Page 22 of For a Scot's Heart Only
A chorus of gasps spilled, but Mary wrappedherself in cool silence. Inwardly, she smarted as much from the insult as Mr. Sloane witnessing their squabble. The barrister, at least, had the grace to busy himself wringing a new cloth.
Margaret swallowed hard and lowered her ink-dark lashes. “Forgive me,” she mumbled. “I—I didn’t mean to be cruel.”
“Thank you.”
Mary was rigid and armored and not fooled one bit. A layer of rebellion simmered under Margaret’s contrition. She couldn’t blame Margaret, nor could she let go of the deep tie binding them. No guidebook existed for a sister raising a sibling. In the highlands, their life had been comfortable. An easy cadence marked by one season flowing into the next—until the war. Coming to London upset the natural order, especially when Margaret turned eighteen. Since then, the two of them were increasingly at loggerheads.
Aunt Flora crossed the room and checked beyond the curtain, a gentle reminder that they faced bigger troubles than sisterly quarrels.
Nighttime meetings augured risks of men waiting in the shadows.
“Mr. MacLeod can go with Mary,” Aunt Flora said, letting the curtain drop. “He’s handy with his fists. He’d protect her should trouble arise.”
“He’s proven his loyalty tae us,” Aunt Maude chimed in.
Nods of agreement circled their gathering, but the room’s fire flared hotly at Mary’s back. Mr. Thomas West came to mind even though Mr. MacLeod was the reasonable replacement for Cecelia.
“I’ll speak to Mr. MacLeod,” Mary said.
Despite visions of the scarred pirate dancing in herhead, she was sensible, informing the women of Mr. West’s request to use their warehouse in Southwark—and the Betty Burke painting in Madame Bedwell’s gaming room, which raised eyebrows. Who were the members of this secret society? And why did they operate in London?
Each question sent furtive glances that yes, they were onto something. But like a poorly made wooden puzzle box, not all the pieces fit.
Aunt Flora scrunched her nose. “I canna believe these people are true Jacobites.”
“Neither can I,” Aunt Maude said, swiping another biscuit.
Mary shot a covertTell themglance at Cecelia, who was toying with the lace trim on her wrist. This was the burden of secrets—what to reveal and when.
Cecelia cleared her throat. “The Countess of Denton is part of the secret society that meets, or used to meet, at Maison Bedwell.” All eyes were on her, shocked. She snorted indelicately. “But we can all agree Lady Denton isnota Jacobite.”
“I’d like tae see her try and claim herself as one,” Aunt Maude grumbled. “Highlanders would toss her out like bad fish... the grubby woman.”
The women tittered softly, their chairs creaking. Mary checked the room. Question marks could very well have sprouted from Aunt Flora, Aunt Maude, and Margaret’s heads, such was the weight of this latest news.
Aunt Flora pinned Cecelia with a grandmotherly stare.
“How do you know this? Is this something your spies shared?”
Cecelia’s shrug was small and guilt laden. “It’s a recent discovery. But I dare not say any more.”
“You don’t need tae protect us, lass,” was Aunt Flora’s gentle admonishment. “We’re here tae help.”
But this was what Mary, Cecelia, and Anne had done since their first days in Arisaig. They’d looked after the older aunts and they’d looked after little Margaret, who wasn’t so little anymore. Their league was unraveling in unexpected ways. With Anne gone and now learning Lady Denton had entrenched herself in a Jacobite society... well, Aunt Maude said it best.
The older woman slapped the side table. “It’s a world gone mad. That’s what it is.”
“And we must decide what to do about it.” Mary injected this wisdom, which met with mute stares. The fireplace crackling cheerily, she nudged the conversation. “Cecelia, do you have anything to report from our night at Bedwell’s?”
Cecelia shared that she’d found nothing, a cleaned-up tale, omitting what floor of the brothel she’d searched. She finished with frothy gossip about a pompous duke whose wig had caught on a sconce.
Cecelia giggled. “So deep in his cups he was. The old sod didn’t know what was happening until it twisted sideways and the sausage curls hit his nose.”
Knees cracking, Aunt Maude got up from her chair with the evening’s final bit. “Flora and I plan tae take more food tae the poor souls at Tenter’s Ground.”
Chairs scraped, a sign their meeting was coming to an end. Dishesclinkedas Aunt Maude set about tidying up.
“You know,” Aunt Flora began, “we could use anextra pair of hands at Tenter’s Ground. What do you say, Margaret? Can you lend a hand?”
