Page 6 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“Not those,” Cecelia said. “The robin’s egg blue, if you please.”
Mary rummaged through the pile. “Margaret obtained inventory lists and notes from the last meeting of the museum trustees.”
“Sweet Margaret bribing clerks?”
“Befriending them. No bribes necessary.”
Shoppers strolled by the window. The Night Watchman was making his rounds along White Cross Street, lighting lamps. Her hunter had left the chandler’s window and was leaning, arms crossed, against a lamppost while trading pleasantries with the watchman. His hat was still low and his face hidden.
A thrill bubbled inside her. He’d taken her bait and offered a taste of his own.
A full view of him. Tall, lean, confident. The cant of his body was a message:I’m watching you watch me.
She smiled. Her hunter knew how to tease.
How exhilarating—an intelligent adversary. Better than a beefy dockside ruffler who couldn’t string coherent words together. But she’d have to see her hunter face-to-face to know his intent. Evil pooled in the eyes.
Mary was rolling up stockings beside her. “Read through them, will you?”
“Through what?”
“The meeting minutes and inventory lists.” Mary’s voice tinged with stern patience.
Cecelia reluctantly dragged her attention to the azure stockings thrusted at her. She took them, the wool cascading over her fingers.
“There were more than forty trustees present,” Mary said. “All of them sharing a tome’s worth of ideas on what to do with the doctor’s bequest.”
“An exhilarating read, I’m sure.”
Her gaze wandered to green sleeves hugging contoured arms. It slid lower to firm thighs. A nice view, but London brimmed with well-formed men. Nothing new there, yet... his shadowed stare penetrated her. Quietly self-assured, her hunter. A man who understood the art of subtlety.
Feather-soft awareness teased her.
“Cecelia.” Mary’s voice cut through her haze.
Her focus crawled back, jarred this time by worry clouding Mary’s face.
“One of the trustees is the Marquess of Swynford, the Countess of Denton’s brother.”
“A powerful family with their fingers in every pie. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Or it could mean everything.” Mary rerolled stockings in quick jerks. “Hopefully, you will give your full attention to the documents.”
“Of course.” Vague and obligatory, it was enough.
A little-known fact about rebellion: it required careful toil and not all of it fruitful. Anne would’ve delighted at poring over the documents to cultivate nuanced information. Cecelia, however, could think of a hundred other ways to spend her evening.
Skin around Mary’s eyes softened. “I know this isn’t easy without Anne, but we need you. Among the lot of us, you are the most knowledgeable of the City.”
And therein was the problem. Knowledge of London came easy. Leadership’s selflessness did not. It required a grander scope and consideration for others. But necessity was a stern taskmaster—an Anne-ism, which put a nostalgic smile on her lips.
“You’re not worried about...” Mary let her words trail as she nudged her head at the man across the street.
“My hunter? No.” Cecelia unspooled stockings the color of a robin’s egg. “Or perhaps he’s a fish who needs to be caught.”
He shifted off the post, his black hat tipping higher.
Her lips parted, the narcotic effect of penetrating interest. She abandoned all pretense and stared openly. Shaded eyes were hard to see but easy to feel their heat and curiosity. A man who wanted to explore her up close. She took what she could—a view of the bottom tip of his nose, an even mouth, and late-day whiskers darkening his jaw.
