Page 16 of All Scot and Bothered

The Crimson Council? She’d never before heard of such a thing. How strange that her life seemed hued by a certain shade. The Crimson Council. The Red Rogues. The Scarlet Lady.

A distant pounding reverberated through the building like the hammer strokes of Hephaestus.

“Christ almighty,” Genny swore. “He’s at the school door. He’ll tear it apart before coming here to do the same. Hurry, darlin’.”

Cecelia’s eyes popped open and she sneezed white powder into the crook of her elbow. “Why are you making me up?” She sniffed, hiccuped, and sneezed again.

“He can’t know who you really are, not yet.” Genny kept her quiet by painting crimson rouge on her lips in thick, masterful strokes. “You must be the Scarlet Lady.”

“Who ishe?” she finally asked. “And why can I not meet him as I am?”

“Can you read without these?” Genny motioned to her spectacles.

“I prefer to,” Cecelia said dazedly. “They’re for seeing distances. I’m nearly blind without them.”

Genny tucked them away, and didn’t have to tell her this time to continue reading.

Cecelia, you must watch over Phoebe. She is your sister in all but blood. If the law finds her here, she’s in imminent danger. You must keep her from her brutal father at all costs.

She opened her mouth to ask Genny about thisPhoebewhen a cacophony of masculine commands and feminine objections filtered through the walls of the residence from the school next door. Footfalls and doors crashing with no little violence sent her galloping heart into a sprint and caused her hands to shake.

“What do I do?” Cecelia asked, feeling suddenly very young.

“What you have to,” Genny said as though the answer were obvious. “Whateveryou have to. Even if it’s offeringup that generous set of tits, you hear? Whatever it takes to keep this household safe. That’s your responsibility now.”

Dumbfounded, Cecelia looked down at the bosoms in question, hidden by a billowing scarlet cloak that suggested she might wear something more interesting beneath it than a sensible day gown.

When she lifted her head, Genny plunked a towering pale wig upon her crown, one so blond it might have been silver. It added at least half a foot to her already impressive height and was bedecked with enough red bows and pearls to make a Christmas tree jealous.

Genny finally seemed to relax as she arranged a fall of silvery ringlets over her shoulder. “You actually look like Henrietta, give or take twenty-five years.” She fetched a mirror from a sideboard and held it up to Cecelia.

The transformation stole her breath. She couldn’t see her entire form, of course, nor did her reflection contain the top of her ridiculous wig, but it did, indeed, appear as though she’d stepped out of a bygone century as a glamourous ingénue in the court of eighteenth-century Versailles. Her cheekbones seemed leaner, contoured by rouge, her red lips fuller and more than a little wicked, her face a ghostly shade in comparison. Her eyes lined and colored, and her lashes thickened.

She didn’t look at all like herself. She couldn’t tell if she loved or hated the effect.

That same ominous knock echoed through the residence, this time coming from the door in the garden.

“Open the door. We’ve a warrant to search the premises.”

It struck Cecelia as absurdly funny that the representative from Scotland Yard actually boasted a Scottish accent along with a voice so deep, she wondered if he could simply bellow the entire house down.

Like the wolf in the story.

And here she stood, in her red hooded cloak, waiting to be devoured.

Cecelia pressed her fingers to her mouth to hold in a whimper.

“Sit here.” Genny guided her to the impressive velvet chair behind the white marble-topped desk. “Don’t stand unless they force you to.Thisis your throne. Your seat of power. Besides, you’re as tall as a lamppost and would be easily recognized by that feature alone.” She produced a black lace masquerade mask from the desk and tied it over Cecelia’s eyes and nose, securing it with a silk ribbon in the back. “Just use that brain of yours to get rid of him, honey. That’s all you have to do.”

Oh, was that all? Cecelia felt it was a terrible moment to mention that in times of stress her brain tended to go on holiday.

“I’m giving ye thirty seconds to open this door or I’ll kick it in,” the cavernous brogue threatened. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

That voice…

Cecelia’s features crinkled behind the mask.

Something about the fathomless frigidity of the brogue was familiar. As were the chills it lifted on the fine hairs of her body. A voice like that belonged in a forgotten dwelling deeper than even the volcanic forge of hell.