Page 8 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Jacobite sympathizer incites rebellion with shopping.

This first day was not promising.

Fog carpeted Miss MacDonald’s narrow courtyard. He stood at the edge of her mews, his eyes fixed on the vertical slash of light between her curtains. Three barrels behind him needed checking—his final task. He’d investigate them once he was certain Miss MacDonald was ensconced at home permanently for the night, which appeared to be the case.

A curtain wavered. Miss MacDonald paused at the window, dressed in frilly white night clothes, hair down, a feathered quill tapping her lips. He squinted at, yes, those were papers in her hand.

He grabbed his pencil and notebook and wroteMiss MacDonald spent her night reading.

The pencil’s tip lingered on the page. Shame niggled him. “Dangerous minds, those readers,” he murmured dryly.

He addedI am the worst gentleman for watching herto the entry andjabbed a decisive period. But he wasn’t done. His pencil became a forthright instrument to empty his mind.

Upon further study, Miss MacDonald possesses a wide mouth, unremarkable lips, and small breasts (as judged by her meager bodice).

And skinny arms. A blonde with lush locks, her hair is all her own (as judged by the quantity falling about her shoulders at this late hour). The woman is a contradiction. Attractive but not a beauty. She appears to be innocent friendliness, though men flock to her as if they know they’ll find something else. One could argue, they do her bidding. The hack which delivered her to White Cross Street today returned at twilight to take her home. When did London’s hack drivers start doing that?

Can Miss MacDonald bend the will of men?

Evidence would prove that, yes, she can. I am a perfect example (as judged by my freezing stones while I stand in her mews without my greatcoat). She is carnal invitation in the flesh. Might be the sway of her hips. I can only conclude that Miss MacDonald ensorcells those around her.

He hesitated over one vexing fact, not listed in Fielding’s ledger.

Miss MacDonald has no known source of income. How is she funded? This needs further investigation.

The last sentence written, he was ready to put this foolishness behind him. The magistrate had askedhim to report his findings. Didn’t mean he had to read everything aloud. Nor did Fielding say how many hours a day must be devoted to this fruitless task.

He snapped his pocket journal shut. “There is nothing here.”

Only those three barrels to check. If he worked fast, he’d have his head on the pillow well before midnight.

Scooting deeper into the mews, he let his eyes adjust to the dark. The small structure would fit a dog cart and one horse, but no animal had lived within the stone walls for some time. Dust-laden cobwebs dangled from rafters. Moldy straw bunched in one corner. Air reeked of river and ale, an aroma strongest by the waist-high barrels on the riverside wall. Quite a feat, their smell. Between the Thames and London Bridge’s sagging structures, ale was sweet perfume.

Which begged the question: Why did the fashionable Miss MacDonald live in a simple house abutting the Thames? In boring Dowgate, no less?

He dropped to one knee and groped the middle barrel. A brand scarred its belly,Mermaid Brewery. TheMandBcurved fancifully and theywas a mermaid’s tail underlining the words. Night hid the rest of the mythical woman from view, but his thumb brushed wavy lines that must be her hair. Hands running over coopered wood, he found no dust or cobwebs.

Clean barrels? In a dirty mews?

He checked the slash of light that was Miss MacDonald’s window. Even if it took a lifetime, she’d not drink a barrel of ale this size, much less three.

Miss MacDonald sipped . . . Wine? Brandy? Champagne, when she gained entry to finer homes?

Irrelevant questions. What the woman poured into her pretty mouth made no difference.

He stood up, a sense of rightness swamping him. Of king and country and the sanctity of the union. Could be there was a crumb to follow here. He grabbed his notebook and pencil. At the heart of a blank page he wroteMermaid Breweryand added a question mark—his second perplexing query about this woman.

Excitement jumping in his veins, he removed his coat, laid it on another barrel, and stuffed his notebook and pencil within the woolen folds. No need to dirty a new coat, though the night’s damp air was brutal.

With careful hands, he removed the first lid and set it aside. Inside was black as pitch.

He swiped a hand through it. Empty.

Except ale mixed with a metallic odor reached his nose.

He jiggled the barrel, testing it. A raspyclinkanswered him.

Whatever Miss MacDonald was hiding rested at the bottom.