Page 54 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Perplexed, she broke the wax seal. The missive’s lines were orderly, the handwriting moderately slanted, and the message, a delight.
Dear Miss Fletcher,
Last night with you was illuminating. One kiss and the stars shimmered and the moon shined brighter.
To which she smiled so hard, her cheeks hurt.Such impertinence.
Since I don’t have a poetic bone in my body, I’ll get to the point. I cannot stop thinking of you. A terrible thing, isn’t it? A man losing the upper hand with a woman. Something tells me you are wise to the games of men and directness suits you. In that vein, I request the honor of your gentle companionship today. I want to see you in the light of day as much as I want to do unspeakable things to you at night (things I dare not put on paper).
Do not refuse us this small pleasure. We work hard, you and I. Haven’t we earned this one day?
Prepare yourself and dress warmly, Miss Fletcher. A hack will arrive at your shop on White Cross Street at ten o’clock this morning.
With tender regards,
Thomas
She stared at the note, twirling a lock of hair like a moonstruck lass. Her green-eyed sea wolf was sweetly plundering her with the written word. He was willing to show his soft underbelly. Was she willing to show hers?
A daytime rendezvous meant conversation. Kisses were optional.
The greedy thrill coursing her veins was her body’s answer.Have a carewas the warning in her head. She carefully refolded the note because later she would read it again and again simply for the pleasure of it.
“Thank you, Mr. Brown.”
The lad backed up, touching the brim of his hat. “Remember, miss. Ten o’clock.”
“I won’t forget.”
She stuffed the missive into her apron pocket and set about coiling the ribbon. Her vision hazed over white silk slipping through her fingers. Meeting Mr. West was doubtful—butifshe did meet him, her green wool gown would do. Worn with green silk stockings. A decadent choice. Should Mr. West find a private corner and put his hand under her—
“Lost something again, did you?”
Mary’s cheer shriveled. A pretty woman in a flowered day gown and Bergère hat sauntered up to the counter, a cunningRemember me?smile on her face.
Maison Bedwell’s tawny-haired harlot.
Lord Ranleigh had said he’d send someone to attend the details of his order. She expected to finally meet Mrs. Bedwell or the young charwoman who’d answered the door.
“Why, Miss Fletcher, yours is not a friendly shopkeeper’s greeting,” was the harlot’s purr.
Mary set both hands on the counter, summoning polished manners.
“Mine was as welcoming as your greeting for me in another place of business...” She looked at her, askance. “Miss...”
“Mitchell. Miss Rebecca Mitchell, and I suppose Ideserved that.” The proud harlot straightened lace at her elbow, the corners of her mouth curving with confidence. “It’s just that women like you rarely darken our door.”
Mary pursed her mouth, her eyes flashing a warning.
“I imagine you’re here about the stays.” She bent over, searching for a battered old ledger, her design book, and hoping her equilibrium would come with it. The morning had already thrown too many surprises at her. “I was thinking of using twice the usual baleen for a more structured silhouette,” she said, riffling through the lower shelf where, alas, the ledger rested. Upon finding it, she straightened, head down, and began flipping the pages. “I have two designs in mind. Starched linen interlining works for—”
A metallicclunk, ever so chilling, sounded.
Mary clutched the open book to her chest, fear’s unkind fingers running up and down her spine. On the counter was a gray coin—Charles Stuart with his nose a fraction too large.
Hersecret society token.
“As I was saying, Miss Fletcher, women like you rarely darken our door.”
