Page 92 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Miss Mitchell was closing the door.
Mary ran toward it. “Wait! How do I get out of here?”
Through the crack, the harlot’s eyes pitied her.
“That’s the thing, miss. You’re not leaving.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Once the door was shut, Julian casually crossed one leg over another. He’d been sitting in the dark for half an hour, which was twenty-nine minutes too long. He didn’t wait for women. They waited for him. This newfound patience intrigued his henchwoman, Ilsa. She called this phenomenon the corset-maker effect. An untidy theorem. His was simpler. Miss Fletcher was an objective—his, of course.
Unfortunately, she was running helter-skelter toward a closing door.
He traced the braided trim on his coat. Minor chaos was to be expected.
“Miss Fletcher,” he called out.
She twisted around so fast her hems whipped her legs. She might’ve paled, though it was hard to tell in the cavernous room.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said. “Otherwise, the good folk of King’s Square will gossip.”
“You!”
Miss Fletcher charged him like a Fury. Hair in disarray, rage on her face, yet beautiful enough to steal his breath. She was two paces from accostinghim when a pistol cocked. His late-night guest froze, searching for the source of that deadlyclick.
Ilsa emerged from the shadows, her pistol drawn. “To think you called herglacial.”
His henchwoman’s accent gave an up-and-down treatment of the king’s English.Swedes...
Miss Fletcher stiffened as one does when a lethal weapon is aimed at one’s heart.
“An accurate assessment. I stand by it. Catching her unawares like this must be off-putting. Some feathers will need smoothing, I collect.”
“I don’t think so.” Ilsa honed her aim on the corset maker. “Miss Fletcher is made of... What is it you English say? Sterner stuff?”
“An adequate description,” he said.
“Nevertheless, you should be careful,” Ilsa warned. “Your brain is in your breeches when it comes to this woman.”
Amused, he fixed a lace cuff. “You say that about all the pretty brunette corset makers with plump... cheeks.”
He ignored Ilsa’s stern side-eye and soaked up his wrathful guest and her lovely heaving bosom.
“Is it necessary to talk so rudely about me?” Miss Fletcher interjected with the hauteur of a disapproving Scottish nurse. “I am within earshot.”
He laughed. “If you only knew what I’ve said about you when you weren’t in earshot.”
His attempt to lighten the mood didn’t work. Miss Fletcher glared at Ilsa.
“Unless you’re ordering me to stand and deliver, that pistol is unnecessary. I am unarmed and light in the purse.”
“Ranleigh said you like to take charge.”
Miss Fletcher shifted, uneasy. He waved off the pistol.
“Put it down before our guest flays us with her scolding tongue.”
Ilsa obeyed with militaristic precision, tucking the pistol into a leather holster tied to her thigh. A terse flick of blond ringlets was her small rebellion. He welcomed it. The Swede was keenly perceptive. Men were blunt tools, heavy-handed and rarely nuanced. Women, on the other hand, were precision instruments capable of great subtlety.
