Page 45 of The Scot Who Loved Me

“Calm yourself, lass.” His voice was even but copper’s flavor coated his tongue, the familiar taste of prebattle madness. They were seconds away from committing malfeasance—if only to take back what was rightfully theirs. While Anne’s steel nerves were fraying, his were going cold.

“Take a deep breath,” he coaxed.

She obeyed. Her arm’s rise and fall against his evidenced it. His satisfaction at her listening to him was a victory best gloated over later. A crime was in play. When Mr. Styles banged the door’s brass knocker, their stroll landed them near Denton House. He touched Anne’s fingers tucked in his elbow. She bumped intimately against him, Anne’s hard swallow her telltale sign of fear.

They stepped as one onto the wide street, sunlight blasting their heads. Mr. Styles banged the knocker again and slumped convincingly against Lady Denton’s bright blue door.

Anne’s straw bonnet tipped a thoughtful angle. “You know, there is a particular detail that I forgot. The man who fought me had the letterTbranded on his thumb.”

Will picked up their pace. “Let’s get our key.”

The letterT, brand of the common thief. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Chapter Thirteen

The ruse began with frightening ease. A simple choice, him trotting ahead of Anne and racing up stone steps. He left behind regrets at forcing her hand. They were good at butting heads. Any worthwhile partnership would experience a seesaw of wills. It was part of the climb to higher ground. At present, that meant mounting Lady Denton’s stone steps where Mr. Styles thrashed.

His falling-down disease act was worthy of Drury Lane. Foam frothed at his mouth. Limbs went stiff. The man arched his back while his eyelids fluttered madly. Will dropped to his knee, convinced.

He banged on the door, bellowing, “Help! Come help, at once!”

Anne knelt on the front step, fanning the rag-n-bone man. Seconds passed, expanding to a minute. A small crowd was gathering off Brook Street. A butler at a neighboring Grosvenor Square home poked his head outside his door, while Denton House’s door stayed shut.

“Where the devil . . .” Will cursed under hisbreath and banged an open hand on solid wood with all his might.

“Open up! Help—”

The door swung open. “What in the name of all that’s holy is going on?”

Beady blue eyes glared at him from under the frill of a large mob cap—the housekeeper—if he read her starched gray skirts and pristine apron right.

He pointed down and spoke in his best man-of-business voice. “This mon has fallen ill on your doorstep. He needs water.”

Wispy brows pinched in disapproval. “Why, he’s—”

“He is ill, and it is your Christian duty to help, ma’am.”

Mr. Styles’s shaky hand grasped the housekeeper’s hem. “Waaa-terr.”

Mr. Styles had a fine grip. The housekeeper, a stern-visaged woman, tried to yank free her petticoat. Pulling Mr. Styles in wouldn’t work. The housekeeper’s stout body was planted in the doorway.

“Waaa-terrr.” More bubbles and spittle dribbled from the corner of Mr. Styles’s mouth.

“Please! Help the poor man,” Anne cried, fanning him with all her might.

The woman gawked. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Hold his hand, stroke his brow,” Anne said. “I will cool him.”

The woman eyed the filthy rag-n-bone man, miserable to her bones. “But, he’s . . . ghastly.”

“Is he not fit for the kindness of your bosom?” Will asked with righteous indignation.

Emerald eyes glinted with startled humor. Anne’s head dipped fast. She was a straw hat and a furious fan. The housekeeper blinked at him, at the gathering crowd, and at the man holding her hem.

“I will fetch a glass of water while you guard your mistress’s front door,” he said.

“Cover his hand with yours and rub,” Anne said. “It will surely loosen his fingers.”