Page 75 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“You’ve heard nothing about Mr. MacLeod?” Anne asked conversationally.
“Nothing. The man could be a ghost. Which is strange, don’t you think? The person you and Will described would surely have stopped in apub or tavern somewhere in the City, yet not a soul claims to have heard of him.”
“Strange.”
“Would you like some luncheon, dears?” Aunt Flora rose from her chair, her knees cracking.
“A little something would be nice,” Cecelia said.
Aunt Flora headed to the kitchen and Anne refocused on theFore Street Journal. Unlike theGentleman’s Monthly Intelligencer,which Aunt Flora hoarded in a basket in the corner of the salon, it did not print pictures. She skimmed a hyperbolic column dedicated to housebreaking incidents.
“It says, last night, there was a horrible housebreaking on Little Wood Street, another at Dean Street and another near Lincoln Inn Fields.” Anne felt her eyes pop bigger. “Housebreakers moving to the West End? Rather bold of them.”
“Read further.”
She skimmed, which worked the same. Her mind could barely concentrate on a column of sums, much less a breathless recounting of terribly vicious crimes.
“What am I looking for?”
“The part that says the Duke of Newcastle summoned Bow Street’s magistrate, Mr. Henry Fielding.” Carmine lips twisted a pout worthy of Drury Lane. “Friends tell me the crown insists on criminal reform, and Mr. Fielding has been charged to see it done.”
Cecelia’s friends were a nebulous lot. She rarely expounded on who they were, and Anne never pressed. But that pout began to falter, and unease climbed into hazel eyes.
“You look worried. Don’t be—snails move faster than the crown.”
Cecelia shook her head emphatically. “No. This is different. Change is coming. Common folk are in an uproar. Look at what happened to you.”
Anne touched the nearly forgotten bruise. London’s aggressive tumble was part of daily life.
“I’ve been to Bow Street, Anne. I’ve watched Mr. Fielding in action. I’ve caught him watching me.”
“Because you’re pretty.”
“Or because he’s seen this.” Cecelia peeled back a finger’s width of lace, baring her tartan rosette.
A well-known fact: Mr. Henry Fielding wrote vociferously against the Jacobite cause. It was just like Cecelia to flounce into the gallery of the magistrate’s court, her devil-take-you rosette showing. Anne sighed. From what she’d heard, it was just like Mr. Fielding to take note.
“He keeps meticulous records of criminals and their associates—even if they’ve never been charged with a crime.” Cecelia worried a line in her petticoat. “This doesn’t bode well for us.”
Cecelia was lightness and cheer. She spoke the language of fashion and beauty. Fun and flirtation were her currency. That she pored over newspapers was troubling. An obsessive habit? A restless mind? She read positively everything. Perhaps their drive for the Jacobite gold had been too much? It could be she was cracking under pressure.
“Cecelia,” she chided. “I hardly think—”
“He has a record of me!” Cecelia whisper-hissed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The front door opened. Pleasant conversations rose, Aunt Flora greeting Aunt Maude returned from purchasing more candles, Margaret and Mary Fletcher joking about Neville House needing to lock its door, and not a manly brogue among them. Aunt Flora’s refrain rang in her head:He’s a grown man who can come and go as he pleases.
At the moment, Will should be the least of her worries. The league needed her. Cecelia needed her. The woman was white as a sheet behind rouged cheeks.
Anne squeezed her hand and said a quick, “Please. You and I will speak of this later. Not a word to them about Mr. Fielding and his meticulous records.”
Cecelia gave a jerky nod. “None.” Though worry was plainly writ on her face.
Anne rubbed trim on her skirt between her thumb and forefingers. It was difficult to think with the clamor in her mind. If Cecelia is in Mr. Fielding’s book, she might be too. And the other ladies.
Had Bow Street’s magistrate heard whispers of their league?
