Page 112 of For a Scot's Heart Only

She cracked a smile. “It is... and you dressed so handsomely.”

“I wore my best waistcoat for this promenade of ours.”

A sweet jest. It wasn’t lost on her. Thomas was standing in front of a brothel when he ought to be across the river in Southwark, tending his business. This entire day had been a shocking detour. Cecelia’s small but luxurious robin’s egg blue carriage had taken them from Dowgate. She hadn’t said much on that ride. Thomas seemed to understand her need for quiet.

Now they were in noisy King’s Square like two outlaws girded for plunder.

Loyal Thomas...

Mary was humbled, knocking on the door again, reasonably this time.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Thomas touched the brim of his hat, a gentle salute. “Anything for you.”

His words settled in her heart as Maison Bedwell’s door opened. The footman, Connor, blocked the entrance. He was sleepy eyed, sliding an arm into his pink velvet livery.

“Good morning, Miss Fletcher, Mr. West. What brings you to Bedwell’s?”

Mary was quick to tuck her pistol into her cloak.“Oh, Connor. Do you ask that of all the patrons? Or just me?”

The footman finger-combed unruly hair. “It’s the hour, miss.”

Thomas’s pocket watch had just reached eleven o’clock when they’d exited Cecelia’s pretty carriage.

“Does passion really care what time it is?” she asked sweetly.

“No, miss.”

“Then we can agree, you need to let us in.” When Connor hedged, she added, “You do know I paid handsomely for the Red Rose room. Lord Ranleigh made no mention of limited hours.” To Thomas, “Did his lordship say anything to you?”

“Not that I recall.”

Connor sighed and stepped aside. “Will you be needing wine in your room, miss?”

“No.” She waved him off. “And I’ll keep my cloak. By the by, is Lord Ranleigh up and about?”

“He’s not accepting visitors, miss,” was the footman’s cryptic answer.

Thomas removed his hat but kept his greatcoat on. Like her, he scanned their environs. Ranleigh could be anywhere: next door, or deep in the bowels of his brothel, sleeping off his victory, or he could be scurrying through London like a cockroach in service to the crown.

She needed to draw him out.

As Connor was closing the door, she laid her trap.

“When it’s convenient, please give Lord Ranleigh a message.” She eyed the frescoes smiling down on her. “Tell his lordship I might have given him the French Pox.”

Connor went white around the gills. “Miss?”

“Nasty business. When I last visited his lordship, we didn’t use a French card, and...” She batted the air. “Well, a man ought to know, don’t you think?”

The footman nodded emphatically. “Of course.”

“Don’t worry about us,” she said, linking arms with Thomas. “We know the way.”

They meandered through the cavernous entry. If she had her bearings right, Connor was darting off to the doorway that connected to the kitchen. MacLeod had given her an idea of the layout belowstairs. She ascertained that either Connor was exceedingly hungry or Lord Ranleigh was belowstairs.

Thomas’s biceps were tense. “You and Ranleigh haven’t...”