Page 13 of A Scot Is Not Enough

“Flattery, no.”

The intimacy of wrongdoing stripped propriety off the bone. He’d been following her and had been caught skulking in her mews. Strangely, that helped them skirt the need for shallow conversation. Mr. Sloane looked ready to engage in in-depth conversation—and anything else that might happen.

“I know what works,” he said.

Excitement sprinkled her skin.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean, I know what stirs you, Miss MacDonald. You see, I’ve noticed you for...” He looked at the fire a moment, took a considered breath, and finished, his gaze direct, his voice even. “Well, for some time.”

The dratted man hooked her fascination. The truth was she was known. She’d glimpsed it in his notebook. His revelations, his seeing her.

She crossed one side of her night-robe over the other. “Very well, Mr. Sloane. Whatstirsme?”

Eyes so beautiful, so penetrating, held her captive.

“Intelligence. Being an intelligent creature, you need a steady diet of it,” he said. “To give and receive, I think, as iron sharpens iron. Men who can’t see past your”—he offered a respectful nod to her body—“obvious appeal, don’t see the real you.”

Her knuckles whitened on her robe. Stillness expanded, punctuated by a dog barking from a distant house. One could almost hear the river’s hush beyond her window, or the whispers of her soul laid bare. She did not trust herself to speak. A rush of denials would be too obvious, an acquiescence too mortifying.

“And you gleaned this in one day, have you?”

“Correction. Not one day. Several of them.” Chin dropping, Mr. Sloane became deeply interested in the hem of her shift.

“What do you mean?”

His chair creaked. The glower returned, honesty’s snare entrapping him.

“The thing is, I’ve noted your presence in... various places—”

“At Bow Street.” She sat up triumphant. “That’s where I’ve seen you.”

She picked up his pocket journal and began thumbing the pages.

“I have been there of late,” he admitted.

She eyed him over the book. “But you’re not a thief taker.”

“No. I serve the Duke of Newcastle.”

“A Government position.”

“I track financial records for His Grace,” he said guardedly.

Calculation flared in her. The upper hand had been hers when she found Mr. Sloane arse up in a barrel. Now the tables were turning. Her hunter had been watching her for several days, he worked for the king’s counselor, and he had no qualms about telling her.

“And today you decided to reveal yourself,” she said.

“At White Cross Street, yes.” He was earnest as asuitor. “Today is the first and only day that I’ve followed you.” Brows knitting, he cleared his throat. “I am a gentleman, Miss MacDonald . . . not a—a . . .”

“Depraved man.”

“No.”

“I knew that in my courtyard, Mr. Sloane. Believe me, I would not let a depraved man into my house.”

“Your house, yes, but I am in your bedchamber.”