All Scot and Bothered Read online

  “Tell me. Yer. Name.” This he demanded through gritted teeth, though his voice never rose even one octave. The effect was most terrifying.

  “I believe I already did.”

  “Yer Christian name.”

  “I am not a Christian.”

  At his silent glare of effrontery, she shrugged. “I’ve noticed that often a church is a structure to confine God built by those who claim to speak to or for him. I find other ways to edify my soul. Besides”—she lifted an overdramatic hand to press against her chest—“why would you want to be acquainted with someone as lowly and woebegone as I?”

  “I doona want anything resembling an acquaintance with ye.” He leaned over, spreading both of his enormous square hands on the desk between them. Threatening to mesmerize her with those silver-blue eyes. “But ye should ken the name of yer enemy, so ye ken what name to curse when I destroy ye.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  An unsettling awareness paralyzed Cecelia as she stared into the eyes of her enemy.

  Awareness of the child hiding at her feet. Of the book containing possibly lethal secrets clutched in her innocent hands. Of the expectation and caution in Genny’s demeanor.

  Of everyone’s gaze glued to her, waiting to see what she’d do next. What she’d say to the brutishly large and powerful man leaning over her desk.

  His nostrils flared and a vein pulsed at his temple before disappearing into his thick, luminous hair.

  She could almost feel the heat of his breath, like that of a dragon. A dragon, she noted, who’d dined on something sweet for his last meal and washed it down with coffee rather than tea.

  Strange that they should both prefer coffee in the morning. What else did they have in common, she and her adversary? Must they be adversaries at all? If she revealed herself, explained her situation, might he soften?

  No. No, his expression was diamond-hard and uncompromising, as was his reputation. He was the Vicar of Vice, the sworn enemy of her aunt. And just because his brother was a good man didn’t mean he was.

  As she well understood, so many men used piety to disguise their cruelty.

  In that case, she decided, if this man insisted upon being her adversary, she’d have to kill him.

  With kindness.

  Drawing on every bit of her finishing school education, she did her level best to smother her panic with politeness. She pressed her hands flat on the desk and forced herself to remain still.

  “You may call me Hortense Thistledown.” She plucked her mother’s name out of pure desperation, hating that it would become a blasphemy on this man’s tongue.

  What would her name sound like in that graveled brogue of his? Cecelia.

  As soon as the unwanted thought filtered into her mind, she shook her head to be rid of it.

  “Might I invite you to sit down, my lord, whilst I peruse your documents?” She gestured to one of three dainty chairs facing her desk, belatedly concerned for their structural integrity against his impressive bulk. “Genny, would you please fetch His Worship and associates some tea and refreshments?”

  Genny looked as though she’d asked her to consume the contents of a chamber pot.

  A few of the constables brightened at the mention of food and tea, immediately deflating when Ramsay put up a staying hand. “Doona be absurd. This isna a social call, madam.” His eyes flickered around the room, his expression suggesting he would rather be surrounded by a Whitechapel cesspool than her aunt’s tasteful décor. “I’m inclined to touch as little in this place as possible. Who kens what depravities have occurred on which surfaces?”

  “Oh come now, what sort of wickedness could possibly be conducted upon such dainty furniture?” She gestured to the Louis XIV settee and chairs, genuinely stunned when a few of the constables muffled a chuckle or two.

  Heat spread to Sir Ramsay’s eyes as he glanced at the furniture in question and then back to her. Her question had angered him. She read something else in the heat, as well. A banked emotion beneath the anger, something leashed. Chained.

  Dangerous.

  “It is not in yer best interest to mock me, woman.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” she answered, bemused. “But I vow the only blasphemies this room is subject to are taxes and paperwork.” She summoned what she hoped was a charming smile, though her mind whirred with unknowns—she couldn’t have said for certain the surfaces hadn’t been sullied.

  “And whilst this visit of yours might not be social,” she added, “we can still be civilized, can we not?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Search everything.”

