Page 117 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“We’ll face this together,” he said.
“Together.” Mary sniffled again and gave Ranleigh the barest nod. “I’ll do it.”
A partnership was forged, quick details exchanged, ending with a request from Mary.
“My lord, I need to write a note and have our coachman deliver it to my friend.” Mary added, “She’s the one who can get me into Lady Denton’s home tomorrow night.”
Ranleigh nodded. “Of course. Let’s go to my study.”
They were migrating to the door and near the empty faro table when Miss Thelen called Mary.
“Miss Fletcher.”
Mary turned. “Yes?”
The henchwoman was alone by the table.
“I will lead the search for Margaret.” She fisted a hand over her heart. “You have my word. We will find her.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The carriage ride from Maison Bedwell to White Cross Street was an exercise in control. Mary’s mostly. She watched passing traffic from the safe confines of their splendid carriage, while Thomas watched her. He reveled in the tender things. Her gold medallion bouncing in the well of her neck. A sacred place, that sweet slope. He would dip his finger there, trace her collarbones, her peach-soft earlobe—to comfort her, if she’d let him.
The Mary Fletcher who’d left Bedwell’s was not the same woman who’d charged into it.
Could be she needed to collect her thoughts. Turning his hat over and over, he wished she’d share some of her musings. It was a bit of irony, this wanting a woman to talk, when most men of his acquaintance wanted a woman’s silence.
“You look like you belong in this carriage,” he said, trying to make conversation.
“Do I?” She stopped her vigil of the world outside and folded both hands in her lap.
“You do.”
Her gaze traced silky, gold-tasseled ropes loopedin the corners. “I always thought this carriage was silly excess.”
Those luxurious ropes did have him wondering.
He pushed down on his plush seat. Butter-smooth leather had just the right give under his hand. “You must admit, tufted leather is preferable to hacks with stingy seats.”
The smallest of smiles curved her mouth. “Stingy-seated hack rides can be just the thing.”
Her gaze lingered on him. A tiny flame of happiness fought for survival in her eyes. The weak flicker gouged him as severely as any harpoon, tearing his heart. The Mary Fletcher he knew and loved had vanished.
He squinted at the carriage floor.
What happened inRanleigh’sstudy?
He tried to make sense of it. They’d left the gaming room and gone to Ranleigh’s study. Mary had dashed off her note. There’d been two minutes, possibly three, when she’d tarried at Ranleigh’s desk, waiting for the ink to dry. A footman had beckoned Thomas into the hall with a message about their carriage. Behind him, voices clashed in a hushed argument. He’d checked the room. A flash of malevolence came from Ranleigh, but nothing more. Mary had left the study, present in body, but not in spirit.
She’d swept by him, murmuring, “Let’s get out of here.”
He’d been all too happy to oblige, but Mary had kept a polite distance. Racing off unescorted out of Bedwell’s, him trotting after her.
Ranleigh had watched it all from his study window like a dark crow.
Presently, they were crossing Beech Lane, andMary had returned to staring at the world beyond the carriage window. It could be the farce was getting to her. He couldn’t fault her for it. What happened to her sister was unthinkable and silence was her way to handle it. If anyone took his mother or sisters, he’d tear London apart looking for them. But this remoteness of Mary’s niggled him. Something else was afoot.
He pinched the corner of his hat. “Mary, what happened in Ranleigh’s study?”
