Page 114 of The Scot Who Loved Me

She marched inside and surveyed the damage. She wore men’s riding boots this morning, all the better to tromp around Gun Wharf. Four men dug up sections of the stamped earth floor, Mermaid Brewery barrels had been disassembled, logs scattered. Mr. Wortley walked her through what he suspected happened with the first men.

He stretched a long-boned arm and pointed at rickety stairs. “The counting room is up there. We found a bed there.” He gestured to another spot. “That’s where the first man was felled. The next over there.” He swung around and motioned to the door. “Then the fire was started here. An upturned lamp likely caused it.”

“I don’t want to know how the event unfolded,” she said through gritted teeth. “I want to know the whereabouts of my gold.”

Impatient, she strode out of the warehouse with Mr. Wortley in her wake. “I want answers, Mr. Wortley.” She pointed to the Mermaid Brewery dray parked outside the abandoned warehouse. “My neighbor’s valet claims he saw a dray parked on Upper Brook Street outside my house. There are carriages in Grosvenor Square, not drays, Mr. Wortley. Yet, I come to Southwark, and all I see are drays and almost no carriages.”

Mr. Wortley listened patiently. She needed to clear her head. What he said next did not help.

“My guess is the man and woman with the gold are long gone.”

She wasn’t sure what to do with the possibly rabid Mr. Wortley. He said just enough to pique her interest and prove that he could be useful.

“That’s impossible. Will MacDonald is in chains at Marshalsea.”

His mouth curled up on one side as if he stored contradictory information. It could be he was toying with her. Mr. Wortley liked the generouspay she tendered, but the rules of working for her were, as yet, hazy.

“Very well, Mr. Wortley. You have some news you wish to share.”

“You said Mrs. Neville attended your event. Did she say anything or do anything unusual?”

She snorted. “Do you find deep, sarcastic curtsies unusual?”

Wortley had the audacity to grin. “Don’t know about curtsies, milady. But it seems to me, Mrs. Neville has been one step ahead of you. Could be worth it to consider every detail.”

She was bemused, her gaze drifting from one warehouse to the next. “You want details, Mr. Wortley. I can give you details. Mrs. Neville mentioned her grandmother, a woman named—”

Ancilla froze. She felt blood drain from her face and had to grab Wortley’s arm to steady herself.

Gun Wharf’s abandoned warehouse loomed.

Wortley followed her sightline.

She pointed at the neglected building. “That sign over there. What does it say?”

“Wilcox, milady.”

She stared at the old warehouse, words falling loosely. “Mrs. Neville’s grandmother. She kept saying the woman’s name. It was... Wilcox.”

“Do you want to check that warehouse? I can round up the men, get you inside.”

“Yes.”

The call was given and Wortley’s men pried open the warehouse door. Weather and time had ruined the wood, but the hinges were oiled. Ancilla walked past the threshold and found the abandoned warehouse clean and empty. Not acobweb in sight. Dangling from a center post was a black silk ribbon necklace.

“Is that Mrs. Neville’s?” she shrieked.

Ancilla ran to it and ripped it off the nail from which it hung. She turned the gold medallion over in her hand and roared a ferocious, angry cry.

Etched in the metal was a nine in a diamond.

Chapter Forty

Three days later in Loch nan Ceall

Dawn stretched wide, pinks and yellows and the palest blues—colors to paint a sky, not a man’s clothes. Seagulls circled, their wings wide and proud. Will could say a seagull was a seagull, be it English or Scots. But his heart burst with joy at those birds, their song sweeter, their flight more majestic. Pride of home filled him. Arisaig was nestled on the horizon, a warm lady welcoming him back to the places he’d walked as a lad. He had not heard her beckon until Anne found him bound in chains of his own doing.

Anne. She would bedevil him ’til he was old and gray.