Page 81 of The Scot Who Loved Me

She shifted her feet, the ground less solid at the moment. The offer was disorienting to say the least. The countess must’ve sensed blood in the water, a weakening of resolve or simply the advantage of surprise. The lady’s emboldened smirk slid sideways, though with the countess, boldness was the air she breathed daily.

“My offer astonishes you.”

“It is stunning, to say the least.”

“I have ample resources, but I need to employ someone I can trust. And you would bewellcompensated.” Lady Denton delighted in deliveringthose last words. She relished them the way people relished clotted cream.

“Such an offer, but we hardly know each other, my lady.”

“But we knowofeach other, don’t we?” The smirk morphed, feline and sure.

Either the Countess of Denton knew more about her than she anticipated (and thus, outplayed her) and was keeping a close eye on an adversary. Or she had no idea about Anne and the league. This last possibility seeded her hope.

“I’m mired in disbelief, my lady, because you already have an army of servants to tend to your every need. You don’t need me.”

Lady Denton faced the water. In profile, her expressive mouth flattened. “Ask yourself how many women of commerce exist in the City. Then ask yourself, of those women, how many have a modicum of education and intelligence. Then ask yourself how many of those women understand and have experience in the business of warehouses, of factoring and rents.”

“I see.” This was one of the more flattering and honest conversations Anne had had in a long time, but she couldn’t trust the woman.

“Between my brother and the minions who serve him, I battle men daily, Mrs. Neville. A woman with a keen business mind in my employ would change that.”

“You mean someone else to do battles for you.”

“The daily battles, yes.” The countess shrugged an indolent shoulder. “It is the way of the world, except with me, you would be well paid. And you would live as independently as you saw fit.”Lady Denton smoothed a wind-teased ruffle. “I have considerable resources at the ready. Should you join me, I will make it worth your while.”

There was the knife to her heart, driven to the hilt and twisted. The lady didn’t have resources: she had stolen Jacobite gold.

“Your ledger, Mrs. Neville.”

The ledger was again in her possession. She held it, the bottom angled on her plain gray stomacher. She’d been so concerned about what to wear, as if gowns made the woman. What a fraud she was. She’d allowed herself to be dazzled, flattered, and impressed. Temptation was the countess’s version of independence, but it would come at a cost, namely the people counting on her.

Silk shoes crunched a soft retreat. The countess was several paces away when the footsteps stopped.

“There is one condition.”

Her nape chilling, Anne met Lady Denton’s resolved stare. Something awful was coming. She knew it with every fiber of her being.

“You can’t marry Will.”

Her stomach dropped. It was silly. The condition was just as farcical as her farce of a betrothal. But she had to ask, “Why? Do you want to marry him?”

“Marry him?” Lady Denton snorted. “And give up the astounding freedom a widow of my wealth and stature enjoys? To a commoner? Absolutely not.”

“What about Mr. MacLeod?”

“A bare-knuckle fighter I found in Bristol.”

The lady’s tone suggested MacLeod was a shell found on a sandy beach, examined, considered, and soon to be tossed aside.

“But... why Will?”

“Because I want him.”

There it was. A terse, mundane declaration. The countess could very well have placed an order with a draper:I’ll take ten yards of the red silk, twelve yards of green damask, and that highlander, Will MacDonald. Will was a token bargained for like trade goods, which was foolish until another thought struck, this one landing with the heaviness of an anvil in her already-pained stomach.

“Do you love him?” she asked weakly.

“Love? No.” Lady Denton was definitive until her gaze wandered and her mouth softened. “But there is a quality about him...”