Page 39 of For a Scot's Heart Only

But a Jacobite sympathizer? She couldn’t fathom it.

“Unfortunately, I must decline your kind offer. My shop... Duty calls.”

“Of course, business and all that.”

His dark stare would not release her. There was a force in his eyes, a man sifting through layers of decision-making—about her. She shifted in her chair, aware that she was about to add more complexity to this interview.

“Before I take my leave, I do have another request, my lord.”

His eyes rounded, incredulous. “There’s more?”

She was stalwart, squaring her shoulders. Fromher pocket, she retrieved a purse bulging with coins and dropped it on the desk like a bold gambler increasing the stakes.

“I want to rent a room.”

Lord Ranleigh’s features faded to bland perfection. The same mask he wore the first night she saw him in the gaming room. He picked up the purse and gave it a small toss.

“For how long?”

“A month.”

His lordship didn’t bat an eye. To her racing, militant heart a month of nights sounded like forever. Lord Ranleigh bent low behind the desk, the slide of wood on wood sounding. A niggling voice in her head questioned why he didn’t bother to count her purse. Was it because he was drenched in money?

“I’ll give you the Red Rose room,” he said, upright again.

Two keys were in his hand, both with red silk ribbons knotted on the bow heads. He offered them to her.

“One for you, and one for the gentleman meeting you.” She reached for the keys, but he kept them inches from her fingers. “Unless you don’t have a gentleman in mind.”

With her arm out and her heart beating fast, the oddest feeling swamped her. It was the same sensation as dreaming she’d suddenly found herself standing naked in a public square with onlookers pointing at her and whispering. Knowledge as old as time danced in Lord Ranleigh’s eyes. He’d found an astonishing crack in her foundation: the corset maker, embarking on a sensual journey. The league might believe she was here for the gold, but the darklord knew the truth. She sought debasement. To feed a clawing hunger.

Her skin pebbled, everywhere.

“And if I don’t have a gentleman in mind...”

“I am at your service.”

A sweet prickle raced up her arm when he dropped the keys in her palm. His mouth curved a seductive promise: she’d not regret a moment spent with him—for conversation or for pleasure.

She curled her fingers around the iron keys.

“I’ll keep that in mind, my lord.”

She pocketed the keys, her gaze falling on banknotes wrinkled and dirty from Ranleigh’s foot. The top note snared her: a draft in the amount of one hundred fifteen pounds, the payer West and Sons Shipping. There was another West and Sons Shipping banknote, set at an angle underneath the first one, its amount hidden. She blinked at the floor, stunned, but not before she caught Lord Ranleigh following her sight line to those wrinkled banknotes.

Frowning, he shuffled papers and tucked the banknotes into a neat pile. A dismissal.

“About the stays...” he said. “I’ll send someone to your shop to attend the details.”

“Of course, my lord.”

She stood up and curtseyed, but the genuflection was lost on him. Lord Ranleigh was focusing on the papers fisted in both hands.

Marveling at what she’d learned, she exited the cavernous room a little drunk on her victories. Beauty was not the coin she’d spent this morning; her intellect was, and it rewarded her tenfold. But with that knowledge came Cecelia’s warning about an inconvenient chain of events. She cheerfully shoved thosethoughts away. The clock hadn’t struck noon, yet she’d already gleaned a wealth of information.

At the top was what should matter the least. Two Englishmen wanted her—Mr. West and Lord Ranleigh. A sea wolf and an arrogant lord.

Walking through the marbled entry, her stride was languorous and her spirit light. She gave those Baroque frescoes a daring glance before letting herself out. They knew what was happening. The corset maker from White Cross Street was becoming a sensualist. This could be a problem—if the matter got out of control.