Page 79 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“I find humor helps,” Anne said, stepping back to give the countess room. “Makes the days pass amiably.”
“Wine and sex do the same.”
Her step hitched, the stumble slight. Well,thatwas unexpected.
“These cobbles, my lady. So uneven.”
“Don’t be a bore, Mrs. Neville. The cobbles are fine.” The countess was silk unfurling, ice pink and butter yellow. “You were honest with me, it seemed fitting that I do the same.”
So that was how it was going to be. There was a moment, the sun anointing their meeting while both women took measure of the other. A decision staked itself firmly in Anne’s mind. Confidence would be met with confidence. A woman could fly no better flag.
“You already gave me a taste of your honesty at Denton House, my lady.”
A fractured, artful laugh and, “I did, didn’t I?”
The countess smoothed her skirts and rotated fully, taking in sun-bleached wood and seagulls squabbling over a dead fish. Gun Wharf was small by Southwark standards. Mostly timber and stone passed through here, raw materials for a master craftsman to create something bigger and better somewhere else. With only four warehouses, business was quiet. It always was. Even harlots at sunset sought their custom elsewhere.
Lady Denton eyed each warehouse, her bored gaze stopping at the fourth, its sign dirt smeared and faded. AWwas visible.
“What is that one?”
“The sign says Wilcox, my lady. A deserted warehouse, I collect.” She drummed impatient fingers on her ledger. “Shall we walk to my warehouse?”
Three male heads popped out behind a door at the other end of the wharf. The carriage was a head-scratching sight. The lady who’d decamped it, a floating confection, walking to Neville Warehouse.
“You might be surprised to learn that I have been looking forward to our meeting,” the countess said.
“I wouldn’t know that from your missive.”
Her comment was a parry, left unmet. Lady Denton’s admission was intimate, a door ajar, inviting entry. She was intrigued. That quip about wine and sex still floated feather-like through her brain, the words trying to find the proper place to land.
“You seek an honest audience with me,” she said.
“It would be a fine beginning.” Lady Denton tipped her head and read the faded blue-and-white sign above the door. “Neville Warehouse established 1733.”
An iron padlock sealed the entry. Anne fished around her petticoat pocket, metal clinking. Her fingers brushed the Wilkes Lock key. She froze. Heat needled her scalp as she flicked away the dangerous, filigreed silver piece.
She’d forgotten that there were two keys in her pocket.
Lady Denton watched her, the sign no longer of interest. Brows like tapered half-moons pressed together with budding impatience.
A smile stuck to her lips while her hand closed over a plain bowhead key.
“Here it is.” She held it up and rammed it in the lock.
Those tapered half-moons reset. Anne swung the door wide to let Lady Denton pass. She exhaled softly behind the lady’s back.
Of all the blunders!
Eyes to azure skies, she steeled herself and went inside. Daylight landed on a shoulder-high stack of Bavarian pine and the countess, pokingaround the near-empty building. Eight crates were stacked on one wall. A dozen barrels nestled two abreast,Mermaid Brewerybranded on their bellies. Anne busied herself with unlocking the inside padlock of a larger, river-facing door. Heels digging in, she heaved the door, its rusty wheelssqueak, squeak, squeaking. The Thames was on the other side, a modest wood crane and its iron hook overhanging it. The loft above housed the crane’s treadwheel, which powered the crane.
A narrow strip of land, enough to stack two barrels side by side stood between her and timeless waters. She waited, more curious than alarmed. The key was in her pocket, and truth be told, she’d skirted more dire circumstances than a noblewoman mired in ennui.
Lady Denton approached, her face... charitable.
“May I see your accounts?” The countess stretched her smooth pale arm.
The innocuous ledger was passed, and the countess actually pored over it for several minutes, her manicured fingers skimming one page to the next. She’d guess the Countess of Denton cyphered accounts with diamond-like sharpness.
