Page 27 of For a Scot's Heart Only

Fear shaded Cecelia’s eyes. “You must watch your back.”

“You’ve not to worry,” Mary said, forcing brightness. “I can be crafty too.”

“Then you ought to find out why Mr. West was at Maison Bedwell. It can’t bode well for us.”

Instead of replying, Mary applied herself to righting the room, blowing out extra candles and setting them in a neat array on the mantel for Jenny to collect. She needed a reprieve from Cecelia’s all-too-perceptive eyes—and the inconvenient facts concerning Mr. West.

He knew she’d forged a key last August.

Had he learned what the key was for?

Standing at the mantel, her blurred reflectionshowed above a damp handprint on a brass candlestick holder. Her lips were moving in fervent prayer:Please may he not be involved.

“Mary,” Cecelia beckoned gently.

“Yes?”

“In the gaming room last night, did you see a tall blonde woman in jackboots and leather stays?”

Mary turned around.

“I did.”

“That is Ilsa Thelen, a Swedish bare-knuckle brawler. She is to Lord Ranleigh what Mr. Wortley is to the Countess of Denton.” Cecelia grimaced, sinking deeper into her pillows. “Don’t be fooled by her slender frame. I’ve witnessed her toppling men twice her size.”

Mary rubbed her nape but the chill camped there wouldn’t leave.

“Consider me forewarned.”

Cecelia’s eyes softened at the corners as if she understood Mary’s heart and the dilemma of unstoppable attraction to a questionable man.

“And today Mr. West visited your shop,” Cecelia said. “An intriguing chain of events, don’t you think?”

Chapter Six

There was something about going to a gentleman’s place of business in the morning. Invigorating, certainly. Mary fed on her determination and charged the outside stairs of West and Sons Shipping. Seagulls perched on weathered treads squawked and flew away, while a hoary-haired clerk gaped at her through the ground-floor window as she ascended the stairs.

Hers would be atake no prisonersinterview in Mr. West’s private office. Shewouldget to the bottom of his intent—how, exactly, she couldn’t say.

Demand to know why he was at Maison Bedwell? A mortifying question.

Withhold the warehouse key until he explained himself? A churlish move.

Flirt boldly with Mr. West? A dangerous plan—though it was her favorite.

It was better than Cecelia’s advice tosmile, be friendly, and listen.

Cresting the landing, she frowned mutinously. Of course, shecouldsmile, nor was friendliness out of the question. It was the listening part that bothered her,as though she should stifle independent thought. As to the best methods of subterfuge, she knocked on the office door, determined to find her own.

“Enter,” was the brusque command from within.

She turned the latch and the sun-grayed door swung wide. The thrumming, pounding noise in her ears must be from bounding up the stairs, definitely not from Mr. West seated at his desk, a quill in hand.

“Miss Fletcher.” He set down his quill.

“Mr. West.”

Despite the hammering in her chest, her voice was as mellow as the autumn breeze batting her mobcap’s frilled edge. She’d worn her worst, a regrettable piece with a wide chinstrap. For the first time she wanted to be the poised, elegant creature Cecelia was. To parley witty quips. But no; her tongue was pasted to the roof of her mouth.