“I presume this is what you wanted,” she said as she placed the volume in Mr. Jones’s outstretched hand.
He weighed the book in his hand. “Did you open it?”
She shook her head. “There was no time.”
“Good,” he said. “You would not have liked what it contains. If my deductions are correct, this holds evidence of a crime.”
Her stomach twisted. “And to think I believed I was searching for jewels or something of the sort.”
“Hardly.” Jones’s features were set in a look of grim disgust. “It’s not fit to discuss in a woman’s presence.”
“You deliberately put this woman in danger?” Harrison’s voice was hard as flint.
Mr. Jones shook his head. “I was prepared to intervene. But you rendered my assistance unnecessary, MacMasters.”
A vein pulsed in Harrison’s temple. “You weren’t in that room with her. O’Hanlon might’ve killed her.”
Simon slid his spectacles back in place. “Miss Winters was well aware of the risks when she agreed to the task.”
“Those risks were unacceptable,” Harrison said.
“If I’d anticipated a problem, I would not have approved the involvement of our agents. Including you.” Simon turned to her. “Well done, Miss Winters. I’d say you’ve passed your first test.”
“First test?” A gasp escaped her. “What is the meaning of this? We had an agreement.”
She bit back an angry epithet that sprang to the tip of her tongue. She’d fulfilled her end of the bargain. She’d done what Jones had asked. Tangling with O’Hanlon had not been a test. The all-too-recent memory of the man’s paw-like hands on her body made her skin crawl. If they thought she would cooperate with whatever scheme they had in mind, they’d soon find out she’d done all she intended to do. Nothing would induce her to embark on another danger-fraught task.
The cool appraisal in the agent’s eyes set her nerves further on edge. She forced herself to hold his gaze.
“I had my doubts about you,” Jones said. “But you have a definite talent, Miss Winters.”
“A talent we need to utilize,” Simon continued. His gaze fell on Harrison. “Miss Winters is to be your new partner.”
Chapter Four
“Have you lost your damned mind?” Harrison marched up to his brother and stood nose to nose with him. Partner. God above, had Simon suffered a blow to the head that rendered him incapable of rational thought?
Whatever his brother had in mind, Harrison would have no part in it. He’d done what he’d set out to do. Gracie Mae Winters was sitting before their very eyes. How they chose to ensure she faced justice was their decision, not his.
“I realize this is a bit sudden, but it cannot be helped,” Simon replied blandly. “In recent days, a situation has arisen—circumstances I had not anticipated that may work in our favor.”
“Blast it, Simon, this is unacceptable. You should have told me about this before I left Inverness. I will return home at first light.”
“It’s not like you to act so rashly. I’d expected you to at least hear us out.”
“I understand now why you did not brief me on your strategy before you summoned me to Edinburgh—you knew you’d be wasting my time.”
“The options in this situation are quite limited. The plan will work.”
“A plan that employs an untrained woman as an agent?”
“Whatever your strategy is, I assure you it will not work,” Grace spoke up. She glared at Jones. “I have no intention of agreeing to any further tasks you might devise. We had an agreement. I have a document—signed by the attorney general, no less—that promises a pardon in exchange for my recovery of whatever it is that O’Hanlon hid in that book.”
A pardon. So that was what had brought her back to Scotland. She’d gotten in over her head in America, and now, they were using her crimes as leverage. Brilliant, in a sense. And yet, utterly reprehensible.
Jones frowned. “Unfortunately, you seem to have missed one key detail in the agreement. Legal documents can be confusing to the layman. The terms of your service related to the New York incident were open-ended. As it stands now, your services are still required.”
“No,” she murmured, looking as though she’d been struck by a meteor fallen from the sky. “You lied to me.”
“‘Lied’ is a rather harsh word, wouldn’t you say?” Jones replied coolly. “Of course, you would know all about lies now, wouldn’t you, Miss Winterborne.”
Emotion flashed in her dark eyes. Was that anger? Or shame?
Hiking her chin, she faced him defiantly. “I’ve had enough. Nothing you say will convince me to put my neck on the line again. Please tell me where I might find Mrs. McTavish.” She dug her fingers into the folds of her skirt, hiking the fabric to her ankles as she whirled toward the door. “We have a ship to board, and we will not miss its departure. The sooner we are away from this place—from this continent—the better.”
Simon folded his arms across his chest, a sure sign he was about to do something he found personally distasteful. He cleared his throat for dramatic effect. What the devil was he up to?
“Miss Winters, before you go—there is another matter that must be addressed.”
She stilled. Slowly, she turned to face him. The grim set of her mouth betrayed her apprehension. “Another matter? What are you—”
“There has been an incident…involving your aunt.”
