Page 34 of For a Scot's Heart Only

An incredible specimen, Lord Ranleigh. Magnificent in his dishabille. She would’ve taken further note, except behind him, seven men—three of them shirtless, their chests heaving—were in the ballroom.

“What are they doing?” She walked around Lord Ranleigh for a better view.

A blond man, his finger circling the air called out, “Gather round, lads. Time for another go.”

Each man found a spot around the fountain and took hold. Backs strained, groans chorused, and water sloshed. The fountain inched along toward open doors which led to the garden. A fine effort until horrid screeching pierced her ears.

Mary was aghast. “They’re ruining the ballroom floor.”

His lordship padded to her side. “The fountain must go.”

“Surely, Madame Bedwell will be angry about the damage done.” She turned to him. “I’m upset on her behalf and this isn’t even my home.”

“The old woman will recover, I’m sure,” he said dryly.

The bawd must owe money for the fountain, and Lord Ranleigh had come to collect. Or the arrogant man had an affinity for fountains. Who could say when it came to sons of dukes? Grub Street devoted rivers of ink to their excess—gossipy articles she’d grudgingly admit to reading on occasion.

Another awful ear-splitting scrape and she bolted into the ballroom.

“Stop!”

Lord Ranleigh followed. “Miss Fletcher...”

She ignored him and went straight to the fountain. The bewildered footmen unbent themselves, panting from their efforts. In the corner, the freckled charwoman ceased her sweeping.

Mary called to her, “You there. Bring me your broom, and fetch every broom in this house.” The servant gawked, frozen in place. Mary clapped her hands. “Quickly, I say.”

“Go on, Nettie,” Lord Ranleigh said. “Do as she says.”

The charwoman scurried forward and handed Mary the broom. She dashed out, her heel strikes echoing. The ballroom floor was lushly patterned wood trimmed with stone on the perimeter. A work of art. Mary crouched down on black-and-white marble cut in a swirling design, the pieces interlocked. The sheer number of craftsmen and the hours of careful labor it must’ve taken to create thisfloor boggled the mind. With a gloved finger, she rubbed a faint mark on the stone.What Philistine could be so uncaring?

Lord Ranleigh’s dirty, silk-covered toes came into view.

Him, of course.

“Do you mean to sweep the fountain into the garden?” he asked.

She sat back on her heels and looked up. “No, but I shall save you from Madame Bedwell’s wrath.”

“Will you, now?”

His lordship might be amused; she was not. In fact, she was rather fascinated.

Water soaking her knees, she put her cheek to the floor and checked the fountain’s base, testing the bottom of its three-tiered structure. Thick plaster over a wooden frame. A long hose with a small billow at the end stuck out like a tail. She sat up, smiling.So that’s how it works. A footpump. Any one of the half-dressed footmen nearby could’ve worked it. Fresh-faced men, all of them broad-backed and handsome. None looked a day over twenty-two. She felt a blush rising. One of them was the auburn-haired footman who’d winked at her.

Lord Ranleigh went down on one knee beside her. “Care to tell me why you’ve summoned every broom in the house?”

“I assure you, it’s not because I’m a witch.”

Three footmen laughed.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ranleigh said. “You’d be a prolific flyer if you were.”

The footmen used the respite to don shirts and button their waistcoats, an odd formality she appreciated. Others were shaking their coats and retying messy queues as if a vicar’s wife had come to call. With her chinstrap mobcap, she’d garbed herself like one.

“We are going to put the brooms here”—she pointed to the floor in front of the fountain—“and roll the fountain over them.”

“What if they aren’t long enough?”