Page 1 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Chapter One
September 1753
Law and disorder collided brilliantly at Bow Street, an entertainment of human nature, drawing merchants and matrons alike. They crammed the gallery, chewing gossip like candy, the courtroom their circus, the victims and the accused their performers. A motley mix of humanity, all of them.
Except for her. The clever blonde.
She graced the gallery, a wash of silk and sex. A woman unescorted with lips painted an ungovernable shade of red. Her subtle smirk was fine art and her intelligence a sonata. She caught every one of the magistrate’s witticisms, if one accepted her musical laugh as evidence. Mr. Fielding was, at heart, a writer. What else were they good for except crafting quips? Though one had to be quick to catch them. Courtroom observers sometimes scratched their heads at Fielding’s brisk commentaries. Not the blonde. She took notes, an interesting habit. And he,Alexander Sloane, Undersecretary to the Undersecretary of the Duke of Newcastle (a mouthful, that!), took note of her.
The elegant woman made his assignment—tracking Bow Street’s sudden influx of money—less dreary.
Fielding considered him a nuisance; the thief takers considered him a spy.
He was both.
Not a popular position to be in.
He slipped away as the courtroom proceedings ended, intent on taking himself to his room at the White Hart on King Street to work on his other assignment—studying a mysterious Jacobite ledger. Dinner and a pint while he deciphered smudged columns and coded entries would be his entertainment. Both tasks spanned a month or two, depending on the duke’s whim. The pressure was immense. Reporting directly to His Grace allowed no margin for error.
Walking through Bow Street’s hallways, he fed on the challenge. Precision ran in his veins. The natural world was a messy place, but numbers were truth in its purest form and corralling them a joy.
Before he’d departed for Bow Street, the duke had handed over the Jacobite ledger.“Unravel this, Mr. Sloane, and we can talk about your appointment.”
Court of the Exchequer. To be a judge in the financial courts, and he, Baron Sloane.
The position wouldn’t make him a peer, but the centuries-old honorific quickened his step through a private doorway to a realm of leather and tallow candles. Fielding’s office. The Bow Street ledger waited by a puddle of wax on the magistrate’s desk, a folded copy ofThe Covent-Garden Journalon top of it.
He slid the book off the desk, strode to the private entrance, and reached for the door.
“Mr. Sloane. Just the man I was looking for.”
Hand falling to his side, Alexander turned and waited, rigid as a duke’s man should. Calculation sparked in the magistrate’s eyes. Fielding closed the main door, shutting off public noise splashing into the room.
The quiet... there was dread in it.
Fielding never met with him privately.
“How may I be of assistance?”
The magistrate limped by on gout-riddled feet. “I have a task for you.”
“More expenditures to tally?”
“No. I need you to follow a woman.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, the petticoated variety. Two arms, two legs, two breasts. Commonly considered the gentler sex.”
“I am aware,” he said aridly.
The magistrate landed in his chair, his black robes billowing. “It’s a simple job. Keep your distance, take notes on her day-to-day whereabouts, and report your findings directly to me.” Fielding’s gaze knifed him. “But no one else can know.”
Not even the dukewas the warning, hanging as sharp as a gleaming sword over Alexander’s head. A cold “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” chill came with it.
He tucked the ledger tightly under his arm. “I gather the woman in question is not the average London criminal.”
“Neither average nor a criminal. She is, however, a known Jacobite sympathizer.”
