Page 77 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“You aren’t reconsidering our plans for the twenty-eighth, are you? We canna let fear of what the countesscould dostop us. We are equal to the task.” Margaret Fletcher, by far the quietest of their merry band, had spoken.
Anne smiled gently, adding stout-hearted to Margaret’s qualities.
Forks scraped plates politely. Everyone waited for Anne. Knowledge glinted between her and Cecelia, shiny as quicksilver and twice as dangerous. The two of them were thick as thieves among genteel, skirted thieves.
“Quitting is not a choice,” Anne said at last. “We go as planned.”
“That’s the spirit.” Aunt Flora’s fork plowed into a substantial bite.
Anne rose from her perch on the settee, fingering her medallion. She had less than five minutes to impart needful information.
“There is, however, one small twist.”
The fork scraping stopped. Five expectant feminine stares sought hers.
“All of you must leave the night we take back the gold.” Her gaze touched each woman. “It’s best to assume our cloak of anonymity is gone.”
“Do you think she knows about us?” Aunt Flora asked. “For all the times I’ve been tae her kitchen, she’s never set foot in that room. Not once.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if Lady Denton doesn’t know exactly what we’re up to at the moment, she certainly will once the gold is gone.”
“But to leave... so fast?” Mary asked.
She was firm. “Yes. Do you have someone to watch over your shop?”
The best tactic was to herd the conversation away fromifthey left to when and how it would be done. A tidy maneuver, it worked wonders.
Mary rested her plate in her lap. “I did hire a shop girl last month.”
“She’s trustworthy,” Margaret said. “I can vouch—her character is sterling.”
Anne was pacing in earnest now. A glance at the clock: two minutes to leave.
“Why would the countess have any inkling of me or Margaret?” Mary asked. “Or Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora? We’re invisible to the likes of her.”
She set hands together. In supplication. To beg. To order, if she had to, though her shepherdess skills had grown legendary. Why be imperious when building accord was much more effective?
Trembling, urgent need rose inside her. She wanted to choose her words with care, but an ardent, “Please,” was all that came out.
Young Margaret Fletcher’s eyes rounded. Aunt Maude’s mouth puckered fiercely. Aunt Flora and Mary’s did too. The seated women checked each other quietly. A bridge of agreement was built one brick at a time. Anne was standing on a structure of trust which had been built long before this moment, and, God willing, would last long after.
Mary exhaled, her cheeks puffing. “Well, I’ve always wanted to visit Brighton. Perhaps this is our chance,” she said to the room.
“Flora and I will go with you,” Aunt Maude said, patting Mary’s arm. “And you, Cecelia. Will you join us?”
Cecelia was coiling a curl around her finger. “I think I shall take the waters at Bath. It should be a fine visit this time of year.”
“What about you and Will?” Aunt Flora’s blue eyes clouded with worry. “And the gold?”
Anne strode to her escritoire where the ledgerwaited, an innocent prop in this ruse. She knew the fate of the Jacobite treasure. If Will was here, she could ask him about his plans beyond the generalfind his father in Virginia.He’d certainly earned substantial payment to get him there, which was another matter to resolve. His payment. Answering his question about that August day eight years ago was not nearly enough.
“I don’t know what he has planned.” Saying that squeezed her heart. She opened the slender drawer that housed the Neville Warehouse key.
“He hasna said much tae me,” Aunt Flora said. “But you’ll be safe. Hauling the gold and all up north?”
The Neville Warehouse key nestled in a corner of the drawer. She dumped it in her pocket, shut the drawer, and collected the ledger. She hugged the account book to her chest and faced the women she’d labored with, colluded with, and generally grown to love over the past few years. She needed the book’s gentle armor. Her heart was threatening to beat out of her chest and tears of a sudden wanted to spill.
“Mr. Harrison, an acquaintance from the White Lamb, helped arrange my passage on a recommissioned sloop named—” she held her breath because it was the oddest turn “—The Grosvenor.”
