Page 5 of For a Scot's Heart Only

A touch to her elbow and Cecelia beckoned, “Come with me.”

They returned to the entry hall where loudmouthed lordlings were dropping coins into the attendant’s white-gloved palm as they crossed the threshold.

Despite the ruckus, Cecelia lowered her voice. “I will investigate abovestairs.”

“Where Madame Bedwell’s nymphs ply their trade,” Mary said archly.

Cecelia ignored that conversational bait and nudged her chin at a wide hallway off the entry.

“Meanwhile, you will investigate the gaming room. An hour should suffice, after which we’ll meet here.”

Mary flicked her fan with an indolent wrist. Tonight was their first foray in the brothel, and they were here for one reason only—to see what they might find. Down the passage, double doors had been flung wide. Tobacco’s sweet, dark aroma and deep male laughter floated past them. A bastion of masculinity there.

“Why am I investigating the gaming room?” she asked, casual. “I don’t gamble.”

“Nor do you have sex.”

A flush tinged Mary’s cheeks. “I’m not an innocent.”

Cecelia pinned her with a knowing look.

“When was the last time you even kissed a man?”

She bristled. “That’s irrelevant.”

Five yearswas the whisper in her head. Five long years.

A fan dangling from her wrist, Cecelia was in the act of retying her mask. “You’d be agog if you went abovestairs, and we both know it.”

Mary’s gaze wandered to the gaming room. Cecelia had a point. Every nerve in her body crackled, hotand alive, simply from being in a brothel. If she went abovestairs, she’d probably combust.

“Tonight is for observation only,” Cecelia said. “Look for anything that hints at Jacobite sympathies.”

“That’s all? It doesn’t sound very difficult.”

“It shouldn’t be. All you have to do is smile, be friendly, and listen—as one does in the company of men. I call it the art of paying attention.”

“Our four years in London, andthat’show you’ve gathered information?”

Cecelia rolled her shoulder like a woman born to flirt. “Men want to talk to a beautiful woman, which means they’ll be desperate to talk to you.”

Mary pinched her lips. Prettiness was Cecelia’s calling card. For Mary, it was a bother and the subject, a matter of contention. Commentary on a woman’s power often ensued, specifically, Mary refusing to use hers—a silly argument as far as she was concerned.

“I also have friends in interesting places,” Cecelia said, smiling.

“Your paid spies.”

“Indeed, they are paid. But never forget, beauty is as valuable as any coin. Only you decide how to spend it.”

To which Mary huffed. Poised and pale, Cecelia fixed a pin in her hair, the corners of her mouth curving kindly as though she understood a woman’s hidden fears and, at the tender age of twenty-five, was already miles ahead.

“Be safe, Mary.”

“Always.”

Theirs was a gentle parting. Mary stowed her fan in her petticoat pocket, a harmless accoutrement,while a treasonous coin nestled deep in Cecelia’s pocket. Showing it guaranteed admittance to the secret society who gathered in Maison Bedwell; when and where they met inside the brothel was the mystery. Cecelia would probably uncover it tonight.

Mary watched her take the grand staircase, elegant and unhurried, the hem of her green silk sacque gown dragging behind her. Wet-skirted harlots in flimsy attire climbed the same stairs with amiable men in tow.