Page 71 of A Scot Is Not Enough

“Anything is possible.”

He scoffed. “Get in your fancy carriage and take a trip through Tenter Ground by Snow’s Field, milady. That’s where you’ll find your Jacobite league.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about women who help Scots at Tenter Ground. Food mostly. Some with employment. Others, they pay their passage home or to the colonies. That’s your league, right there,” he said, jutting his chin at her. “A league of ordinary charitable women.”

“And how do they finance their good deeds?”

He looked at her as if she was soft in the head.

“Helping people find work isna expensive.” He frowned. “Look, all I know is they were four women, milady, now it’s three. Miss MacDonald and two elderly clan aunts.”

“There must be more,” she said stubbornly.

“There’s no’,” he said, just as stubborn.

Four men ambled into the quiet tavern, dockside rufflers. Their coats ragged and smelling of pitch, their hair lanky and unkempt. Their bloodshot eyes roved over the ruby ring she twisted on her finger and her black taffeta cloak, her plainest, though it was too fine for this establishment. A Queen Anne pistol sat in her petticoat pocket, small but convincing. She’d have one shot should the oafs try anything.

The newcomers huddled around a table, calling for ale. One of them scratched his whiskers and sized up MacLeod.

“I need details,” she said quietly.

“Like what?”

“Like what they think they know about me.”

Men could be deplorably inept. Mr. Wortley was a pleasant surprise, his grasp of life’s little details enlightening. She parroted his wisdom.

“Much can be gleaned from habits, visitors, correspondence, and such,” she said.

MacLeod’s grin was a crooked mess. “You want me to report to you when they take their tea and biscuits? I can do that.”

Irritation flared hotly. A man mocking her—she hated it.

“You do that, Mr. MacLeod. As long as it doesn’t tax the resources between your ears.”

His grin froze. “Insults, milady, are one thing I doona miss.”

She massaged her forehead. Amal de têtewas forming. What did she expect? A list of names and future plans? MacLeod had been in their midst for one day. Even the uniquely skilled Mr. Wortley wasn’t that good. Her gaze drifted to the frigate in the heart of the river. Miss MacDonald’s fate was sealed. But first, there was the matter of theothercontents in her safe.

“Just keep your ears open to any gossip about what else was in my safe.”

“I thought all the gold was taken.”

“It was,” she said sharply. “I—I need to know if they read anything.”

He snorted in disbelief. “What thief stops to read a book when they’re stealing?”

She held her tongue. Being vulnerable rankled her, and she’d said too much already.

MacLeod picked up his hat. “If there’s nothing else, milady...”

She checked the four ruffians working on their second round of ale. This night was terribly unfruitful.

“I’ll go with you.”

The Highlander escorted her across a floor sticky with spilled beer. Gold jingled softly in her other petticoat pocket. Ten half guineas. A healthy sum for her unlikely spy, the first of his payments.