Page 16 of For a Scot's Heart Only

Mary set down the cloth. A man sniffing around Margaret alarmed her more than it should. Nineteen and pretty, Margaret was coming into her own—and becoming more of a challenge with each passing day.

“Now she’s laughing,” Mrs. Rimsby reported.

Mary walked to the doorway. “If that sly butcher boy has come calling again...”

She peeked past the curtain. Candlelight touched sun-streaked hair neatly clubbed, broad shoulders,and a confident stance. Short hairs on her nape prickled. The gentleman was listening politely to Margaret until her sister pointed at the workroom. The gentleman turned.

Mary jerked back, her ears ringing.

Mr. West was here. In her shop!

“Why is a man like that visiting a corset shop?” Mrs. Rimsby asked, careless with the gap between the curtain and the door frame.

Mr. West spied them, his mouth curling with amusement. He dominated her humble shop, a scarred pirate playing nice with the merchants of White Cross Street.

Had he come to do some plundering?

Mary looked away, her insides vibrating like a twice-plucked harp string.

“His name is Mr. West. A man of sterling reputation and London’s finest purveyor of bones and baleen.”

“Well, if he’s here on business, you shouldn’t keep him waiting.” Mrs. Rimsby’s eyes twinkled. “I wouldn’t.”

Mary smoothed her apron and her rattled nerves. She knocked aside the curtain and entered the rose-scented fray of Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays. Her perfect world. Red-and-white-striped walls trimmed with white shelves, a few of them delicately chipped. The light moderate. Feminine accoutrements everywhere. A mother and daughter were examining stockings in one corner, and a housekeeper on her half day dithered over a stream of garters in another. Harriet Dalton, their new seamstress, was wrapping linen stays in brown paper at the counter for a woman with two children in tow.

No pirate’s plunder here. Mr. West’s unblinking gaze said otherwise.

I’ve come for youwas written all over it.

Mary’s senses blazed. His presence threatened to burn her ordered life to the ground. And that confidence of his. It was irritating. Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays was her little kingdom. She’d not tolerate him storming it.

Margaret scurried across the shop. “The gentleman says he is Mr. West, provisioner of our bones and baleen.”

“He is.”

Margaret frowned. “How do I not know this, Mary?”

“Because it’s grimy business on the docks, and you don’t like to get dirty.” She set a protective arm around her sister’s shoulders, herding her toward the workroom. “Besides, you are best with needle and thread.”

Her sister’s chin jutted mulishly. Their hushed conversation was in danger of going awry.

“It’s time I learned more about our business.”

“I will teach you. Later,” she whispered. “However, Mrs. Rimsby’s corset needs your attention, and we both know you excel at the gentle art of... people.”

Margaret flounced off, but not before giving Mary a warning glare. A conversation would come. Grievances would be aired, more freedoms demanded. Mary waited patiently until her sister disappeared behind the yellow curtain.

One problem was temporarily solved. Another beckoned.

Shoulders squared, she spun around. Her tall, out-of-place visitor stood by a small white table, stirring the water in a porcelain bowl with floating candles. He grinned like a lad caught with his finger in a cake when she approached.

“What a fine shop you have,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“And this”—he traced the rim of the bowl—“is a beautiful piece.”

Pride unfurled inside her. Made her stand taller. The table had been a source of deep satisfaction. Pink and red rose petals purchased from a Hammersmith hothouse had been scattered around the table. She sprinkled a few into the bowl.