Page 51 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Thomas watched her, touching her feathered mask and checking her surroundings. Furtive and careful.Their muffled conversation seemed businesslike... but the man was with her. Miss Fletcher’s Edinburgh accent carried, the lilt pretty and her words questionable before she stepped into the unlikely carriage.
She’d said something about a secret society.
Thomas rubbed his bristling nape.Bloody siren.
What kind of shite was she mixed up in?
Chapter Twelve
Mary pinned the last curl in place. The mirror reflected a well-kissed spinster. Her mobcap a linen crown (her smallest), its black bow trailing to her collarbone. She shook her head. Jet earbobs danced, and a wisp landed prettily on her temple. The effect, tasteful. Morning light slanted over gray eyes glowing diamond white. Despite a firm chin and angled cheeks, she was amorphous. A woman on the verge...
Of what?
She touched her lips as butterflies invaded her stomach. Come nightfall, Mr. West would do much more than kiss her.
Will I look different tomorrow morning?
Her lashes drooped. With all the salacious adventures she had in mind, yes. Yes, she would. Eyes opening slowly, she grinned at her reflection. The talented Mr. West wouldn’t disappoint.
“We’ve custom in the shop,” was Margaret’s call, coming up the garret stairs.
She took a quick breath. Responsibility called.
“This early?”
Mary plucked her thin black velvet choker off the washstand. Light glinted on the gold piece gracing her neck. She was in the act of tying her choker when her sister crested the stairs.
“Miss Dalton is attending them.” Margaret stopped abruptly, a steaming mug of coffee in hand. The mirror showed her suspicious gaze.
“Aren’t you going to bring me my coffee?” Mary asked.
Margaret approached, studying her gravely.
“You look... different.”
“I’m exactly the same.” She took the proffered mug with both hands. “Last year’s apron over last year’s petticoat, but you look pretty in that shade of midnight blue. Is this the gown you hemmed last week?”
Arms folding, Margaret would not be diverted. “Your hair is showing, and you’re wearing earbobs.”
Which sounded like an accusation.
“Minor changes.”
“For most women, yes. But if your name is Mary Fletcher, those are major changes.”
She laughed and sipped heavenly coffee treated with a dollop of cream. Perhaps a little change was good for the soul.
A patina of dismay spread over Margaret’s face. “And you dusted your cheeks with almond powder. I can smell it.”
“And you are starting to sound like Aunt Maude.” Mary sauntered to the garret’s lone street-side window and Margaret followed.
“There is something different about you. Could it be your evening jaunts to a certain establishment?”
“It’s league work, nothing more,” she said, nursing her coffee.
Margaret stacked empty breakfast bowls and dirty spoons in the wash bucket, her ink-dark hair spilling forward. The garret was quiet save softly clinking dishes and her sister’s shifting mood. An empty dray rumbled by on the street below. The driver yawned and scrubbed a beefy hand over his face.
“Did Miss Dalton stay late?” Mary asked.