  The constables made quick work of the room. They pulled books from shelves, turning them upside down to leaf through pages; took drawers from sideboards, looking beneath them; and upturned the furniture.

  Ramsay stood with his arms locked behind him, completely still in the midst of the chaos, his eyes never leaving her. “Civilized,” he scoffed. “Nothing about ye belongs in a civilized society.”

  “Upon that, we must disagree.” It was perhaps the most argumentative statement she’d ever made in her life, but the circumstances of the day had frayed her nerves to the snapping point. “As most of civilized society seems to spend their leisure time here.”

  His glare was so full of enmity, Cecelia couldn’t bring herself to look at him any longer. How strange, that a man possessed of such a savage countenance could accuse her of being uncouth.

  To cover her cowardice, she reached for the warrant, swallowed a lump of trepidation, and began to read.

  “Hortense Thistledown,” he said, echoing her pseudonym, thus calling her attention before she’d gotten through the first line. “Ye are related to Henrietta, then? I was unaware she had family. Hid you away in France, did she?”

  Smythe had been their family name. Thistledown must have been another of Henrietta’s facades, much like the wigs and masks and makeup.

  Cecelia wasn’t ready to answer the question, and so she didn’t. She searched through the legal documents until reaching the appropriate charge.

  According to the warrant, the police were searching her property for evidence in connection with the disappearance of a young girl named Katerina Milovic. A Russian immigrant who’d been taken from the streets of Lambeth just yesterday. She was the sixth in a string of missing maidens. All aged about thirteen.

  “How did ye come to be in charge after Henrietta’s death?” Ramsay demanded. “I’ve not seen ye on the premises before. I always assumed Miss Leveaux would take up the mantle of the Scarlet Lady once Henrietta—”

  Cecelia held up one finger as she scanned the rest of the warrant, her eyes snagging on the distressing pertinent information. The Writ of Warrant suggested the proprietress of Miss Henrietta’s School for Cultured Young Ladies was suspected of nabbing the children and selling their innocence to clients for incredible sums of money, which put her under the suspicion as an accessory to rape, kidnapping, and possibly murder.

  Lord Ramsay was only silent long enough to recover from his indignation. “Ye’re brave, madam, to presume to hush me.”

  Cecelia’s hands trembled now with more outrage than fear. She tapped the paper with the extended finger she’d used to halt him. “It states here I am suspected of being a bawd. Of kidnapping young girls and selling their … their…” The word was heavy on her tongue, salacious and never uttered in mixed company, certainly not with a young girl cowering in her skirts. “Their virginity.” She leaned in to offer an aghast whisper. “To someone who would dispose of them after.”

  “Doona play the innocent,” he spat, the intent of his emphasis clear. “Every titled or wealthy man in the city knows what’s for sale at this so-called school.”

  She chose her words carefully. “I wonder, my lord, what cause you have to suspect that these girls are connected to my aunt. Even if, for the sake of argument, I admitted to marketing … pleasure, which I categorically do not. It is a mighty leap to accuse Henrietta or I of something of this
magnitude without substantial evidence.”

  “I have an informer,” he stated.

  Genny leapt forward, unable to contain herself any longer. “Like hell you do, you lying swine. We help girls who come to us, we don’t prostitute them—”

  A constable seized Genny, pinning her arms behind her in an effort to grapple her toward the door.

  Cecelia held up a hand, chewing her lip as she puzzled. The unpleasant metallic tinge of rouge set an unbidden grimace on her face. “If what you say about an informer is true, wouldn’t the witness be mentioned in the warrant?”

  “I didna say witness,” he clipped, his arms crossing over his impressive chest in a defensive gesture.

  “So, you signed this warrant on the grounds of hearsay, then?”

  “I signed that warrant because those little girls need to be found!” His fist connected with the desk, and Cecelia felt Phoebe stiffen with shock against her calf.

  She assessed Ramsay, his menacing posture, his flaring nostrils, the lips he curled back to show sharp incisors.

