Page 86 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“Yes, well...” She waved off Mary’s analytical stare and headed into her salon.
She curled up in her favorite chair, her mind racing. Mary took a spot on the settee while Mr. Sloane made quick work lighting a fire in the cold room. Mary stared at the floor, wisps of hair rioting around still pale cheeks.
“You look like you could use a drink, Mary,” Cecelia said.
“Yes—yes, I think I could.”
“Mr. Sloane, would you be so kind as to bring two cups from my kitchen—three, if you’d like a drink—and a bottle of brandy? You’ll find them in the yellow cabinet.”
Mr. Sloane stood upright, eyeing her as if she’d asked him to enter the maze of the Minotaur. It was an unusual request.
“Mine is a small house, it’ll be easy to find it,” she said.
His mouth dented a knowing grin, a man who grasped when two women needed some privacy.
“I’ll do my best to navigate the wilds of your kitchen.”
“Thank you.”
She delighted in the muffled sounds of Mr. Sloane stirring about her kitchen; there was a hominess to it.
Mary scooted closer on the settee. “It looks like you and your hunter are getting on quite well. I can’t think of a single man I know who would fetch spirits for a woman in an unknown kitchen.”
The noises coming from her kitchen were a comforting sound.
“He’s not like most men.”
“And you trust him?” Mary’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Cecelia plucked lint off her knee. She did, probablymore than she should. “Mr. MacLeod is our primary concern. Where is he now?”
“At Neville House. A coal boy making his rounds at dawn on London Bridge recognized him. Mr. MacLeod was loaded onto a dray and taken to Neville House. Aunt Maude sent word to me and I went immediately to Neville House.”
“Did Mr. MacLeod say who shot him?”
“He’s unconscious and feverish.” Mary slumped back, rubbing her forehead. “He lost a lot of blood. I’m not sure that he’ll live.”
“Does the Night Watch know who shot him?”
“No one saw it happen. Witnesses at the Ram’s Head say he was with a woman wearing a plain black cloak of a rich fabric and a red stone ring, but her hood was pulled forward such that no one saw her face.”
A chill tripped down Cecelia’s spine. “Why would she shoot him? A fortnight ago, he was in her bed.”
No need to clarify the woman in question; there had only been oneshewho deserved their caution. The Countess of Denton.
Mary’s tired gaze met hers. “We don’t know it was her.”
“I don’t need facts to tell me the lady shot him.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because that woman has a sentimentally twisted heart.” At Mary’s blank stare, she leaned closer, jabbing her finger in her chair’s arm. “They met at the Ram’s Head. The same tavern where Will was arrested for wearing his kilt.”
Blood drained from Mary’s face. The details of Will’s arrest in August wouldn’t be fresh on her mind, but they were in Cecelia’s.
“But a woman of her position, skulking about late at night,” Mary said doubtfully. “When she has cutthroats to do her dirty work?”
“And do you know what that tells me? The countess trusts no one.”
