Page 119 of For a Scot's Heart Only

His siren was keeping another secret.

Mary stirred the simmering pot on her workshop stove. The glue’s woodsy smells steamed hernose. Flour, water, alum, and a few drops of birch oil. Her hands trembled too much for needle and thread, and touching baleen made her cry. She hiccupped and went to the worktable where strips of linen waited.Dear Thomas.Losing him was almost as heartbreaking as the thought of losing her sister.

She dipped her rag in a pot of glue.

Oh, Margaret, where are you?

Was she tied up? Had she eaten? Was she hurt?

She slapped the rag on linen and began smearing it with glue. Leaning into her labor, loose hairs fell forward. She swiped them off her face with the back of her hand, sniffling and careful to keep her sticky fingers from touching her hair. More tears threatened to come. Signs of Margaret were everywhere, each kindness a stab to Mary’s soul. The stairs to their garret swept clean. The bed tidy. Margaret’s latest arrangement in the shop window. How talented her sister was. Colorful streamers on white fabric, the entire display like colorful candies on meringue.

Miss Dalton was at the yellow curtain, her eyes popping. “My goodness, miss. You weren’t jesting when you said you were making buckram. This looks like a year’s worth.”

Undyed linen hung like small banners on a dozen ropes stretching back and forth in the workroom. Half of the linens were dry and half still glistened. Tomorrow they’d get a second coat, and on the third day become buckram—the stiff inner fabric for corsets and stays.

Miss Dalton threaded the maze of shoulder high ropes. “It’s twilight, miss. Do you want me to stay?”

“That’s kind of you, but no.”

The seamstress stood in the forest of cloth. Her forehead wrinkled with worry but she was too well mannered to ask about her employer’s swollen red eyes. An afternoon of solitary crying did that to a woman.

Mary smiled benignly. “Go on. I’ll lock the door when I’m done with this batch.”

They said their goodbyes and Mary stirred the pot again. Work was the best remedy to chase away fear and utter helplessness. Several times she’d been tempted to don her cloak and hunt for Margaret. But the notes in her pocket advised her to stay put and maintain the appearance that all was well.

Miss Thelen was making progress. She had hunted down a hack with the number plate 183—Margaret’s hack. Cecelia had sent word, stating that Denton House’s study window would be left open at ten o’clock tomorrow night. Lord Ranleigh had sent a missive—the search was going well. How tidy, all these arrangements, and she, unable to take charge.

This uselessness was driving her mad.

For comfort, she pulled out Lord Ranleigh’s message and read it again.

Dear Miss Fletcher,

Following the hack number was an excellent idea. We’ve narrowed down your sister’s location to one of three hamlets outside London.

A splotch of ink marred the page as though the dark lord’s quill had hovered while he decided how to state his demand.

Regarding tomorrow night; deliver your package to the mews behind my home. Connor will wait for you. I’m sure you remember him. He’s the Irishman who informed me I have the French Pox.

R.

P.S. Burn this note.

Everything was falling into place. Except for Thomas. She crumpled the note and jammed it into her apron pocket. His stricken face haunted her. The agony in his eyes. His mouth agape, then slowly shutting in an unforgiving line. She had done her worst. Glacial Mary Fletcher. A cold bitch.

Pain was a rock in her belly. She held on to the worktable, a sob climbing up her throat. Her eyes were hot and bleary. She dabbed them with her apron. Oh, she was a mess. When the time was right, she’d explain all to Thomas—if he’d allow her the chance.

The awful turn with Thomas had been Lord Ranleigh’s doing. The scene that morning in his study was the newest wound, refusing to heal. She’d been waiting for the ink to dry on her message to Cecelia when the dark lord leaned in.

“You need to send West packing,”Ranleighwhisper-hissed.

“Why?”

“If Ancilla finds out he’s involved, she will destroy him. Then, she’ll go after his family, his business.”

“You threatened his business,” she shot back.

“To get you to work for me.” His jaw tipped an arrogant angle. “And now you are.”