  Not a wolf, she thought. A lion. The Nemean lion, perhaps, his thick golden hide impervious to weapons and claws sharper than blades.

  It would take a herculean act to vanquish him, of this Cecelia was certain.

  And God help her, but she was in the lion’s mouth now.

  With a deep breath, she drew herself up in her chair and leaned casually against the plush velvet, hoping to diffuse the tension with her ease.

  “I’ll be frank with you, my lord, I did not know Henrietta well, and I cannot be certain of all her sins, but I can promise you this. Whilst I am the owner and … proprietor of this institution, you will never have cause to suspect me of doing something so insidious to a woman or a child. Furthermore, I will use whatever means at my disposal to assist you in finding Katerina Milovic and any other missing girl.” She cast a glance at Genny, whose self-containment seemed at the end of a short tether.

  Cecelia hated that she couldn’t be certain her aunt, the woman responsible for her fortune, might also be a monster. She hoped to God it wasn’t true. That Lord Ramsay’s suspicions were misplaced.

  Ramsay leaned in further. “And I’m supposed to take a woman like ye at her word, am I?”

  “My word is all I have until time can prove that you might trust me.”

  “Trust ye?” he scoffed, pushing off the desk as if he needed distance from her odious presence. “I think ye are a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Miss Thistledown.”

  “Better that than a sheep in wolf’s clothing,” she bit back. “You politicians, forever bleating and being led about by the herd, snarling as though you had teeth with which to bite.”

  The vein in his forehead pulsed as his skin mottled, taking on a deep-purple hue. “How dare ye—”

  “How dare I?” she echoed. “I’ve enjoyed Emmental cheeses with fewer holes than the so-called evidence notated in this warrant.” She folded up the document and tossed it to his side of the desk. “Furthermore, one must ask oneself what a justice of Her Majesty’s High Court is doing down from his lofty bench, kicking in doors with common footpads, and terrorizing the respectable young ladies of my school in the middle of the afternoon. This stinks to me of a political move by a man with hopes of being the next Lord Chancellor. And I refuse to be fodder for your aspirations.”

  He stalked around the desk, and Cecelia fought a flush of panic.

  “The nonexistent respectability of yer employees notwithstanding”—he stabbed a finger at the wall separating the residence from the school—“I am going to make ye the same promise I made yer gutter-harpy of a predecessor.” He towered over her, and it took every fiber of self-containment Cecelia possessed not to jump away and flee.

  She remained seated, staring straight ahead, not looking up for fear that was ceding some kind of power.

  And also, that her wig might slip off.

  His next words pierced through her with all the strength of a Spartan’s lance.

  “When a child goes missing in this city, I’ll kick in every door of every establishment like this one until I find the culprit, starting with yers.” Ramsay placed one hand on her desk and the other on the back of her chair. He leaned down, bringing his lips terrifyingly close to her ear.

  “And know this, I’ll hang anyone who was responsible for captivity. For degradation. And for possible murder.” His breath was hot against her ear and neck, sending little thrills of exquisite terror down her spine. The sweet scent of it mixed with the starch of his jacket, the cedar-fresh aroma of linen, and something darker, muskier, plied her senses and muddled her wits until his next sentence.

  “I care not if rope is wrapped around a bearded throat or one that’s … elegant and lily white. It all stretches the same.”

  Cecelia fought the urge to bring her hand to her throat, fearing any reaction might make her appear guilty.

  He straightened. “Surrender the ledgers and accounts with the names of yer clients.”

  “I do not know the whereabouts of such ledgers,” Cecelia claimed honestly before crying, “Just what do you think you are doing?”

  He wrenched open the drawers of her desk and began to rifle through the contents. “I have the authority to search everywhere. So ye stay right where ye are and keep yer hands on the desk.”

