Page 42 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“Cecelia is meeting a contact in the burying grounds behind the chapel.”
He turned from his survey of houses. Was Anne offering an olive branch?
“A man of the cloth?”
“No, she’s meeting—” brows pinching, she snapped open a lacy fan “—I dare not say. The less you know, the better.”
“You didna hold back last night, madame. No need to hold back now.”
“Last night was personal.”
“No, it was an act of trust. The same as today.” He looked pointedly at her. “I’m part of this.”
I’m part of youwas the deeper message.
They’d spent the morning navigating an unspoken truce. Her scratching notes in a ledger while he stood, arms out, in her salon with Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora fussing over him. The final product wasn’t bad. His coat was brown velvet trimmed in gold at the sleeves. The matching velvet breeches felt good on his thighs (velvet—one thing nobs got right). The bigamist’s shoes pinched his toes, but for a few hours work, they’d do.
Appreciation gleamed in Anne’s eyes, but he’d rather see faith in him.
She fluttered her fan with an indolent wrist. “Cecelia is meeting someone who works at General Seward’s School. They talk over the stone wall that separates the school from the burying ground.”
“Clever.”
“She is indeed.” Anne’s carmine smile was pretty. “Cecelia cultivates contacts throughout the City and places beyond.”
They trundled into Grosvenor Square, daylight blessing Anne. She reminded him of a proud mama, warming to her topic with words of genuine respect and friendship. She was the league’s leader, but each woman was a talent in her own right.
“Cecelia negotiates for information with the French coins reminted by Mary, or—” she gave an eloquent shrug “—she uses whatever means to accomplish her goal.”
“Who would’ve thought, my cousin, procurer of information and queen of the barter.”
“Don’t crown Cecelia yet. You’ve not seen Aunt Flora at work. The woman contrives her way into places Cecelia cannot.”
“Aunt Flora? I thought she was just keepin’ your house.”
“Have a care or she’ll box your ears. Aunt Flora may be an older woman but she’s no less capable.” The carriage rolled to a stop. “Both Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora are the perfect foil. No one would ever suspect them.”
“What about you?”
She looped her fan around her wrist. “I am exactly what you see. Leader, organizer, general shepherdess.”
The door opened. Anne exited the carriage, her garnet earbobs swinging like great drops of blood against her neck. He followed, mild unease in his belly. They were at the mouth of Duke Street. At the next corner was Denton House. Itsslightly superior three-story height was a sniff above the neighbors, and its five bay windows, dismissive despite pots of cheery red flowers and a bright blue door.
Never thought I’d cross that threshold again.
“Meet us by St. George’s Chapel in an hour,” Anne said to the coachman.
The coachman touched his hat. “Aye, ma’am.” And the garish vehicle rolled on.
The Garden Oval at the center of Grosvenor Square was just as he remembered. Low hedges, trimmed lawns, and elm trees. A little girl and her nursemaid admired the statue of King George I on horseback in the garden center. It was by that statue he’d bade farewell to Ancilla. Her tears had flowed, tiny droplets rare as diamonds. She’d sniffled and whined (another rare occurrence), but when he gently disentangled himself, she’d cast him out with the fury of a flaming cherubim sealing the Garden of Eden.
Black railing encircled the exclusive oval, a reminder that neither he nor Anne belonged. Only keyholders who lived here and paid for the privilege gained entry.
He donned his hat, the wax lump solid in his pocket. Another key was more important.
Anne was tying a peach silk bow under her chin, scanning the environs. A sharp-eyed treasure huntress.
She was most important of all.
