Page 25 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“But hardly fashionable.” Margaret was diplomatic, collecting tissue at her feet. “It doesn’t seem like something you’d wear.”
“It’s not. But I shall wear it anyway.” Her voice tripped with delight.
Mary was stern-eyed, reaching for the note. Sheopened it, an utterly intrusive act, but Cecelia was too humored by the ugly gift to care.
“And who is Mr. Alexander Sloane?” Mary asked.
Cecelia held out the box for Jenny. “Someone I met.”
“We found him arse up in a barrel last night.” The maid took the box, her chin tipping mutinously. “Out in the mews, he was.”
“Ho!” Aunt Flora chortled behind fanned fingers. “Deep in his cups, was he?”
Mary was not amused. She eyed the servant with ahold nothing backglare. “Please explain yourself. I fear Cecelia may edit this tale, and we want details.”
Pandora’s box was opened, and Jenny looked ready to tell all.
“She’ll do nothing of the sort. If you want details, ask me.” Cecelia plopped the night-robe on the box in Jenny’s arms. “Don’t you have something to do in the kitchen?”
“Yes, miss.”
Jenny exited the salon, her hems swinging a defiant retreat. Cecelia smoothed her petticoats, lavender’s aroma rising from the fabric and from the dried bits on the floor.
She snatched the note from Mary. “That belongs to me.”
Mary was stiff-necked, her gray eyes a glitter of chaotic emotions. Cecelia paced all of three steps to her narrow window. Mary’s challenge was fair. Last night’s incident was a splash of cold water. The women of her league, her kinswomen, were her primary concern. Trouble for one meant trouble for all. But Fielding’s investigation was of her alone. Shefolded the note in half, deciding on a modicum of truth.
“It’s true. Mr. Sloane was in my mews last night, and he was quite sober.”
“What was he doing in your mews?” Aunt Flora asked.
“Watching me.”
Aunt Maude planted a fist on her thick waist. “Hard for a mon tae watch someone when he’s arse up in a barrel.”
Cecelia touched cool glass, biting back a smile.
“His hat fell into the barrel. He bent over to get it. That’s how we found him. Then Jenny tied him up.”
Aunt Flora squinted at her. “Then what’d you do with him, lass?”
Cecelia averted her eyes, otherwise the old spinster’s kind blue eyes would see too much. From her window, she glimpsed the Thames, its gray skin rippling like a snake.
“I took him to my bedchamber to ask him a few questions.”
Margaret’s maidenly inhale stung.
“Which is not the same as taking him to my bed,” Cecelia said crisply.
“Well, he’s no’ there now. No’ if he’s sending you ugly night-robes.” The settee groaned under Aunt Maude finding her seat again. “Is there anything else you need tae tell us?”
There was the rub. Of the league’s members, only Anne knew that she was a person of interest in Fielding’s ledgers, and once a body caught the magistrate’s eyes, one didn’t simply break free. With his latest funds, law enforcement was transforming. Whichbegged the question: Who should she fear more? Fielding, a man empowered by ambition; the countess, a woman empowered by greed; or the Duke of Newcastle, a man empowered by the crown?
She toyed with the gold medallion stamped with the number nine. They all wore the same gold piece made from melted French livres, the King of France’s final support, a treasure which had reached Clanranald’s shores after the surrender only to be stolen soon after. The war had been over, but for the women gathered here, their struggle had just begun.
She stuffed the provocative note into her petticoat pocket and chose a careful, “Mr. Sloane serves the Duke of Newcastle, but before learning that I might have propositioned him.”
“‘Might have’?” Mary’s voice pitched high at the same time as Margaret said, “The duke advises the king!”
