Page 122 of A Scot Is Not Enough
The footman set down his tray. “We should search under the table, sir. Could be it fell under there.”
The footman went down on one knee, which drewthe attention of the rest of the room, as if Viscount Redmont’s vigorous lecture on the tale of the Roman gladius wasn’t enough to draw the eyes and ears of the room. She backed away, hoping the knife might’ve been hiding under the long red tablecloth.
Bristling hair on her nape informed her differently. The countess entered the pink library with two men in tow—Mr. Berry and Mr. MacDaniel, Fielding’s corrupt thief takers. Lady Denton scanned the room, her eyes slanted to narrow bloodthirsty shards on Cecelia.
“There she is. Arrest her.”
Blood congealed in Cecelia’s veins. She touched her throat as if a rough hemp rope already coiled there. Heels sliding backward, she bumped a wall of books. Closed in by the crescent shelves, she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Viscount Redmont and a footman blocked one exit. The advancing thief takers blocked the other.
“I don’t understand,” she cried.
The broad-faced MacDaniel manacled her wrist, his hooked nose and cudgel inches from her cheek. “We’re arresting you. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Why?”
The countess sauntered up to her. “For this.”
Lady Denton grabbed the top of Cecelia’s apron and yanked. Pins popped off. Silk ripped, and there for all to see was her stomacher and petticoat in brilliant Clanranald MacDonald colors. She lunged for the countess, but Mr. Berry caught her arm midair and pinned her wrist against the bookcase. Angry, infinite seconds ticked, marked by mumbles in the crowd.
Copper’s tang spread over Cecelia’s tongue. The same taste had coated her mouth when fleeing the countess’s Arundel Street warehouse. But tonight, she was caught, and thesgian-dubhwas nowhere to be found.
“Of course you know Clanranald MacDonald colors,” she taunted. “The man who wore them couldn’t bear the sight of you... the same as so many other men.” She was vicious and desperate, a cornered creature going for the jugular. “Have you ever asked yourself why no man stays? I’ve heard they don’t want to share the bed of a rancid viper—”
Slap!
Cecelia’s head slammed hard to the right. Her left cheek stung fiercely. She laughed harshly.
“I see I’ve struck a nerve.”
“You are a thief and a traitor to the crown.” Lady Denton nearly spit the words.
Viscount Redmont elbowed forward. “Did I hear Clanranald MacDonald?”
“Yes.” The countess glared ferociously at him.
His head swiveled fast from petticoat to table, his ruddy jowls jiggling. He pointed to the empty place on the table where thesgian-dubhonce rested. “She was just asking about Clanranald MacDonald’s ceremonial dagger. Now it’s gone missing.”
“I don’t know where it is,” Cecelia cried. To Viscount Redmont, “You and I talked the entire time I was here. I couldn’t possibly have taken it.”
“She’s a known Jacobite, she is,” Mr. Berry said. “She’s in the magistrate’s books.”
“You know very well what I do in Tenter Grounds,” she shot back. “Feeding hungry Scots is hardly a crime.”
Glowering, doubtful faces closed in, their murmurs rising. The crowd was a costumed Greek chorus already condemning her.
The footman stepped forward. “Excuse me, my lady. But I saw her come in when the entertainment first started. Eyed the missing knife, she did. Lingered right here over it for a long while.”
“You told me this was your first time visiting the Relic Room, miss.” Viscount Redmont was a ramrod. “What have you to say about that?”
“I—I didn’t take thesgian-dubh.”
Viscount Redmont was hands-on-hips indignant. “Everything in this collection is the property of King George.”
“But I didn’t take it!”
MacDaniel jerked her like a rag doll. “You’ve broken the law on two counts. The Dress Actandthievery against the crown.”
“You claim you didn’t steal thesgian-dubh?” The countess leaned in, a malevolent gleam in her eyes. “There’s only one way to know. Mr. MacDaniel and Mr. Berry will have to chain you to a wall and search you.”
