Page 23 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Aunt Maude beamed. “That’s a fine idea.”
Margaret picked up the plate of half-eaten biscuits.
“I don’t know... We’re so busy at the shop.”
“Our shop will be fine.” Mary added her cup to the tray, her smile an olive branch. “Wouldn’t you like a week of freedom?”
Margaret was doe-eyed and contrite.
“Oh, Mary...”
“Go on. Have fun,” Mary said.
Aunt Flora’s blue eyes twinkled over her stack of dishes. “We’ll have a splendid time of it. Excursions on Tooley Street. A little tea and gossip with friends. Why, even Mr. MacLeod has taken tae reading aloud theGentleman’s Monthly Intelligencerat night.”
The aunts herded Margaret out of the bedchamber, their chatter trailing cheerfully as they headed to the kitchen where Jenny was packing food for the poor Scots and Irish who made their homes in Tenter’s Grounds.
“Quite a day for our little league,” Cecelia said from the comfort of her bed.
Mary turned around, weary. “Months of boring nothingness, and suddenly, we’re beset with drama.”
“You mean the Countess of Denton revealed as Lady Pink?” Cecelia asked archly. “Or the sisterly variety?”
“Don’t...”
“Margaret is nineteen. When I think of what I was doing at her age...”
“Which is precisely why I keep a careful eye on her.”
Cecelia’s provocative spark faded. She smoothedthe counterpane once, twice. “There are times I forget the roles you have played—mother, sister, and shopkeeper—while I’ve gadded freely about.”
Mary folded her hands together.
“Careful, Cecelia. You’re on the verge of complimenting me.”
Which nursed kindly smiles between them.
“Perhaps you’re owed one or two. Margaret is a credit to your steadfast care, but we both know she won’t set foot in brothels anytime soon. Which reminds me”—Cecelia reached behind the pitcher on her bedside table, her blond curls falling forward— “you’ll need this when you return to Maison Bedwell.”
She held up a large coin. Mary crossed the room and took it.
“I should’ve returned it to you last night,” Cecelia said.
Mary traced Charles Stuart’s profile on polished metal. Only forty tokens had been commissioned, but this was the forty-first, a forgery done in an alcove behind her workroom.
“I made his nose too big.”
Mr. Sloane spoke up from his seat at the edge of the mattress. “Your work is frighteningly excellent, Miss Fletcher.”
Eyeing him warily, she pocketed the token.
“I appreciate the compliment, sir, but I’m still not entirely comfortable with your involvement in our league. You are—or were—a servant of the crown.”
“Relax, Mary. Alexander knows everything. He is the one who gave me the rubbing of the secret society’s coin.”
“Did he?”
Mary angled her face to Mr. Sloane. Arms wide, he bowed silent acknowledgment.
