Page 22 of A Scot Is Not Enough
He twirled the quill, an outrageous idea forming.
“Do you know of a good mantua maker?”
Chapter Seven
“Thesgian-dubhmight be in Chelsea,” Cecelia announced.
“Chelsea? I thought we were here tae talk about Bloomsbury Place.” Aunt Maude helped herself to another biscuit.
“Dr. Sloane had three homes—the two he connected in Bloomsbury Place and another in Chelsea—something I discovered last night while reading the inventory list.”
She stifled a smile and kept last night’s other discovery to herself. No need to stir the pot. Aunt Maude was already in fiery form.
“How much fiddle-faddle can a body collect? If you ask me, the doctor had more money than sense.”
“Like most Englishmen,” Mary said between sips of tea.
Titters cluttered the cramped salon. They were Scots in London, one-time rebels who’d grown comfortable living among the enemy. Cecelia turned her back on the window to her mews. She’d had her fillthinking about a certain tall, intelligent Englishman and his tight . . . queue.
“It may take months to organize a plan,” she said. “Look at how long it took to find a portion of the gold.”
Four yearswas writ grimly on their faces. That’s how long it had taken them to find a fraction of the Jacobite treasure. They’d settled in London, found their bearings, and began their league’s mission. Strangers in a strange land, honoring the vow given to their clan chief in Arisaig, but she refused to spend another four years hunting the blasted dagger. A cunning woman had replaced the fresh-faced village lass she once was. Being unwed and without family, she had to be. London devoured unattended young women and spit out their bones. Waves of them flocked to the City, and the brothels welcomed them with open arms and false promises.
Men might think they ruled the City but women were its undercurrent.
Thus, she was not surprised to hear a certain woman’s name creep into the conversation when Aunt Flora set a copy ofThe Public Advertiseron the table.
“I read this yesterday.” Aunt Flora’s work-worn finger tapped the paper.
All heads tipped for a view of the article. Mary Fletcher angled her neck as she was seated on the lone wooden chair brought in from the kitchen. She read the upside-down script aloud.
“‘The Marquess of Swynford and the British Museum Board of Trustees will host a costume ball on the twelfth of September at Swynford House in St. James Square with rooms dedicated to the display of the late Sir Hans Sloane’s collection. Giant turtle shells, finger coral, and plant specimens are some of the featured items in the Natural Wonders of the World exhibit. Certain curiosities will be displayed for the first time since the late doctor added them to his collection: shoes from around the world, Persian amulets, and’”—her gray gaze pinned Cecelia—“‘centuries-old ceremonial daggers.’”
“Thesgian-dubhis sure tae be among them.” Aunt Flora’s voice rose excitedly.
Mary continued her reading.
“It says the cost of a ticket is”—she paused to feign choking—“two... hundred... pounds... a person!”
“Two hundred pounds? To dress up in fanciful clothes and stare at the dead doctor’sà bric et à brac?” Aunt Maude snatched another biscuit. “The English have lost their minds.”
Margaret scooted to the edge of her seat. “Even if we scratched up the funds for one of us to attend, we still don’t have enough time to form a plan.”
“Or to sew a costume,” Aunt Flora said.
“Nor should we.” Mary set the paper in her lap. “The Marquess of Swynford is the Countess of Denton’s brother.”
Aunt Flora waved off her argument. “It doesna mean she’ll attend his entertainment.”
All the same, the Countess of Denton’s name cast a pall over the room. The woman wanted revenge on their league; even if she wasn’t aware of all its members, the lady had felt their sting. Last month, the league had sneaked into her house and taken back Jacobite gold which the countess had stolen from the Highlands. In the aftermath, Lady Denton had fixated on Anne Neville and Will MacDonald to herdetriment. With those two safely gone, the countess would cast her net wider and find out who else was involved in the theft.
The women gathered in Cecelia’s salon needed someone to protect them. They needed a leader.
Cecelia planted herself in her favorite green damask chair and curled one foot under her rump.
“We focused so much on getting the gold that we missed a chance to plan for this.” She grimaced and delivered a smooth lie. “Though it pains me, we may have to let this opportunity pass.”
“Very reasonable of you,” Mary said.Anne would’ve done the samewas the message in her eyes.
