Page 121 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Her soft-wordedefficientmade Mary’s skin crawl. Outside, the very same henchman gave a nod to the Night Watch lighting the street lamp near Mary’s shop. What a mad world this was. Lady Denton smiled, apparently thinking the same thing.
“Ironic, isn’t it? You want to call for help because you’re frightened of me. But if you did, there’d be the burden of proof and all the sticky questions as to how our paths crossed in the first place.” The countess touched a finger to the decorative table in the heart of the shop. “The upper hand is mine, of course. The sooner you calm down and realize this, the better.”
“You were direct with Anne and most direct with Cecelia. So why don’t you state your wants plainly?”
The countess’s eyes narrowed. “Yet, they both got away. Slippery women... I won’t make the same mistakes with you and your sister.”
Fear and fine manners disappeared. Mary was almost belligerent, folding her arms under her bosom. “What do you want?”
“I want my gold back. Return it to me Thursday next, and Margaret comes home.”
“That’s a week and a day,” Mary said.
“You can read a calendar. Excellent.”
“But—but that’s impossible,” she sputtered.
“Why? Because your league spent it all? Or because you’ve sent it to Scotland?”
What a fine trap. Mary almost snared herself in it. All the gold had gone to Scotland with Anne and Will. There’d be no getting it back. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrist and the countess looked askance at her.
“Have you been crying, Miss Fletcher? Your eyes are red as is the tip of your nose.”
“It’s the glue I made.” She showed her sticky fingertips.
The countess seemed to accept this. “Well, you know my demands. Delivery of seventeen hundred gold livres to my house by noon Thursday next. If you don’t have the livres, a comparable currency will suffice.”
“I’m certain we’ll need more time.”
The countess hummed as though Mary had given her an important piece of information.
Lady Denton sauntered to the shop door and opened it. “Thursday next, Miss Fletcher. Or the man who tore through your workroom gets your sister.” She rolled an elegant shoulder. “I can’t say what happens after that.”
Mary’s breaths were shallow, and her ribs could be slowly squeezed in a vise. Fear, anger... bothburned inside her. The countess took a long, memorizing look. Her lips flattened as though she didn’t like what she saw. If the countess had looked lower, to the lump in Mary’s apron pocket, she would’ve seen the crumpled note, which would’ve tipped Ranleigh’s hand.
Perhaps Mary ought to have cowered before her? Instead, she stood tall, her chin ax-blade sharp.
Lady Denton snorted. “You don’t look like you’re afraid. But you will.”
Mary rushed forward, furious. “If one hair on Margaret’s head is harmed...”
She let the threat dissolve. Her life was unraveling, but this was one facet she could control. For the first time since this mess began, she was looking forward to breaking into Denton House. This time for sweet revenge.
“Good night, Miss Fletcher.”
The door closed and Lady Denton swept into her waiting carriage. Her henchman climbed onto the back and tipped his hat at Mary. His evil grin made her shiver in disgust. Mr. Wortley, the countess’s usual watchdog, didn’t show his face. He had to be with Margaret.
From the heart of her shop, she watched the carriage roll away, struck by a simple fact. Lady Denton had announced her ugliest threat with the shop door wide open.
The emboldened woman didn’t care who heard her.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The hour could’ve been six o’clock or it could’ve been midnight. Determination fueled her to march into her workroom and restore order from the mess someone else made. She scrubbed her hands clean and took the glue pot off the stove; thankfully, that hadn’t been upended. Cleaning glue off the floor would’ve been unbearable. White porcelain had been thrown down instead. She toed shards of what had been a pretty bowl for holding odds and ends.
All her hard work tossed willy-nilly.
She was on her knees, collecting linen strips and stacking them when another truth struck her: much of her life had been spent cleaning up messes made by others. Her sense of responsibility was a mile wide. There was Margaret, and the women of her league, and her clan Clanranald MacDonald.
