Page 91 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Had Thomas courted a wealthy woman?
Chewing her bottom lip, she turned the door latchwith the softest click.No need to go melancholy.She had a month of nights with Thomas. Confidences shared were optional.
Exiting the Red Rose room, she winced at noise and light blasting her.
“You’re late.” A surly Miss Mitchell emerged from an alcove.
The harlot was garbed as a bird of paradise. Maison Bedwell hosted another faux circus. Smoke and thunderous applause came from the ballroom. Very disorienting. Mary touched her head.
“Forgive me. I lost track of time.”
“Three hours with a man like Mr. West’ll do that, I suppose. Not that I’d know, mind you.” Miss Mitchell tilted her head at the empty end of the hallway. “Shall we?”
There’d be no easing into this, not with the harlot speeding down the hallway and Mary trotting to keep up with her. They neared the end when Miss Mitchell pressed a floral plaster medallion on the wall. The medallion sank into the wall and beside it, the wall clicked a half inch open. The harlot stood in front of it and checked the brothel’s hallway. A footman was leading three gentlemen into the gaming room. None took note of the opposite end of the hall.
“Keep up with me,” the harlot whisper-hissed. “I’m in no mood to rescue you should you lose your way.”
Miss Mitchell pulled open the door and they quickly entered a dark passage. They headed down a short stack of stairs, the harlot calling back, “If anyone crosses our path, I’m taking you to meet Mrs. Bedwell. Got it?”
“Yes.” Mary gulped air. The sensual fog in her head wasn’t helping.
They scurried along an unlit hallway. Limestone walls captured moonlight from a small window at the far end of the passage, but they weren’t going that way. The harlot turned abruptly and opened a door to a musty storage room—at least, this was Mary’s guess while she waited for her eyes to adjust. Damp air chilled her. She rubbed her arms for warmth, bumping into barrels and crates in the cramped room. Thudding and scraping sounded. Miss Mitchell was shoving and stacking crates until a rough-planked wall was visible.
The harlot jammed the heel of her hand against a plank. Warped wood gave way. Gray light crept in, forming a path from Mary’s feet to a rich chamber beyond.
Miss Mitchell beckoned. “This way.”
Swiping dust from her petticoats, Mary followed the harlot’s bouncing tail feathers. She nabbed a quick study of the mysterious door. Warped planks on one side, a bookcase on the other. To a library, possibly. She couldn’t be sure since Miss Mitchell was hell-bent on racing out of the unfurnished room. Mary tried to keep up.
The entire house appeared to be unlit. No sconce burning for the master coming home late. Every ten steps Mary glanced back to memorize the way they’d come. No wonder Lord Ranleigh preferred the brothel. This house was polished but cold. Scant furnishings. No art on the wall. The chandeliers entombed in cloth. What a lonely place.
“Fortunate for you,” the harlot said over her shoulder, “the footman who watches the house has it bad for my friend Molly. I’ve promised her a half guinea to keep him occupied in the mews foran hour. That ought to give you plenty of time to search the premises.”
They turned down a carpeted hall and stopped at the first wide door.
Miss Mitchell blocked the entrance. “Of course, if you don’t have a half guinea on your person, that gold piece you’re wearing works.”
Mary’s hand flew to her medallion tied to her neck. Each woman in her league had one.
“You want payment now?”
“Now is as good a time as any.”
“You should’ve told me.”
The harlot was disdainful. “You think I can plan for every little thing thatmightgo wrong.”
Mary squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t argue the merits of thinking ahead.
“You’ll have your half guinea when you come to my shop.”
Miss Mitchell gusted a sigh. “I suppose that’ll do.” She swung the door open and let Mary pass. “You’ll find what you’re looking for in here.”
Moonlight flooded the chamber, its curtainless window facing King’s Square. Mary swept deeper inside, marveling at moonbeams cutting diamond-bright prisms on a chandelier left uncovered.
She took two more steps, drawn to a row of paintings propped against the wall. One of them was the seated Betty Burke, the artwork she saw in the gaming room her first night at Maison Bedwell. Miss Mitchell had said the seated Betty Burke had been replaced by a portrait of Betty Burke reclining in bed—the secret society’s message to meet the following week.
She would search the cabinets behind the paintings, except whining hinges sent a chill up her spine. She spun around.
