Page 96 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“Her ladyship wants to leave Friday next,” Mr. Wortley said. “A quiet jaunt... you understand?”
A grunt and dice clattered on a wooden surface. “Bloody hell! Four again. May as well give next month’s pay to ye.”
A hand slapped the board. Dice jumped and rattled. One hit the floor.
“Get your head out of your arse and listen to what I’m telling you.”
She took a cautious step forward. Two lamps lit their conversation, a tepid yellow. Wortley’s hat was off and he leaned menacingly at a beefy, florid ginger twice his size. Fear rounded the bigger man’s eyes.
“I’m listening.”
Wortley eased back. Lean and wiry, he was garbed in his usual plain black wool.
“Prepare to be gone a month. Pack your pistols andammunition. We’re taking her ladyship’s unmarked carriage—”
“The black one?”
“Yes. Park it at dawn at the end of Upper Brook Street on Tiburn Lane. Lady Denton will meet us there.”
The tabby cat rubbed Mr. Wortley’s leg. The cutthroat reached down and petted it with gentle, unhurried strokes.
“Just the two of us with her ladyship?” the florid man asked. “What about her chests of clothes?”
“Don’t worry about that. Your job is to prepare the carriage and drive it. For now, that’s all you need to know.” Thunder cracked overhead. “And, Gifford... not a word to anyone.”
The barest scrape of metal on metal sounded. Her eyes had adjusted well enough to see Alexander’s mouth set a grim line. The big quayside door was bound by a larger, heavier padlock which was not cooperating.
“It’s not working,” he said in the barest whisper.
Her thready pulse banged in her ears. Wind gusted and the crane’s moorings whined beyond the quayside door. They’d been inside for at least an hour. And Mr. Baines? A loyal friend but the storm had to be doing its worst. His wherry in a storm such as this wasn’t safe.
Below, Gifford asked, “Are you keeping watch tonight?”
A hollow laugh and, “You tossed the lowest number. This watch is yours.”
Gifford grumbled, “That cot’s not fit for a child. I’m better off sleeping on two wool sacks put together.”
“Your choice. I’ll check the Arundel Street door, then I’ll be on my way.”
She stiffened. The Arundel Street door was left open.
Wortley stopped petting the cat. “Did you hear that?”
Wind screeched like a banshee. Rain had begun to pound the roof. Thunder and lightning followed.
Gifford cocked an ear. “Aye, the storm.”
Wortley’s glare landed on the loft. His hard-as-musket-ball eyes were cold and soulless. Shadows masked her, and she was glad for her coal-smeared face. Had the cutthroat heard her feet shift? Gifford was oblivious, dropping the dice in his pocket and hefting a barrel lid off the bale of wool. He sauntered off mumbling about the storm.
The rope outsidethumped, thumped, thumped.
Mr. Wortley picked up a candle lamp and held it high. He was squinting at the loft.
Her skin was terribly cold, her fingertips icy.
Alexander was at her side, two pistols in hand. “Cock your pistol at the next thunderclap.”
His murmur was hair-raising. Cool and calculated, as if he’d weighed the cost and had already decided he’d shoot a man tonight. His lips brushed the shell of her scarf-covered ear.
