Page 73 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Mary closed and barred the door. She was dressed for comfort in her favorite rose-hued robe volante. A neat braid snaked over one shoulder, and she smelled like cloves, custard, and comfort. Mary moved her brass candleholder, assessing inches to the right and to the left.
“Is that a bloody handprint on your petticoat?”
“Yes, one of the cricketers received a small head wound. He bled profusely and I stanched it.”
Mary’s lips twitched. “Received it, did he?”
“I didn’t hit him on the head, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Candlelight splashed Cecelia as if she were a specimen observed. The glow stalled on her slanted stomacher, one corner bent and poking unnaturally against the shawl. No amount of red silk could hide the passion-ruined piece or hide her carmine-smudged mouth.
“Must’ve been quite a cricket match,” Mary said.
“I’ll tell you all about it in your fitting room.” She eyed the ceiling where Margaret’s footsteps pattered across the floor above. “Keep your sister away.”
Mary’s amusement faded. “It’s that kind of friendly visit. Very well. Go to the fitting room and I’ll bid Margaret to give us some privacy.”
Mary handed her the candleholder and Cecelia rushed through the unlit shop. In the fitting room, she lit sconces and set the brass candleholder onthe table. The fitting room held two benches and a bedside-table-cum-writing-desk. In one drawer was foolscap and pencils. She took one of each and quickly sketched a costume.
The shawl slipping from her shoulders, she leaned over the little table like a tortured student. Her skin was fevered, her stomach roiling. She’d fled the White Hart chased by a ferocious idea. Now it stared boldly at her from the page.
Slippered footsteps crossed the narrow fitting room. Mary plopped down on the bench facing her.
“Margaret is doing the dishes. You will come up, of course, before you go home.”
“I’m not going home. It’s not safe.”
“What about Jenny?”
She glanced up from putting finishing touches on the sketch. “I sent a note warning her to stay away. I suspect she went to her sister’s house.”
“What is this all about?” Mary scooted to the edge of her seat. “And, Cecelia, you had better tell me everything.”
She put the pencil down. Fear was beginning to consume Mary. It was understandable. Fear made a person demand full knowledge as if control came with it. It didn’t—a truth Cecelia grasped. On her long walk, she’d weighed the facts and cleared her mind—all the better to set her startling plan in motion.
“It’s the countess. The vile woman is ten steps ahead of us. Her man, Mr. Wortley, showed up at Artillery Ground today.”
Cheeks blanching, Mary touched her lips. “We’re not as clever and secretive as we thought, are we?”
“I’m afraid not. The countess is toying with us—with me.” She took a deep breath. “Mary, Mr. Wortleywantedme to know he was watching me.”
“The man the countess has following you.”
The note from Denton House’s spy.
“He must be.” She sagged in the seat, worn out.
“But you escaped him.”
“Escaped him? No. He let me go. I left Artillery Ground with Mr. Sloane, the wounded cricketer. I took refuge in his room at the White Hart.”
“The same Mr. Sloane who followed you to my shop and gifted you with an ugly night-robe.”
“The very same.”
Mary’s rueful gaze skimmed her mussed hair. “And you managed to tend his wound rather passionately.”
“This”—she waved both hands over her dishabille—“wasn’t supposed to happen. I was watching the street below his window. We started arguing and then suddenly we were kissing.”
