Page 120 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“Only to get Margaret safely home. Then, we’re done.”
“We most definitely are, Miss Fletcher.” Tension lines bracketed his mouth. “You’ll have to leave London. You, your sister, your league friends—all of you.” His onyx gaze went to the door where Thomas had finished talking with a footman. “You and your league are in the thick of things. Him, you can spare. But that’s up to you.”
She absorbed this, keeping her back to Thomas. He had an uncanny ability to read each twitch, each smile, each frown.
“I thought these papers would spare us all from your cousin’s wrath,” she said.
“Ancilla made a move before me.”Ranleighshuffled papers. “Everything’s going too fast, and I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep.”
“A fine time to tell me you’re honorable, my lord, when you conveniently can’t be.”
She’d stalked out of Ranleigh’s study and hadn’t looked back. His lordship had neatly put more burdens on her. Tell Cecelia she must leave London? She dreaded that. Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora wouldn’t care. Her league knew what they had gotten themselves into.
The man who’d waited for her didn’t.
Thomas, her tall, scarred sea wolf. He’d fight for her. She knew this, but she needed to fight for him. She braced both arms on the table, badly wanting him back.
When her shop door jingled, her heart soared. Thomas!He’d come after all.
She rushed through banners of linen. “Thomas? Is that you?”
Mary knocked aside the yellow curtain and froze. Expensive silk rustled, a sublime sound drawing the ear and the eye. One would want to follow it.The beautiful woman wearing it was meticulous perfection. Pearlescent silk, a red-raspberry shade. Unsurprisingly, her lips matched. Mary knew the meaning of swimming beyond one’s depth.
If Ranleigh was a praetorium guard on the rise, the woman in her shop was the lethal, highborn widow who drank power like wine.
“Lady Denton.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Miss Fletcher. I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance,” the countess said.
“We haven’t, my lady.”
“But I’ve met your sister.”
Mary clutched her stomacher. “My sister?”
Per Ranleigh’s instructions, she was supposed to act shocked. It wasn’t hard. White-hot fear was eating her from the inside out.
“She never crossed London Bridge. But Margaret is doing well, mind you.”
Mary couldn’t stop herself from stepping forward, menacingly. “What have you done to her?”
“Well, she’s not in Southwark, which is a blessing, don’t you think? Grimy and unpleasant, Southwark is. No, your sister is tucked safely away.” Lady Denton’s manicured brows rose a fraction. “Which means we are alone, aren’t we?”
“Yes.” It was hard to talk with her heart in her throat.
Lady Denton flicked gloved fingers at someone behind her. “See if she’s telling the truth.”
A thick-boned redhead in a brown frock coatstalked past Mary. He held his flintlock with a possessive hand. Definitely a man who’d shoot first, ask questions later. Lady Denton smiled thinly while her boorish henchman stomped around the workroom. Mary could hear the damage being done. Ropes snapping. Crockery smashed. A chair was overturned. Lady Denton’s man emerged, knocking a scrap of linen off his shoulder.
“Looks clear, milady. Want me to check abovestairs?”
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Lady Denton was droll, fixing her gloves. “From what I hear, the elder Miss Fletcher keeps to herself.” To her henchman, she said, “Leave us.”
A blunt “Milady,” and he exited the shop.
Lady Denton winced as the door slammed shut. “He’s a rough one, but efficient.”
