Page 52 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“Can we stick to the matter at hand? Two tickets to Swynford House. Are you able to do it or not?”
Burton drummed fingers on the table. “Swynford House, Swynford House.” Head canting, the sworn clerk was likely collating names and circumstances in the vast file of information between his ears. “As it happens, I know a viscount who just learned his heir is up to his chin in gambling debts. The viscount’s name was in the paper, one of Swynford’s guests. He could be persuaded to sell his tickets”—the drumming fingers stopped—“for a price.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred pounds.”
Alexander balked. “The tickets are two hundred pounds each.”
“The extra hundred will help.”
“That’s highway robbery.”
Burton rolled his shoulder. “It’s your quid.”
Alexander hadn’t counted the cost of entry to Swynford House. His first effort had been through the duke’s office to no avail. At the White Hart this morning, he’d dashed off a letter to the Marquess of Swynford’s secretary, using His Grace’s stationery. His letter had inferred the request pertained to crown business. It wasn’t enough. If anything the stationery garnered a quick reply. A firm no, as it were. The marquess’s secretary, Mr. Higginbottom, apologized profusely. If His Grace were to attend, that would be a different matter. But an undersecretary to an undersecretary? A politeno. Mr. Higginbottom waxed on about the harrowing task of transforming Swynford House rooms into an exhibit for the ages. The marquess’s home was already bursting at the seams.
He squeezed the tankard. The cost of one night with Miss MacDonald equaled his annual income. His savings would be drained.
“Do it. Ask your viscount.”
“Consider it done. You can deliver your cheque tomorrow at Artillery Ground.”
“The viscount will be at Artillery Ground?”
“No, but you will. At half past one o’clock.” Burton smiled smartly. “For a practice cricket match.”
“I have other things I need to attend to.”
“Such as chasing Scottish petticoats?” Burton rested a casual elbow on the table. “The first rule in wooing a woman is to make her pine for you.”
Except Miss MacDonald enjoyed Saturday’s Artillery Ground’s practice matches. Showing up tomorrow would be a toss of the dice. He couldn’t say which version of her he’d find under the tents surrounding the pitch.
The flirtatious Scotswoman? The fierce-eyed goddess of Swan Lane? Or the woman in breeches who gave him her back?
Buying the tickets was a gamble. The amount he would part with choke-worthy. But he’d hurt her, his high-minded Jacobite with pretty eyes and tempting lips.
He poured more small beer down his throat, but nothing drowned the ache of disappointing her. Somewhere between his fourth or fifth pint, wisdom whispered in his ear. This wasn’t about flirtation or ambition, the crown or Bow Street. Nor was this about justice as he’d learned today. He was engaged in life’s deepest, costliest endeavor—the game of love.
A subject he knew nothing about.
Chapter Fourteen
Fun was the sole purpose of Saturdays at Artillery Ground. Practice cricket matches were casual, the crowds small, and no wagering was the general rule. Men still preened and women still watched, as one does when the sun shines and flirtation flows. Cecelia, however, was unapologetically mercenary, for today she sought entrance to Swynford House by way of the Marquess of Swynford’s mistress, Miss Elspeth Cooper-Brooke.
Sharing the outing was Miss Hannah Burke, her mahogany eyes capturing deeper currents in the day’s conversational waters. Secrets and lies bound their friendship. Elspeth was really Elspeth Nutt from West Midlands, the product of an unmarried laundress and a textile laborer. Miss Hannah Burke was Hannah Bettleheim, born and bred in Bethnal Green.
Both women lived their fiction. Cecelia tucked a curl behind her ear, content with hers.
“Why aren’t you attending the marquess’s costumeball?” She plucked a red apple from a brass bowl and took a bite.
“Swynford rarely mixes business with pleasure.” Wind teased Elspeth’s impeccable strawberry blond curls. “Besides, his fundraising entertainments are boring, like the marquess himself.” Elspeth wrinkled her nose. “Did I tell you? He still insists I call himmy lordwhen we’re in bed.”
Sweet juices flooded Cecelia’s tongue, a reminder of the apple she ate with Mr. Sloane. Once he became Baron of the Exchequer, would he insist on formality in bed?
“Men,” Hannah said between sips of wine. “Odd creatures, yet they’re all the same when they grunt and grind over a woman.”
Their laughter chimed prettily.
