Page 24 of For a Scot's Heart Only
She shot a reproving glance at Cecelia. “We keep too many secrets from each other.”
“That’s my fault,” Mr. Sloane said. “I asked Cecelia to keep certain facts to herself.”
“I see.”
Though truthfully, Mary didn’t. Secrets sent fissures through their league. So did the gentleman who required Cecelia’s allegiance to him. It augured another break in their little family, and she was still smarting from the loss of Anne Neville. To a man, of course—Will MacDonald.
Men—they were often at the heart of what went wrong in her life.
“Because of recent events, Alexander’s given me leave to share those facts with you.” Cecelia shined with admiration for the man sitting on her bed. “He’s the reason we know about the secret society, not one of my spies. Alexander found their names and a rubbing of the coin in that coded ledger, which the Duke of Newcastle had asked him to investigate.”
Mary bit back the urge to say that Alexander had also been tasked to investigate Cecelia. But times were changing, and they needed to focus on weightier matters such as the last of the lost treasure. The secret society, Charles Stuart’s supporters, must have it. The same group that smuggled Charles Stuart into London in 1750. She rubbed the token, its burden heavy in her pocket.Why did they keep the treasure?
Cecelia fussed with her night-robe. “Did anything else happen last night? Aside from you finding the Betty Burke painting?”
A scarred sea wolf came to mind.
“No. My venture into the gaming room was uneventful.”
“Then how did you come by those bruises on your wrist?”
Mary cuffed the mottled spots with her hand.
“A misunderstanding.”
“That’s quite a misunderstanding.” Cecelia’s brows rose a doubtful half inch and she gave Mr. Sloane a speaking glance. “Would you be a dear and fetch some bread for me?”
He stood up, his bronze eyes discerning. “Of course.” A wise man, Mr. Sloane would dally in the kitchen to give Cecelia all the time she needed. Mary had learned that much about him.
When the stairs creaked his descent, Cecelia confessed, “I go positively weak-kneed for bread hot from the pan, slathered with butter. Of late, I crave it more than a good tup.”
Mary cracked a smile. “Don’t let Mr. Sloane know.”
Cecelia laughed, color returning to her cheeks. Last night they would’ve chewed on every detail of Maison Bedwell on the ride home, except when Mary had climbed into the carriage, Cecelia had already dozed off.
“Come.” Cecelia patted the bed. “Have a seat.”
Mary settled on the plush edge with a rueful, “Now the real meeting begins.”
Arms folding under her bosom, Cecelia was all business. “I don’t like how things are unfolding.”
“Because of the countess.”
“Stopping her may require drastic measures.”
Mary shifted uncomfortably. “We’re not violent women.”
“Lady Denton is.” Iron laced Cecelia’s tone. Though exhaustion painted dark circles under her eyes, she was regal and decided. “You and I must agree—one week and one week only to find the gold.”
“And then?”
“Then we decide what to do about the countess.”
An ugly shiver drifted down Mary’s spine. “I don’t like what that infers. It is foul and unworthy of us.”
Cecelia’s white shift dripped with virginal lace, but her hazel eyes glinted fiercely.
“Lady Denton is foul. And don’t forget,weare her next targets.”
