Page 26 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Cecelia tried not to squirm.
Aunt Flora, however, took the news in stride. “What was the nature of your proposition, lass?”
As the league’s mother hen, Aunt Flora was the first to fuss and the first to be practical. She never batted an eye at Cecelia’s assignations with men, be they real or imagined.
“I asked for his help to gain entry to Bloomsbury Place, but I didn’t tell him why. He doesn’t know about thesgian-dubhor about Jacobite gold in London, and he certainly doesn’t know about our league.”
Yet.
The unspoken word was a Damocles sword over their heads. The harder they worked on their mission, the closer the blade came—the price of success. Their first four years in the City had yielded fruitlesssearches. They’d been six women recovering from the aftermath of the Uprising and doing their best to help their kinsmen. It took all their strength to gain a foothold here, but they did. This summer, their labor bore fruit. Now, thanks to Mr. Sloane’s insightful observations, the Duke of Newcastle and Fielding would hound them, unless she persuaded Mr. Sloane to share his unimportant findings. Or share nothing at all.
His Grace could hardly feel threatened by a small-bosomed woman with skinny arms.
“What did Mr. Sloane want from you?” Aunt Maude pressed.
She looked to the river. “Information. Something to appease Bow Street. He’s there on assignment to watch crown funds.”
It was the truth scrubbed clean of certain details.
“Watching crown funds is quite different from trying to extract information from you,” Mary said.
“I know,” she said quietly.
Aunt Flora stood up, her knees cracking. “I trust you’ll pick and choose what tae say... something tae divert the magistrate.”
The room stirred behind Cecelia. Dishes were slowly gathered. Crumbs wiped away as if the mention of Bow Street had sucked the life out of each woman present. Fielding and his poisonous quill. As magistrate, he strived to do good in London, but it couldn’t erase the slap-in-the-face his past vehement anti-Jacobite writings delivered. His strident words were a wound that refused to heal.
The spinsters and Margaret carried dishes and trays into the kitchen, while Mary stood by the room’s tepid fire staring holes into Cecelia’s back.
“Mr. Sloane . . . is he the man who followed you to my shop?”
“He is.”
Their league was on a wild race, careening out of control. None could stop the momentum which began four years ago when they pledged an oath to Clanranald’s chief. Find the gold, find the dagger, find the sheep. Their mission had been clear, the path to achieve it not so much.
Mary crossed the room and at her shoulder said, “You’re going to meet him, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you mad?”
She spun around. “He’s a good man.”
“And you know this because you took him to your bedchamber?” Mary whisper-hissed.
“Careful how you judge, Mary.”
Mary hugged herself tightly. “This isn’t judgment... it’s—it’s fear.”
Pottery clattered in the kitchen. The others had already recovered from the mention of Bow Street. Aunt Maude and Jenny were swapping recipes while Margaret giggled over something Aunt Flora said. Their joy was the air Cecelia breathed. She would fight to keep it, especially with cool, proud Mary, her harshest critic.
Cecelia pinched the fraying edge of a silk bow on her stomacher. “You’re right to be concerned. I received another note this morning.”
Gray eyes sharpened. “From another man?”
“No. From a chambermaid I’ve bribed at Denton House.” She glanced at the salon’s open door and kept her voice quiet. “Do you want me to get it for you?”
“Just tell me the contents.”
