Page 99 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“Thank you, my lord.”
He let go of her hands and straightened like a military man. “I want you with me, and we both want my cousin declawed. Those papers in her Wilkes-Lock safe are what I need to do that. You are the only person who can get them, assuming you still have the key.”
“I do, but has your cousin changed the lock?” In the evening’s shock, she hadn’t thought to ask.
“She hasn’t. It takes months to manufacture a new one, and the devices are in high demand.” He smirked. “Even my cousin must get in line behind foreign princes.”
Lord Ranleigh was resolute, the downpour ruining his silks and his excellent queue. Of course, he’d tracked this.
“We will discuss this again,” he said. “In the near future.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He shut the door, and she hugged the blanket to her body.
What was in those papers?
The carriage rolled forward, the lamps well set, they hardly moved. Lord Ranleigh was watching her depart outside his lovely barren home. How rigid he was, standing in the tempest. An ambitious praetorium guard—they did the dirtiest work.
She sank into the backrest, leveled. This was ablow, but she was not crushed. Lord Ranleigh’s invitation to join him was not a request. The ruthless Englishman would have his due. And Thomas? Lord Ranleigh’s veiled threat could not be overlooked.
She worried the blanket’s edge.
What about Thomas?
This day, this night, with him was too exquisite. She wouldn’t mar the memory of it.
The memory of him might be all she’d have left.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The fine souls of White Cross Street were starting their day. An idle hack driver was scratching his arse, checking a wheel. A slouching orange girl was yawning, eyeing a shop window. Thomas crossed the street to meet her. Oranges, he decided, were the perfect gift after a night of elevating passion.
“How much?” he asked.
The orange girl turned from her window shopping. “Three for a penny.”
The citrus was fragrant, perfect for Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays. Red flashed in the shop window and his spirit soared. Feminine hands were polishing the glass. Very industrious, his Mary, with very talented hands. Flesh in his smalls agreed. He was eyes on that window, a grand gesture forming.
He reached into his waistcoat pocket. “What if I purchased the entire basket?”
“All my oranges, sir? I have at least thirty.”
“I’m very hungry. So is my friend.”
The maid gawked like a caught fish under her straw bonnet. Untying his purse, he took pity on her, the early hour and such.
“How about I give you two shillings for the entire basket, three if you deliver them”—he fanned three shillings and nodded at Mary’s window—“to that shop?”
She followed his nod. “I know the shop, sir, but...” The orange girl hoisted her basket into the crook of her waist. “There’s a problem, sir.” Pity filled her eyes. “It’s your ciphering.”
“What about my ciphering?”
“It’s—it’s a little off.”
He laughed gently. “When a man loves a woman, his entire existence is thrown off.”
“In love, sir,” she cooed, practically melting on the spot.
