Page 9 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Tipping the barrel was out of the question—it’d make too much noise. He bent over, his body jostling coopered wood. Metalclinkedagain. He leaned in deeper, gripping the barrel’s iron-banded rim with one hand, his hat falling off. He pushed up on his toes and reached for the bottom.

His fingertips grazed grainy metal.

“What the devil—”

“I was thinking the same thing,” said an amused feminine voice.

He groaned, the barrel echoing his misery. Head down, arse up was not a defensible position.

“Are you in pain, sir?” the voice asked while a second one giggled.

“Only my pride.”

He began to unfold himself.

“Don’t. Move.” A bone-chillingclick. “If you do, I will shoot that fine arse of yours.”

Cold sweat popped at his hairline. Theclickwas a pistol cocked. Deucedly hard to know for certain with his head in a barrel, but he’d heard the sound often enough.

“Who are you, sir?”

A commanding feminine voice. Definitely the woman pointing a pistol at him.

“I am Mr. Alexander Sloane.”

“Of...?”

“London.” A few minutes upside down and blood rushed his skull, pounding in his ears. “If you don’t mind... the pressure in my head is increasing. I’d prefer to have this conversation standing up.”

“You should have thought about that before you went arse up in my mews, Mr. Sloane.”

Blood banged furiously behind his eyes while muffled feminine whispers ensued.Wonderful.A committee of two women was deciding what to do with him.

“Put your hands on the rim. Slowly, so I can see them.” Polite and definitive, that voice.

He put both hands on the barrel’s rim and remained facedown. So, this was how he would meet MissMacDonald, head down, arse first, and his pocket journal crammed with outrageous notes about her. Nothing to connect him to Bow Street thankfully. With any luck, they’d ignore the journal and call for the Night Watch.

“Jenny, his coat,” the lady said.

Footsteps pattered and excellent Northumberland wool brushed the barrel beside him.

“Lud. He’s got a little book”—a pause was followed by incriminating page-riffling—“and there’s lots written about you, miss.”

“Give it to me.”

Body sagging, he tossed his they’ll-ignore-the-journal plan and formed another one. Swan Lane was in Dowgate, Sir William Calvert the alderman. A coin in the warder’s palm would see a message delivered to the alderman:Please alert Bow Street that Mr. Alexander Sloane is in prison.By morning, Fielding would arrange his release and acknowledge the folly of tasking the duke’s numbers man to a thief taker’s job. It would only cost him his pride and a cold night in prison.

This would be a story to share with his brother over a pint, something to laugh about... someday.

“Tie him up, Jenny.”

“No need for ropes.” His voice echoed in the barrel. “I am unarmed and I mean you no harm.”

“You are armed with pencil and paper, sir. That is lethal enough for me.”

An interesting response. He would’ve ruminated on it, but a hand grabbed his arm and guided him upright. Pressure waned between his ears, the blood draining fast, leaving him light-headed. He leanedagainst the barrel to steady himself and discovered the hand guiding him belonged to Jenny.

She glared at him, a rag-curled Medusa. “Don’t try anything. I’ve got a knife.”