Page 75 of A Scot Is Not Enough

“By Wednesday? There’s not enough time.”

“Surely you know someone in Spitalfields who can do it.”

“Of course I do, but the cost would be exorbitant.”

“I’ll pay it.”

Color drained from Mary’s cheeks, her voice a thin wisp. “As you shall pay a price for wearing this. They’ll throw you in prison.”

“It’s not a kilt.”

“But itisan act of rebellion.” Mary scowled ferociously. “I fear the English will not see the humor in you dressing like this.”

“I’m not doing it to humor them.”

“Why do it?” Mary’s gaze nailed her. “Is this some foolish idea to honor your father? It’s not your fault he died in a prison hulk. He made his choices.”

“As I have made mine.”

Her heart was a tight ball in her chest. Torment wanted to eat her alive, resolve its counterbalance. The emotions had been her companion since fleeing Mr. Sloane’s room, and the decision which followed, freeing. She didn’t know how she’d gain entry to Swynford House, but enter it she would.

“After I left the White Hart,” she said, “it was all I could think about.”

Indeed, the multitude of steps from the White Hart to White Cross Street firmed the plan in her mind.

“I know that look, Cecelia. You’re planning something reckless.” Mary shook the paper. “And this proves it.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. Do you think this will be a grand comeuppance to the crown?” Mary snorted indelicately. “The king won’t care one whit. No one will know. You’ll be smacked down like a fly—one less Jacobite.”

“I am resolved.”

“I beg you, wear something else and we can allcarry on with our lives, but this . . .” Mary was at the edge of her seat, her voice shrill. “This is reckless.”

“But that’s just it. Wedon’tcarry on with our lives. We’re still cleaning up the aftermath of war.”

“And flouting Clanranald MacDonald colors is... what? Falling on your sword in the name of clan pride?”

Beyond the fitting room, she could hear the goings-on in the street. A pedestrian whistling an aimless tune. Carriages rolling by. Life. The past, the present, a fine web connecting in this moment. Yes, her father had made his decisions, and she was gladly running headlong into hers. If she didn’t shed the past, it would devour her future.

“My oath was to return thesgian-dubh. Wednesday next, I shall fulfill it.” Steel threaded her words. “Do you remember where the marquess’s house is?”

Mary set aside the paper, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“It is at the corner of St. James Square and Charles Street.”

“There’s a window in the ladies’ retiring room that opens onto Charles Street. It’s near the back of the house with an elm tree in front of it. Wear men’s clothing and wait for me there. At ten o’clock I’ll pass thesgian-dubhto you through that window.”

Mary reached for her. “Why don’t you climb through it and leave with me?”

She patted Mary’s hand. The plea was sweet.

“Charles Street is too busy. A woman in a ball gown crawling through a window would definitely draw attention.”

Sadness and confusion clouded Mary’s eyes. “What you’re doing doesn’t make sense.”

It did to her. Perfect sense—a vow fulfilled and she would be free.