Page 30 of The Scot Who Loved Me
Her shoe clattered to the floor.Cecelia!What piss-poor timing.
She grasped more velvet, stretching the clothto its limit. Will checked her, a tense frown her answer. His private smile did nothing to erase her jagged edge. They untangled themselves, him smoothing his coat, and her hot skinned, tossing back unruly curls while wantonness streamed her veins.
“We were discussing today’s purchase,” she said as dignified as one could, sitting on a barrel with one shoe on and one shoe off.
“Of course, you were.” Cecelia’s cat-that-ate-the-cream smile stretched wide and introductions were made.
Cecelia was arms linked with Mr. Horatio Styles, cozy and friendly as was her way. Anne worked hard to be agreeable, but lust clung like a vapor, clouding her head. She liked Mr. Styles. He took his profession seriously. With gentle manners and a tutor’s mien, his past was unknown. Scholar? Actor? He could’ve been both or neither. Gray haired and smooth skinned, his age was uncertain, but his talent legendary. When he didn’t work, the man dressed well. Pink of the fashion.
“Mr. Styles is a counterfeit crank,” Cecelia explained to Will. “The best.”
“Thank you, Miss MacDonald.” Mr. Styles beamed. “I am happy to use my skills to help a friend.”
“A counterfeit crank?” Will’s brow furrowed. “How is your pretending to have the falling-down sickness getting me inside a house on Grosvenor Square?”
“Because I shall play the part of a rag-n-bone man afflicted with the falling-down sickness.”
“While you and Anne play a newly betrothed couple out for a stroll,” Cecelia said to Will.
Will nodded, appearing to digest this. “There’s go’ to be more.”
“There is,” Cecelia said. “Do go on, Mr. Styles. My cousin hasn’t heard all the details.”
Anne tucked a wayward lock behind her ear. Will pivoted well. She couldn’t. Her jangled nerves and lust-drenched limbs needed to recover. At least there was nothing to worry about here. Chatter swelled inside, the perfect place to converse about a crime. No one would hear them. No one would care. The White Lamb was crawling with harlots and rogues of every stripe.
“Of course.” Mr. Styles was bright eyed, speaking to Will. “Tomorrow, at half past one, you will see me steer my handcart to the doorstep of Denton House at Grosvenor Square. I shall climb the stairs while chewing a piece of soap. A froth will form quickly. At which time, I shall fall down at the front door, appearing to foam at the mouth. That will be your cue to come to the rescue and pound on the front door.” Mr. Styles beamed at his audience of three. “Easy enough?”
Will shook his head. “It won’t work. West of St. Martin’s Lane, all rag-n-bone men go to the kitchen or the mews. Never the front door.”
“For this outing, he will be at the front of the house,” Cecelia insisted. “Your pounding on the door will bring the housekeeper—”
“Who will slam it shut when she sees trouble on her mistress’s doorstep.” Will was mulishly certain. “And let’s no’ forget that Mrs. Goodspeed knows me.”
Anne watched him. Interesting, his knowledge of the habits of rag-n-bone men.
“Mrs. Goodspeed is no longer housekeeper of Denton House. Mrs. Brown is.” Cecelia’s voice firmed. “With you and Anne dressed in the height of fashion, Mrs. Brownwilloblige you.”
Anne touched Will’s sleeve. “Once the door is open, you will pull Mr. Styles into the entryway—”
“The housekeeper will have a hard time removing you then,” Cecelia put in.
“—and that’s when you will offer to fetch a cup of water from the kitchen.”
“But I won’t go to the kitchen. I’ll go to the study and make an imprint of the key,” Will finished the plan neatly, intuitively, his eyes on Anne.
“While Mr. Styles and I will do our best to detain the housekeeper.”
She let her spine rest against the wall. Rum and the late hour were beginning to sap her. In a matter of minutes, Will grasped what had taken weeks to orchestrate. Every twist and turn had been argued and counter-argued with the league. Nothing could go wrong. The alternative, if Will had refused to join them, was her hunting for the key in the study.
“When you return, I shall make a miraculous recovery and be on my way.” Mr. Styles winked. “None will be the wiser.”
“All the servants will be gone on their half day, save the housekeeper,” Cecelia said. “You will be in and out in a matter of minutes.”
The four of them made a tight circle. Will, eyes on the floor, rubbed his nape. Crime didn’t sit well with him. A moral man, he was goodness from the crown of his head to the soles of his worn-out boots. She’d hardened her heart, but Will’s return scraped off calloused parts. His presence was a reminder: she used to wake up to honest, carefree days.
She gripped her mug with both hands. Prison terrified her. The cold finality, so bleak and hostile.
How did Will manage to endure it? A man who aspired to do good had ended up in a dank prison hold, while she worked ferociously in the shadows to skirt the law for a good end. There was no fairness in what life had dealt them. Yet Will was fearless as ever, a solid presence beside her.
