Page 36 of For a Scot's Heart Only

The charwoman and another maid bustled in with arms full of brooms, saving her. Under his lordship’s watchful eye, Mary directed the women to make a path with the brooms to the open doors. The footmen clustered around as she explained how the fountain would roll over the brooms.

“You heard her, lads,” the blond footman said. “Time to put our backs to it.”

They did, and the behemoth fountain rolled along with greater ease and no visible damage to the floor. Lord Ranleigh nodded his approval.

“I think this deserves a morning refreshment,” he said to Mary.

“Thank you, but I’d prefer to see Madame Bedwell—unless she is asleep.”

“The old battle-ax hardly sleeps. Come with me. I’ll make sure you have an audience.”

Lord Ranleigh turned and strode away rather quickly for a man who’d indulged in a night of excess. She walked fast after him, coins jingling in her pocket. Ranleigh padded down the wide passage near the gaming room and pushed open a door on the left. When she caught up, he was already at the window, checking the world outside.

“Always good to know the goings-on in the square,” he said absently.

Her footsteps dragged, weighed down by the vast room’s opulence. The intricate ceiling medallion alone was the size of her shop. The entire room dripped with elegance. The satinwood furniture, blinding silver sconces, and fine portraits that must’ve cost a fortune. With the beauty came an air of nonchalance—a wrinkled shirt and breeches draped a settee; a pair of shoes caked with mud sat in a brocade chair. She could only imagine the hours it took to clean this room.

Ranleigh let the curtain drop. “Maison Bedwell does have the most interesting neighbors.”

“Neighbors?”

“Envoys from Russia, Poland, Bavaria, Genoa, to name a few.”

He spoke to her while slipping out of his banyan. She took a seat before the desk, agog at the explosion of money all over it. Spires of gold and silver coins. Too many to count. Lord Ranleigh didn’t seem to care. He tugged off his shirt and tossed it on the floor with a soggyslap. Sinew rippled across his pale back when he opened a cabinet built into the wall and retrieved a shirt.Awful man.He wanted to shock her.

Once the new shirt and banyan were donned, he dropped into a chair and lifted a porcelain pot from a small serving tray on the desk.

“Coffee, Miss Fletcher? It’s not fresh, but it is passably hot.”

“No, thank you. I’d rather speak to Madame Bedwell.”

His eyes gleamed, dark as the coffee he poured. The dish filled, Lord Ranleigh propped dirty, stockinged feet on wrinkled banknotes on the desk. She shrank inher seat like a dull student. The servants, the money. His dishabille and devil-may-care attitude.

“You’re Madame Bedwell,” she said.

Ranleigh saluted her with his cup. “I’m surprised a woman with your striking intelligence didn’t realize that in the ballroom.”

“My intellect works better with things, my lord, not people.”

“Interesting.” He sipped his coffee, appearing to mull over that nugget of information.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, my lord, you’re a—a... man.”

“Kind of you to notice.”

“Why the fiction?”

Brows slashing, he hesitated. “Out of respect for my mother.”

Of all the things the dissolute lord could say...

There was a thread here. If she was careful, she might find it and give it a good tug and find more of this familial tale.

“Mrs. Bedwell came with this pile of bricks when I purchased it four years ago. She stays mostly belowstairs,” Lord Ranleigh said between sips of coffee. “She keeps the troops in line and was most agreeable about me using her name. I paid her a nice sum, which helped.”

How did Cecelia not know this?Maison Bedwell—owned by the dissolute lord facing her—harbored a secret society,andhis mother, the Duchess of Aldridge, was part owner of a ship that smuggled Charles Stuart into London.

An astounding connection.