Page 2 of A Scot Is Not Enough

“A scurrilous lot.”

The Jacobite ledger with its fanciful code names came to mind. Lady Pink was one, Lord Blue another. The Uprising of ’45 had ended seven years ago. Any rebels who’d survived the war had been shot, hanged, or fled. Only the most brazen—or foolish—would spawn trouble in London. In either case, he was ill-equipped to track them.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir, but I am not a thief taker.”

“Which makes you perfect for the job.” Fielding rummaged through ledgers. “Miss MacDonald knows them all... probably better than their mothers,” he muttered in a voice cracking from ill health.

The magistrate was an aging crow of a man. Cold creatures, crows, as canny as they were destructive. They collected shiny things, as much to mark their territory as to distract. Could be why Fielding didn’t want him underfoot. A veneer of corruption smeared Bow Street, which was the other reason he was here. The latest claim was the magistrate wrote under a pseudonym, instigating the Paper War betweenThe Covent-Garden Journaland Grub Street newspapers all in the name of selling his books.

Not illegal, but far from upstanding.

“Sir, my purpose here is to oversee your use of the crown’s funds.”

“For law and order, Mr. Sloane.” Fielding’s voice rose with righteous fervor. “And there is no better way to see justice done than to be part of it.”

He marched to the desk. “I must vigorously object. I serve—”

“Object to your heart’s content, but imagine how pleased His Grace will be when I tell him the finework you’ve done on behalf of the crown.” Fielding opened a ledger and thumbed through its pages. “Might hasten the path to your next position.”

Baron of the Exchequer.Anger kindled, from the tight spot he was in and from the black-robed crow who pinned him there.

“That’s extortion.”

“It’s following a woman. How hard can that be?”

“I don’t care for your methods.”

Fielding was unmoved, his eyes and his robes wrinkled. Probably his soul too. His desk was a hodgepodge of account books, records of known criminals and suspected criminals. Alexander chafed at the taint placed on the latter cohort. Mere hearsay landed a person in the books. Once in, the entries became ruthless and detailed, assuming guilt. Ledgers crammed the shelves, all with hasty sketches next to lists of habits, unique attributes, and known associates. Fielding slid one of those ledgers forward.

“Report her activities to me once a week, and when the time comes, I shall report your excellent work to the duke.”

Alexander met the magistrate’s cold stare. “What are you looking for? If the woman is not a criminal, why is she in your books?”

“Ah, yes, my ledgers.” Fielding reached for a quill. “We both know you don’t agree with my methods. If my assumptions about this woman are incorrect, this is your chance to prove me wrong.”

A trap neatly set.

Fingers drumming the account book under his arm, Alexander looked down. Fine-boned features smirked from the page. The clever blonde. Her name was Miss Cecelia MacDonald. The artist paid fairtribute. An arrow-straight nose with delicate nostrils and eyes sparkling and mischievous. She was texture in a gray city, adventure waiting to happen. Farther down was her small-bosomed cleavage. His gaze clung to that fascinating indent, imagining what the artist couldn’t capture.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with this woman.” Alexander groaned. Good Lord, his wits had fled him. “Correction. I know what to do with a woman. But this”—he waved a hand over the page—“is a delicate matter.”

“Miss MacDonald is hardly delicate. She is a demirep.”

“A demirep?”

“A woman who, I collect, intrigues every man she likes, under the name and appearance of virtue, yet is what everybody knows her to be but what nobody calls her.”

“There is no law against uncertain virtue.”

“Order is the foundation of any good society, and ambiguity the devil’s device.” Fielding dipped his quill in the inkwell with a decisiveclink. “You would do well to remember that.”

Alexander touched the scurrilous sketch, a haze seeping into his bones. In London, a thin stratum of the fair sex lived free of propriety’s constraints. Women uncontained by families. Women who left more questions than answers in their wake, which made them provocative, and Bow Street counted Miss MacDonald in their number.

A woman of certain freedoms.

Beyond the magistrate’s window, bright bonnets and staid tricorns bobbed. Coats were clasped against crisp September air, smiling faces above them. Somewould seek home and hearth, while others would seek Covent Garden’s lush entertainments. A driven man, Alexander had achieved much in his twenty-nine years; he would achieve a great deal more before he left Bow Street. He allowed no time for rampant pleasures.

“There she is,” Fielding said. “Your quarry.”