Page 115 of A Scot Is Not Enough

A mere seven days and he was a profoundly different man.

Fissures breached his soul the way sunshine fractured a frozen lake come spring. Cecelia MacDonald was all that was good and beautiful in a dull world. London didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve her.

But he’d fight for her all the same, starting with his report to Fielding.

The old crow was presently reading five pagesof carefully crafted lists and dates and places. The foolscap scraped as the magistrate slid one page behind the other in his slow perusal. Snorts of derision punctuated the silent read. Fielding’s phlegmy coughs did too.

“You expect me to believe Miss MacDonald is a paragon of virtue?” Fielding asked.

“I expect you to believe the truth.”

The chair creaked. “I wanted a report of the woman’s whereabouts. Not this drivel.”

Alexander turned around. Fielding was standing with the aid of a cane. His peruke framed a haggard face made pale above his black robe. Watery, bloodshot eyes peered at Alexander.

“You wanted evidence,” Alexander said. “And I gave it to you.”

Fielding ambled around his desk, his cane thumping the floor. “Feeding apples and bread to the Scots in Tenter Ground has to be a ploy. I can’t believe that’s all she does.”

“It isn’t. She also feeds the Irish. It’s in my report.”

Fielding’s eyes slanted slightly. “Don’t be coy with me.”

He steeled himself. Hewastoying with Fielding, a man who aspired to rid the streets of crime and make London a safer place. Some respect was due. But Fielding could never rid their fair city of corruption. For that he’d have to crack open high places full of rot. He’d also have to look within his own thief takers.

Alexander was surprisingly comfortable, his arms loosely crossed and a finger tapping his lips.

“Did you read section three of my report?” he asked. “The other goings-on in Southwark?”

“About Mr. Berry and Mr. MacDaniel? Unsubstantiated rumors. I won’t countenance them.”

“Yet, you’ll countenance unsubstantiated rumors about Miss MacDonald. Why? Is it too hard to believe a Jacobite sympathizer can do good for others?”

Fielding’s eyes narrowed. “You’re under her spell.”

Spellwas inadequate for the prism of emotions he felt. Fascinated? Enthralled? Beguiled? None did justice to what flourished inside him.

“She is a treasure.”

Fielding wiped a handkerchief across his nose. “I’ll give you another chance to get this right, Mr. Sloane. You have one week to dig up dirt on Miss MacDonald.”

“And if I don’t?” Alexander stood tall as a duke’s man should.

“I will make certain you never get the letters patent.”

Fielding’s threat had lost its sting. Alexander walked solemnly to the door, and reached for his hat on a hook. He had important work to do, namely escorting Cecelia to a costume ball and seeing her safely gone from it with her clan’ssgian-dubhin hand.

“Mr. Sloane, where are you going?”

Alexander smiled. A small stone cottage in Dowgate came to mind.

“I’m going home,” he said, putting his newly purchased tricorn on his head. His old hunter’s hat, like his ambitions, had been swept out to sea.

“I’m not done with you.”

“But I am done with you, sir. I will not spy on an innocent woman.”

Fielding hacked a wretched cough and pinnedsickly eyes on Alexander. “What about Baron of the Exchequer?”