Page 19 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“Very kind of you.”
He stole one last look at the goddess of Swan Lane already vanishing upstairs.
Chilly night spilled through the front door. He stepped onto the narrow, cobbled lane outside. Candle lamps at Miss MacDonald’s door and three others dotted a stygian path where mist and fog ate houses from the bottom up.
He turned and found Jenny in the doorway, a slit-eyed, rag-curled Medusa.
“You were going to tell me where I might find a hack?” he asked.
“There’s no hack in Dowgate, not at this hour.” She folded her arms over a sensible night-robe. “Miss MacDonald may get squeamish at the sight of blood, but I don’t,” the maid said. “I’ll gut you like a fish if I catch you in the mews again.” She raked him head to toe. “I’ll gut you like a fish if I catch you at her front door too.”
She shut the door. A hardthunkfollowed, the maid barring the door.
Protective fury rose inside him. To tell the loyal Jenny that he was the least of her worries. To demand she burn those Mermaid Brewery barrels. To warn her, horrible men would come and none of them polite. He stared at the barred door, anger rising. Jenny would fight for her mistress on that side.
Who would fight for Miss MacDonald on this side?
A worthy question.
He had a long foggy walk in which to consider it. He didn’t don his tricorn, though. The brim was coated with flakes of lead. Or plumbago—the coveted ore the military used to make cannonballs. His fingers on one hand were shiny and gray. The samehand which had brushed the bottom of the Mermaid Brewery barrel.
Even small quantities of plumbago made a poor man—or woman—rich. Thieves transported it in all manner of ways, barrels with false bottoms being one, a smuggler’s trick.
He studied the stone edifice, intrigued. The stone walls housed a pretty flirt, a fierce Scot, and a demirep who played with moral boundaries.
In short, the goddess of Swan Lane.
A woman who enthralled him, and a woman who owned pink silk shoes.
Chapter Six
He entered Westminster Hall, shaking off morning’s fog. Probably the same one that had dogged him when he’d left Swan Lane. What a deucedly invigorating and frustrating night. His footsteps echoed, firm, steady, his hunt leading him upstairs. He pushed open the door of the Offices of the Exchequer and found the bespectacled Mr. Fernsby, the newest side clerk.
“Good morning, Mr. Sloane.” The ruddy clerk juggled an armful of books. “Mr. Burton will be pleased you’re here. He’s wanted a word with you, sir.”
“Excellent. I would like a word with him.” He hung his greatcoat and hat on hooks near the door. “Immediately, if you please.”
A wide table equipped with foolscap, quills, and ink sat in the middle of the room. He took a seat in one of the eight chairs surrounding the table and withdrew his pocket journal. Mr. Fernsby moved to the next shelf.
Alexander flipped open his notebook. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear, Mr. Fernsby. I need you to find Mr. Burton.”
The side clerk blinked at him, a book in hand angled on the shelf.
“Now?”
“Nowandimmediatelyare synonymous.” He looked up from notes written at midnight. “Unless you have more pressing business?”
“Uh, no, sir. I shall find him right away.” Fernsby dropped the books on the cart and scurried out of the room.
The Court of the Exchequer lived and breathed its hierarchy. Side clerks were new to the business of Westminster. To ascend the ranks, they had to study under a sworn clerk and be quick in matters of men and law. Sworn clerks were seasoned attorneys and had exclusive rights to search the records. Mr. Burton possessed the key to the Pell Office on the eastern side of Westminster Hall where all treasury transactions were stored. Paymaster rolls, crown expenses, money flowing in, money flowing out, including all the realm’s taxes. Dusty business, the Pell Office, but in those ledgers, he would trace Miss MacDonald’s life in London.
Money was history and character. Every shilling spent a story. He was about to learn hers.
On clean foolscap he wrote a list:
Bloomsbury Place
Hack, plate number 183
