Page 52 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“She did, ’til ten o’clock. Then I packed her into a hack and sent her home.”

Mary rested her shoulder against the window frame, her thoughts drifting to the Red Rose room. Thirteen hours until she saw Mr. West. What would she wear? Not her red velvet, certainly. The salacious gown sprawled on her bench. Boned panniers and wrinkled underskirts in the heap, the casual discards of a wanton woman who’d undressed in the dark. The secret society token nestled somewhere in the mess. She’d hunt for it later.

Margaret wiped her hands on her apron, her uneasy gaze landing on the red velvet.

“You’ve never been hurly-burly with your gowns.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up.”

“It’s not only that,” Margaret said. “You’re cavalier about coming home so late.”

“A few more nights and my work will be done.”

Margaret nibbled her lip. “What about the Countess of Denton?”

Mary set a cautioning finger to her lips. “Have a care,” she whispered. “We cannot afford to have the wrong person overhear us. Besides, this is the wrong time to discuss league business.”

“It’s always the wrong time whenI’mthe one asking,” Margaret whispered brusquely. “And don’t you dare tell me not to worry.”

Which was exactly what Mary was about to do. Contrite, she clamped her mouth shut.

“We’reallafraid of what the countess will do next,” Margaret went on in a low voice. “Especially after she shot Mr. MacLeod. Aunt Maude marks the days in her housekeeping journal when she thinks the countess will return.”

Mary felt a frown forming. “I didn’t know that.”

“She’s tracking the time it takes a well-equipped carriage to travel from Arisaig to London. And Jenny,” Margaret huffed. “She hasn’t been able to sleep through the night.”

Fierceness swelled in Mary’s chest. The need to protect.

But... how?

Brisk morning air seeped from the humble window. Across the street the chandler shop was dark, but next door the cobbler’s wife was sweeping the walk outside her family shop. An industrious woman, Mrs. Brown. She was one thread in the fabric of White Cross Street. A kindly neighbor, she’d repaired Margaret’s shoe last month. Last week Mrs. Brown had purchased linen stays for their twelve-year-old daughter, a sweet girl with a talent for embroidery.

A cozy place, White Cross Street. Home.

What was she going to do to keep it that way?

“Lady Denton is part of the puzzle to which I have no answer,” she said, subdued. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

Margaret’s brow arched with exquisite wryness. “It must be very hard to admit when you don’t have an answer to a problem. Especially one that onlyyoucan figure out.”

Mary pulled her mug to her chest as if crockerycould fend off verbal shots. Why did her sister’s words carry such a sting? Margaret, however, fired one opinion after another.

“I, for one, think hunting for whatevermightbe left of the gold is a fool’s errand. An utter waste of time, when we should develop a plan for what’s next.”

“What’s next?” Mary echoed.

“Yes. Do we stay in London? Or return to Scotland, the same as Will and Anne?” Margaret dropped her voice like a conspirator. “This is our home, certainly, but Lady Denton is out for blood. A powerful woman like that.” She shuddered. “Jenny told me Cecelia wants to get rid of the countess—”

Mary gasped. “Stop,” she whisper-hissed. “I forbid you to speak of such things. We are not violent women.”

Margaret backed away, her mouth pinching white. Blue hems swaying, she swung around and sought the door.

“Wait... please.” Mary set her mug on the table.

Margaret tarried in the doorway, her back a ramrod. They heard the shop’s doorbell jingle, and footsteps cluttering below. Needful commerce tugged on Mary; the sooner she tended it, the sooner evening would come and she could slip away for a night with Mr. West.

But her sister was on a gentle boil, and the tension, wearying.