  Cecelia complied as beads of sweat trickled between her breasts and from her hairline. There were too many factors—the heat of the stifling cape, the relentless summer sun, the child at her feet she’d been tasked to protect, and the fear that he might find what he was looking for. She didn’t truly know Henrietta, after all. Not enough.

  And yet she wanted to hope.

  “There is a compartment hidden here.” He groped beneath the drawer to her left, and his features tightened victoriously as he found the dial. “What is the combination?”

  “Aeneid,” she whispered.

  He stared at her, unblinking, his features carefully blank before he moved the dials and discovered the now-empty secret compartment.

  “What was here?” he demanded.

  “Something Henrietta hid before I arrived,” she answered honestly.

  Cecelia was a breath away from a conniption when Sir Ramsay slid her chair back to open the thin desk drawer directly in front of her.

  She didn’t know which shocked her the most—that he could move her occupied chair with the strength of one arm, or her fleeting, absurd urge to test the texture of his gold locks as he bent to investigate the contents of the drawer.

  When he found only a collection of writing implements, stationery, and a magnifying glass in the thin drawer, Cecelia deflated her lungs in relief.

  “Nothing of note here, my lord,” reported a constable. “Nor in the private bedrooms, either. Unless you want to confiscate items such as this.” He brandished a book.

  Cecelia squinted but could not make out the title from across the room without her spectacles.

  “Bring it here.” Ramsay reached for it, and the constable deposited it readily. Upon opening it, he made a disgusted sound and dropped it as though it had burned him.

  Cecelia suppressed a giggle, lodging it firmly in her throat. The book landed open to an erotic depiction. A man stood erect in all possible ways, and a woman knelt before him, his shaft disappearing into her willing, open mouth. Beneath the photo, a lewd and detailed list gave instructions for fornicating thusly.

  Despite everything, Cecelia scanned the directives with great interest.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Ramsay roared at the constable. “Do ye think now is the time for juvenile antics?”

  “N-no, my lord!” the constable sputtered as a few of his cohorts did their best to hide their own mirth. “I thought … I just … What would books like that be doing here if Miss Thistledown is running a school as she claimed? Seems like a book a bawd would own.”

  The question seemed to mollify Ramsay, though he cast a suspicious look at the pale constable before addressing Cecelia.
“He raises a pertinent question. Does filth like this belong in a school for cultured young ladies?”

  Cecelia fought the urge to slam the book shut. Instead, she leafed the page to the side, uncovering picture after picture of erotic acts, not all of them only including two people. She could barely bring herself to look.

  She couldn’t bring herself to look away.

  “This premises is not technically the school, sir.” She cleared a sudden husky note from her voice. “This is my private study. And these books are for my own … personal use.”

  A collection of shuffling feet and throat clearing suggested her ploy had the desired effect.

  “Now.” She carefully closed the book, splaying her hands on the intricate cover. “Are you quite finished with your search?”

  He glared down at her. “Nay, my men are still combing every inch of yer business. The search might take all day. Or all night. After that, we’ll post guards at yer door just to make certain Katerina Milovic doesna show. Ye’ll lose a great deal of income then, will ye not?”

  At the moment, lost revenue was the least of her concerns. “Do what you must, sir. You’ll find no one by that name here.”

  “Because ye’ve sold her already, perhaps?” Ramsay baited. “Or she’s being held somewhere else?”

  Cecelia lifted her chin two haughty notches. “I won’t dignify that ridiculous notion with a response.”

  Mostly because she had no idea. However, if she discovered evidence of any such goings-on, she’d turn herself in and face the consequences owed her aunt. It was the least she could do.

  “Tell me, Miss Thistledown…” He stepped from behind her, seemingly unable to stand her proximity a moment longer. “Where were ye off to?”

  “Off to?” she echoed, confused.

  His gazed dipped below her neck, increasing in intensity until she actually feared he could see through the layers of her clothing. “Ye’ve a cloak on. Either ye were leaving, or yer hiding something. Is it yer person that needs searching?”

  A note in his voice produced an extra thump from her heart.