Page 4 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Cecelia giggled while studying a seam. “Rather intent, isn’t he? One might think he’s hunting for the Holy Grail in that window.”
“Except he’s hunting you.”
Her stomach quivered. Mary’s warning was uttered in a genteel Edinburgh accent with a back-of-the-mouth treatment of each word. Her accent was smooth as whisky while Cecelia tried hard to scrub away hers. Edinburgh accents didn’t strike the same chord as a Western Isles accent. More rebels came from the Western Isles than Edinburgh. Mary was of a different mind. She had supported the rebellion, and in the years since the surrender, the woman chased duty and hard work the way others chased wine and debauchery. But she had a point. This was serious. Cecelia had lost awareness, her thoughts drifting aimlessly,the entire hack ride from Bow Street. She hadn’t known where she was until the driver stopped outside Mary’s shop on White Cross Street.
The stays flopped in her hands. “I am a little off today.”
“You have been since Anne departed for Scotland.”
Anne, Anne, Anne.The woman had been strength and reason, the shepherdess of their fledgling league, and her dearest friend. In the fortnight since Anne’s departure, she had become the league’sde factoleader, which cramped her like an ill-fitting shoe. Despite being a social creature, she often marched to her own drum, all the better to blaze an unforgettable path.
“I have something to put the bloom back in your cheeks,” Mary said. “News of thesgian-dubh.”
She snapped to attention. “What news?”
Thesgian-dubh, Clanranald MacDonald’s ancient ceremonial dagger, had gone missing after Cumberland’s men ransacked the clan chief’s home in Arisaig, after the surrender in spring of ’46. Lore claimed the knife had been a gift from the Romans to a MacDonald warrior. For centuries, Clanranald chiefs used it at annual clan meetings. More relic than weapon, it was a symbol of pride. Finding thesgian-dubhhad, in fact, been her primary mission in London.
Mary fussed with the window display. “Its location is explained in a document I have for you—”
“A document?” she hissed. “What are you thinking?”
The shop’s doorbell jingled. A matron entered, her eyes rounding with delight at the brilliant display. “Good afternoon, Miss Fletcher. Such gorgeous colors. I saw them from across the street and just had to come see them up close.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rimsby.”
Mrs. Rimsby wedged herself between Mary and Cecelia. “Open for another hour, are you?”
“For you, Mrs. Rimsby,” Mary said, “my shop is open as long as you need.”
Cecelia glared at the woman’s back.
The matron petted the stays with fleshy fingers. “Such extravagant colors. And quite affordable.”
Cecelia scooped them up. “Why don’t you go to the fitting room and try them on?”
“But those are samples,” Mrs. Rimsby sputtered.
“Then hold them up to your skin and see what color you think Mr. Rimsby would like.” Cecelia folded them into Mrs. Rimsby’s arms and winked. “Better yet, find what color strikes your fancy. Because nothing sparks the marital fires like a happy woman.”
And nothing sent proper matrons fleeing like hinting at sexual congress.
Mrs. Rimsby gaped as Mary herded her across the shop with a soothing, “Ask my sister to take you to the fitting room. She’ll hold the looking glass and you can decide what colors suit you.”
Cecelia seethed.A document!
They had all agreed—no incriminating papers, nothing to create a trail which might lead to them. Not after stealing Jacobite gold from the Countess of Denton last month. Cecelia’s league of Scotswomen had formed after the surrender of ’46 to quietly hunt down and take back the gold and thesgian-dubh, which had been taken from their clan.
The Countess of Denton, however, viewed the matter differently.
The spiteful woman couldn’t report the crime; the crown also wanted the lost Jacobite treasure.But that didn’t stop her from ordering her men to ransack Anne’s house (which had been empty) and burn Anne’s warehouse (which had not been empty). Most of the league had fled London by the skin of their teeth mere hours before those events. With the women returned to the City, they had to exercise the utmost caution.
And today, a man was following Cecelia.
Though a man following her could be for any number of reasons.
She reached for emerald green stockings and held them to the window’s light. He was still there, shadowed by the chandler’s awning, his tricorn pulled low. The front of his cocked hat was long—a hunter’s hat. How appropriate. Her hunter wore a bottle green frock coat with brass buttons and plain wide cuffs. His square-toed leather shoes weren’t noteworthy. Those polished buttons were. Her follower had money.
Which put him in an uncertain category. Nothing about him cried criminal.
