Page 30 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“It is.”
“At two hundred pounds a ticket, no less.”
“It is. But I would think the Duke of Newcastle’s man could get a ticket.”
His laugh was low and quiet. “You’ve grossly misjudged my place in the hierarchy of His Grace’s office. I am the undersecretary to the undersecretary.”
“You are also a brilliant man.”
Mr. Sloane’s head dipped, a heart-swooning grin creasing his face. It was the kind of smile that made her want to climb over the table and kiss him. She resisted doing so and the urge to reveal how his insightful notebook illuminated his mental acuity.
“You honor me with your praise, Miss MacDonald, but this is beyond my reach, especially in so short a time.”
“Is Baron of the Exchequer worth it?”
Mr. Sloane’s grin died slowly. Her crossed legticked back and forth under the table, steady as a clock. A new turn in their game of cat and mouse was afoot.
“Come now, we both know you didn’t ask me here to flirt, Mr. Sloane.”
“Because man cannot live by flirtation alone.” He swallowed more of his port.
“This is business. You want the judge’s seat badly enough to toss your fine morals aside and barter with a woman of dubious character.”
He studied the fire, his fingers drumming the table while the cogs and wheels of his mind cranked. “IfI managed to obtain two tickets—and that is a considerableif—what do I get in return?”
“I don’t need two tickets. Only one.”
“I shall escort you. Hence, two tickets.”
“I don’t need you to dance attendance on me.”
“Nevertheless, I shall.” He folded both arms on the table and leaned closer. “A nonnegotiable point, I’m afraid. Take it or leave it.”
Mr. Sloane was a rampart that wouldn’t budge. She studied his even features with new eyes.Had the Countess of Denton hired him?Why else would he mandate going with her to Swynford House?
Truly, these were the moments that tried her, the razor’s edge of decisions she’d have to live with, whatever the outcome.
“It would be much easier for you to give me a ticket and walk away.”
“I don’t want easy, Miss MacDonald. I want you,” he said in a velvet-smooth voice.
Molten lust flared in his eyes. Mr. Sloane wanted her, the Jacobite.
Her knees jellied. He wanted her and she wantedhim, but there was no competing with the magnitude of his ambition. Or hers.
What a tangle this was. A mere three months ago, the bloodthirsty Government had hanged Dr. Cameron, a high-ranking rebel who had the misfortune of being caught in Scotland seven years after the surrender. What would happen to a Jacobite woman living under their nose in London?
She couldn’t help a belligerent, “You’ll do anything to get your judge’s seat.”
He winced as if the words struck a tender nerve.
“I will need something to divert Fielding,” he said. “Something big.”
“Because he wants information on the horrid Jacobite woman. Just what does Fielding think I am?”
“I’m not privy to his inner thoughts.”
His gaze honed on the tiny rosette pinned to her bodice—a piece of her father’s Clanranald MacDonald kilt worn in his memory. She’d donned her most sedate gown to this meeting, the green velvet so dark it was almost black. Black lace flared from her elbows and trimmed her bodice, the rosette nestled underneath it. Of all the places he could look, his eyes found it.
