did nothing of the sort. They walked into Anne’s salon pensive and quiet where Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora were altering the bigamist’s clothes.
“Yer back and hale and hearty for the outing,” Aunt Flora said.
“It was our visit with the apothecary. Quite stimulating.” Anne winked at him and offered a wobbly smile.
Aunt Maude set a shirt aside and rose from the settee. “Let me take that.” She took the basket from Will and peeked under white cloth. “Got everything, I see. And it was fun?”
“It was informative, ma’am.”
Anne’s small laugh was the fresh air he needed.
“Good, good.” Aunt Maude bustled off to the kitchen with promises to bring cider for Anne and watered ale for him.
Anne collected her ledgers, her ink, and quill and took a seat at the table. He’d seen her on a horse. He’d seen her navigate Southwark and navigate the countryside, but he’d not witnessed her working. He took a seat at the table for the joy of watching her nibbling her thumbnail, dipping her quill twice in ink, and blotting it once before committing to the page. She was pretty, apple cheeked and wind mussed. He nursed the watered ale Aunt Maude delivered, enjoying this respite. The Iron Bell wasn’t going anywhere. He would go later to ask his questions about men withT-branded thumbs. They were all chattering about the day, the mood easy and relaxed when the front door banged open.
Miss Mary Fletcher flew into the salon, hairdisheveled, her eyes wide. Her mouth rounded with all the drama she could muster, which had to be considerable since the woman didn’t strike him as having an ounce of drama in her body.
She charged the table, nearly falling on it. “We are in terrible, terrible trouble.”
He grabbed a chair off the wall and positioned it with an indecorous, “Sit.”
She flopped on the chair and set her elbows on the table.
“I shall get the brandy.” Aunt Flora sped off with speed belying her age.
Miss Fletcher was in a daze. Charcoal smudged her cheeks and acrid smoke clung to her clothes. Red-striped petticoats fanned out, burn holes pocking the fabric. She rested her head in both hands, announcing, “I set fire to my shop.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Collective gasps were followed by a spray of questions.
“Is Margaret hurt?” From Aunt Maude.
