Page 23 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Cecelia’s gaze dropped to linked fingers in her lap. This was the tension she’d breathed since the four women in her salon had fled the City after the night they’d taken back the gold. She had stayed, spoiling for a fight. Pure recklessness. But she’d been on hand to help Anne and Will when they needed it to escape the countess—an accident of fate, which made her rebellious decision forgivable.
“First, we need to see to Neville House repairs and Anne’s warehouse on Gun Wharf.” She looked at Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora. “And you two need protection.”
Worry dimmed Aunt Flora’s blue eyes. “You think Lady Denton will come after the likes of us?”
“You live in Anne’s old house. At best, she’ll think you are harmless older kin. At worst...”
Cecelia swallowed the rest of her sentence. She didn’t have the heart to share her thoughts or the unpalatable note which arrived this morning at breakfast. This was the scale she balanced: Howmuch to reveal? Of all the women in their fledgling league, the old spinster sisters faced the greatest risk.
Aunt Maude’s brow furrowed. “What about Mary and Margaret? They need protection.”
“Mary and I are safe, dears. We weren’t inside Lady Denton’s house, unlike the rest of you the night of the theft. And the Night Watch and the ward beadle are a constant presence on White Cross Street.” Tenderhearted Margaret was the youngest of their number at nineteen. She covered Aunt Maude’s hand with her own and gave a reassuring squeeze. “With all those eyes watching our shop, I am not afraid. But I do worry about you in Southwark.”
“I have a solution.” Cecelia reached for a bite of cheese. “We hire a man to protect Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora. He will live at Neville House and while he’s there he does the repairs.”
Aunt Maude’s lips pursed. “Sounds like another mouth to feed.”
“Pray tell, who is this manly paragon?” Mary asked.
She braced herself. “Mr. Rory MacLeod.”
Mary was aghast. “The Countess of Denton’s private footman?”
“Former private footman. I have it on good authority he left her...employa day or two after we stole the gold from her house.”
“He didn’t exactly help us that night,” Mary said.
Cecelia held the cheese to her lips. “He didn’t exactly stop us either.”
“But he is a MacLeod,” Aunt Maude grumbled.
“And we live among the English. Pick your poison, dears—a wrathful countess or a MacLeod.” Shepopped the bite into her mouth while the others digested that.
The Western Isles had witnessed centuries of MacLeods and MacDonalds at each other’s throats. The rebellion’s devastating end forced a truce on the warring clans, and many a MacLeod fled Scotland alongside a MacDonald.
“Let us not forget,” Cecelia said gently. “Mr. MacLeod is a Highlander.”
The reminder mollified Aunt Maude, and a knock at the front door paused their conversations. They refreshed their tea and indulged in biscuits, slices of cheese, and fruits, careful not to talk league business while someone was at the door. Jenny emerged from the kitchen and stood in the salon doorway, wiping her hands on a checkered cloth tucked into her waist.
“Miss? Shall I answer it?”
“Please do.” To the room, she said, “We’ll talk about the most harmless of subjects—sheep.” The third and final part of their mission was restoring Clanranald’s herds.
They chattered on about sheep until Jenny reappeared in the salon, a pristine dress box balanced in her arms. The small hairs on Cecelia’s arms raised. A silk bow draped over one side of the box, a glimmer of elegance and refinement.
“It’s from Madame Laurent.” Mary breathed the words more than she said them.
Aunt Flora scowled. “How can you know that by a box?”
“The lavender silk bow is her calling card,” Margaret said. “Madame Laurent hasthe mostfashionable rooms on Evans Row off Bond Street.”
Mary craned her neck. “Her name is probably embossed on the top.”
Jenny nudged the box inches higher. She knew about the league, but she also knew whom she served.
“Miss, shall I take this to your bedchamber?”
Cecelia waved her off. “Put it on my bed, Jenny. I’ll open it later.”
