Page 55 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Chapter Thirteen
Mary reached for the token but Miss Mitchell’s white-gloved hand closed around it.
“Not so fast, Miss Fletcher.”
At least the woman had the wherewithal to lower her voice. Mary could feel blood draining from her cheeks. Last night with Mr. West, the coin must’ve fallen out when her breasts had almost done the same.
“You’ve been spying on me?”
“Spying? You left the door wide open.” Miss Mitchell tsk-tsked. “But the willow switch? Now, that surprised me.”
Mary smiled, tight-lipped and embarrassed. Mr. West left the Red Rose room wide open, had he? She’d have a word with him about locking up. Privacy was paramount.
“What’s this?” Miss Mitchell asked. “You’ve nothing to say?”
Mary pinched the design book to stop her trembling hands. When Cumberland’s men descended after Culloden, she’d calmly rounded up the children and hid them. The day her alcove (and herhem) caught fire, she’d steadily put it out. This ambush would be no different —every problem, if given careful thought, could be contained.
She looked past Miss Mitchell. “Margaret, I must go to the workroom.”
Margaret glanced up from dismantling the window display. “Yes, of course.”
After they passed through to the workroom, Mary checked for British soldiers outside her shop window.Thelobsterbacks. She didn’t see any soldiers loitering on White Cross Street. Nor was it logical to believe Miss Mitchell would’ve brought them. But logic couldn’t stop her mind from ricocheting from one frantic thought to another.
Mary snapped the curtain shut, her heart climbing into her throat. This was what happened to a woman who worked a shade outside the law. She wasn’t a violent woman, but she had done illegal things. Treasonous things. She had coin molds in her alcove, the storage room where she’d melted French coins into English guineas and half guineas. Passing too many French coins would’ve drawn attention to the league.
But a secret society token in her shop? That drew attention to her.
Mary folded trembling hands in her apron. Why had the harlot been watching her?
She turned and found Miss Mitchell skimming a bolt of painted silk with her fingertips. Rivers of pink and blue-gray silks had been spread out earlier for Mary to inspect.
“This is quite lovely,” Miss Mitchell said. “I imagine you and your sister must have the prettiest corsets.”
“Let us not pretend this is a friendly visit.”
Miss Mitchell feigned mock horror. “Well, aren’t you—what did Lord Ranleigh call you?”
“Glacial.”
“Indeed, you are.” Miss Mitchell picked up a tray of bodkin needles, examining the neat row set in linen. “I am here at Lord Ranleigh’s behest.”
“To discuss the stays he purchased, I collect.”
Miss Mitchell hummed agreement and put down the tray.
“But the important business is mine.”
Mary jammed both hands into her pockets, assembling quick facts. Miss Mitchell was a smart woman, but there wasn’t enough silk in London to hide her coarse edges. She prowled the shop, ambition glittering in her eyes.
“Don’t wait for me to put out the tea and biscuits,” Mary said.
Miss Mitchell flashed a knowing smile while dragging a gloved finger across the spindles. “Do you know what happens to harlots when they’re no longer useful?”
“No.”
Miss Mitchell wrinkled her nose. “It’s not pretty. Most women in my chosen commerce can’t think beyond today, much less plan for tomorrow.” She lingered on a display of spooled ribbons. “I, on the other hand, am ready to leave Bedwell’s, and you, I’ve decided, will be my way out.”
“How’s that?”
