Page 109 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“Most young women of nineteen are married with a babe or two.” Cecelia sipped beef tea. “You, me,Anne—our lives have been skewed by war. And the terrible shortage of desirable men when we were ensconced in Arisaig.”
“One can’t procreate without them,” Mary said a little too bright.
She pressed a new wrinkle in her petticoats, the stripes dull from years of washing and ironing. Was this her fate? To fade into the background, while the rest of the league members chased new lives? Cecelia would soon wed and have a babe and possibly live in a new home near Grosvenor Square. Margaret wouldn’t be far behind. Her little sister was more than ready to find a husband and start a family.
She winced. That would make her a dried-up old spinster aunt—a reasonable conclusion, considering her plan to never marry.
“I’m this close”—Cecelia pinched an inch of air between her thumb and forefinger—“to dying of curiosity about the gentleman waiting for you in my salon downstairs.”
Mary shrugged, nonchalant. “His presence here means nothing. Mr. West is escorting me to Neville Warehouse. He’s selling his goods today.”
“I thought you were going to exercise caution with the shipmaster.” Cecelia’s brow arched with pitch-perfect expression. The woman could conduct entire conversations with them. “I know Mr. MacLeod wasn’t with you at Maison Bedwell last night.”
Mary warmed her hands over the fire. “Spying on me?”
“No. Jenny went to the Iron Bell last night and, lo and behold, Mr. MacLeod was there—the man who’s supposed to look out for you.”
“I do well enough on my own.”
“Why the sudden aversion to sticking with our plan?” Cecelia studied her. “Or does the Englishman in my salon have something to do with this?”
Mary pivoted sharply on her seat. “It doesn’t matter that Thomas is English. I’ll bid you to remember, you have your Mr. Sloane.”
“Divvying up the Englishmen, are we? One for you, and one for me.”
Mary bit back a grimace. Why were they dithering over homes, babes, and Mr. West? There was so much serious news to share: her meeting with Lord Ranleigh, his stunning if sparse ledger, and his shocking offer to work for him. Never mind that the Jacobite gold was all gone. Yet, above it all, one matter plagued her deeply—Lord Ranleigh’s threat to West and Sons Shipping.
How would she explain that?
There was a gasp in the silence, and Cecelia’s jaw unhinged. “You’re meeting Mr. West at Bedwell’s.”
Mary blinked fast. “I—”
“Don’t deny it. The truth is written all over your face.”
Shame scalded Mary as though Cecelia knew exactly what went on in the Red Rose room. She sat taller and tried to shake it off.
“I’ve never questioned your indiscretions. Please don’t jest about mine. I don’t think I could take it.”
“Oh dear. You have it bad for him, don’t you?”
The fire snapped and flared. Mary turned and lost seconds staring at it. Layers of responsibility called to her, but every fiber of her being yearned to spend all her spare minutes with the man waiting for her belowstairs. At times the drive was almost primal.She fisted a hand against her abdomen in a futile effort to quell it.
“If byhaving it badyou mean I enjoy Mr. West, then yes. I do.”
“He’s your partner at Bedwell’s. For the Red Rose room.”
There.The unthinkable had been said aloud—Mary Fletcher of White Cross Street was indulging in passionate sexual interludes in an unseemly location. Cecelia was blasé while Mary folded her hands like a schoolgirl caught in the naughtiest infraction.
“You don’t have to make it sound so sordid.”
“We both know I’m not doing that.” Cecelia tipped a pitcher over her empty cup and beef tea trickled into the dish.
Little goose bumps prickled Mary’s skin. Cecelia’s crockery reminded her of Chelsea Porcelain Works. Another item to report, yet she’d all but forgotten that news because of Thomas. How easily she’d let her duties slip from her grasp.
Man-on-the-brain disease. That was what this was.
Cecelia was kinder. “You’re the good girl who’s buried herself in years of responsibility, and now you’re finally coming up for air. No need to feel guilty about it.”
