Page 72 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Outside, the cold air was damp and mildewed, and light scarce. Two Night Watchmen wandered into Nonsuch House, the garish Dutch building. MacLeod was a hulking form, scanning the empty bridge road. A nearby waterwheel sloshed loudly underneath.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” She had to raise her voice to be heard.

MacLeod’s breath billowed small frosty clouds. “You set me to watch over two old Scotswomen. Their lives are cooking, mending, and giving aid to Scots and Irish in Tenter Ground. Their biggest excitement is talking about Miss MacDonald attending a costume ball Wednesday next.”

“Where is this costume ball?”

“Some nob’s home. Swynford House, I think.”

Her fist clenched in victory within her cloak. Miss MacDonald in a crowded entertainment at her brother’s house—priceless news indeed.

“That is exactly the kind of information I need.”

She dug in her petticoat pocket and retrieved the purse of half guineas. His first payment.

“Keep your money, milady.”

“You don’t want it?”

His eyes were an unnatural blue in the dark. “Save it for later but insult me again and I canna guarantee the quality of my information.”

This was an unwelcome development. She returned the purse to her pocket.

“Respect above gold,” she said carefully. “What a surprise you are, Mr. MacLeod.”

“I know what I want and I’m no’ fool enough to let you know what it is. Godspeed, milady.” He took three, four strides down London Bridge when he pivoted sharply. “One more thing, milady.”

Night blurred his form, but his stance was soldierly.

“You willna touch one hair on Miss MacDonald or the two elder ladies’ heads.”

“I mean them no harm. I only want information.”

The silky lie assuaged the Highland brute. Themeeting was fruitful, though she lacked her usual finesse, talking about the contents of her safe. Very unwise of her. Some secrets were too terrible to see the light of day.

MacLeod headed down London Bridge to Southwark, seemingly content with his false control. Men. They lived too much by the force of their hand. MacLeod’s information was the gold she sought. His act of rebellion troubling. Thus, she pulled out her Queen Anne pistol and shot him dead in the back.

Some plans, unfortunately, got a little messy.

Chapter Twenty

Later that same night...

Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays was dark, not a soul in sight. Cecelia ceased knocking on the door and pressed her nose to the window, cupping her hands on both sides of her face to block the streetlight. All was blessedly in order. Floors swept clean, flattened corsets propped on shelves, an empty vase awaiting fresh flowers come morning. All so neat and orderly, and her inches from ruining it. The news she brought would destroy their peace.

They were losing, badly.

Outgunned, outmanned, and outwitted by the countess. Her lips twisted bitterly.Blasted woman!

She balled her fist and pounded on the door until candlelight flickered through wavy-paned glass. The door swung wide. Mary gawked.

“Cecelia, what are you doing here at this hour?”

“A friendly visit.”

“This is your day for cricket and your courtesan friends.”

She swept in, head high, her courage a thin veneer. “I was at Artillery Ground earlier today.”