Page 89 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“I see you paid two pounds for her to join the Worshipful Company of Dyers.”
“It gave her the start she needed as a young widow. In turn, Morag dyes cloth for Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays at a favorable price.” Her gaze pinned him kindly. “Her way of showing appreciation.”
“You have your fingers in that pie too.” He felt a grin of admiration growing. “The king should give you charge of the treasury. You’d make quick work of the realm’s debt.”
Miss MacDonald scoffed in good humor. She tipped forward to better read his list. “What else do you have?”
“The Mermaid Brewery.”
“Ah, that would be David MacDougall, a young foot soldier who was also on theJane of Alloway. Mr. Munro told me he helped my father. Helping MacDougall seemed the least that I could do.” A corner of her mouth curled up. “While the business partnership continues, ourtendrefor each other was short-lived.”
He put down the list and nudged it aside. Lovely and smart, the Scotswoman had lent a helping hand to those in need. Their common thread, a prison hulk. The more he dug into her past, the more humbled he was.
“What about the barrels out there?” He tipped his fork in the direction of her mews. “I found traces of plumbago. Are you a smuggler?”
She balked. “Have you thought ill of me all this time? Over that?”
“I need to know the truth.”
“My business partner, Mr. MacDougall, bought the barrels in Battersea by way of Romney in Kent.”
Battersea was a haven for smugglers.
“The false bottom in those barrels was discoveredaftera batch of ale was ruined.”
“You’re not a smuggler.”
“I never have been, but I saved the barrels to figure out how the false bottoms were made.” She smirked. “Knowledge like that is handy for a woman like me.”
He swirled a forkful of greens. “Forgive me for assuming the worst.”
Her shoulder rolled, expressive and Gallic.
“I am an honest woman of business with a talent for making money.” Her chin rose a defiantTake that!inch. “You can put that in your report to Fielding.”
Forks scraping, they ate in silence. Alexander had touched a nerve. He and Fielding had assumed the worst of her. Was that because their days revolved around criminals? Bow Street’s magistrate dealt with the dregs of London, while he tracked financial miscreants for the crown.
He dragged the serviette across his mouth, not liking this turn. He’d not taken great risks while Cecelia had laid bare pained history in her cheery kitchen with its egg yolk yellow cupboard and lime white walls. Nor could he forget what she’d shared about the Countess of Denton and the stolen treasure of Loch Arkaig. Troubling facts. His head was swimming with them.
One being high treason.
He uncorked the brandy, his decision calmly made. It was time to right a terrible wrong. While amber spirits splashed in his cup, he prefaced a new proposition.
“His Grace would see me hanged, drawn, and quartered for what I am about to tell you.”
Her brows steepled. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t.”
He ignored her chide as he ignored years of lectures in jurisprudence.
“When you were in my bedchamber at the White Hart, did you notice a ledger with torn pages?”
“The one filled with gibberish? Yes.”
His hand was surprisingly steady as he set the bottle down. It was no small comfort to acknowledge the Scotswoman had more courage in her little finger than most men dreamed of having in their lifetime. In future, he would have a care with his thoughts and not judge so rashly. Miss Cecelia MacDonald was walking proof that assumptions were often lies in sheep’s clothing.
He corked the bottle and tapped it snug with his palm. “That ledger contains coded records for a secret society. His Grace has tasked me with deciphering it... the financial columns in particular.”
She saluted him with her dish of tea. “Godspeed to you.”