Grace’s complexion blanched, pale as a freshly bleached handkerchief. “Dear Lord…has she been injured?”
Simon shook his head. “Nothing of that nature. But an issue has arisen, a rather significant complication.”
Grace’s plump lips thinned to a razor’s edge. She appeared to pull in a breath as Simon’s statement plowed into her.
“I was told she would be transported here. Please tell me where she is, and we will be on our way. You may rest assured that we will never again present any complications to you.”
“If only it were that simple, Miss Winters,” Jones said.
Angry disbelief flared in her eyes. “You cannot force me to stay.”
“If you return to America now, you will face the consequences.” Like a gloating poker player, Jones paused for effect, then revealed his winning hand. “And your aunt will not be free to return with you. The Scottish authorities will not release her if she is charged with a crime.”
Grace’s complexion paled. “What nonsense is this? I insist you take me to her. She’s honored our agreement.”
“That is not how I would describe her behavior.” Simon opened the office door and signaled to his assistant. Benjamin Bradshaw was young, an accomplished scholar only a year out of university, but fiercely intelligent and dedicated to the mission of the Antiquities Guild. “I will allow your aunt to explain. Bradshaw, please show Mrs. McTavish in.”
The young man escorted the elegantly attired matron into the office and led her to a comfortable wing chair. With her henna-tinted hair swept into an elegant coiffure, large blue eyes, and a finely lined porcelain complexion, Thelma McTavish had retained her beauty in her maturity. Though taller and more willowy than Grace, her resemblance to her niece was unmistakable. Were all the women in their family as beautiful as these two?
Harrison studied the older woman. Had she always employed her beauty as a weapon?
Mrs. McTavish had trained her niece well. God knew Grace had wrapped him around her delicate little finger. He’d been wild for her—he, who prided himself on his good sense where the fairer sex was concerned. If she hadn’t been gone when he’d awakened after their night together, what might he have done? Would he have pursued her? Would he have entertained thoughts of a future with her at his side and in his bed?
He shook off the questions. Their liaison had been passionate and spontaneous. Had he been nothing more to her than another part of her disguise?
He turned his focus back to Mrs. McTavish. The woman sniffled and dabbed a lace-trimmed handke
rchief to her eyes. She’d been weeping. What in damnation was going on?
“I’m so sorry, Grace,” the woman said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.
Grace looked as though she’d been slapped. “Oh, dear, what have you done?”
“I don’t know what came over me, Gracie. I shouldn’t have—” Mrs. McTavish broke off into a sob.
“What did you do?” Grace’s tone held no trace of anger. Weary distress showed on her features.
“I just couldn’t help myself,” the older woman said between sniffles. “It was a trap, and I took the bait.”
“Tell me what happened,” Grace persisted, sadness coloring every syllable.
“The count flaunted that jeweled watch of his…the rubies and diamonds were breathtaking.”
“Oh, my.” Grace stared down at her hands, at the fingers she’d laced together into a knot. “Oh, dear.”
The matron swallowed a sob. “I…I tried to stop myself. But…I had to have it.”
“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Grace questioned in a gentle tone.
The sound of her distress cut through Harrison. He shook it off. She did not deserve his sympathy.
“The count was such a gentleman,” Mrs. McTavish went on. “He said he found me enchanting. I believed him. I never thought he’d miss that bauble, much less that soon.”
“Fortunately for your aunt, Count Antonio has agreed to keep the local authorities out of this matter,” Jones said. “On certain conditions.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed. Her chin quivered as she marched up to him. “Allow me to guess—his silence in exchange for my cooperation.”
“That about sums it up.”
Cold fury darkened her eyes. “You set her up, didn’t you?”
“Actually, I cannot take the credit.” He slanted Simon a glance. “MacMasters provided his assistance in the matter.”
“Why…why would you do such a thing?”
A muscle ticked in Simon’s jaw as he met her searing gaze. “We needed to ensure you would cooperate. Count Antonio has ties to our guild. He merely presented a temptation, and predictably, your aunt took the bait. I must say, she is an adept thief. I see now where you gained your skill.”
“You’re no-good scoundrels—the lot of you.” Behind the anger in her slightly raspy voice, Grace could not disguise the defeat she was unwilling to admit. Her eyes glistened. Were those tears?
The thought was like a punch to his gut. Instinct gnawed at Harrison. He wanted to go to her. To hold her, and offer her comfort.
Bloody hell, he wanted to watch over her and protect her.
Have I gone mad?
She was a thief. She’d used his weakness for her like a weapon. She was a master manipulator.
Blast it, hadn’t he’d learned his lesson? Never again would he play the fool. For any woman, much less a known conniver.
She lowered her eyes, seeming to study the pattern of the carpet beneath her feet. In the sudden silence, the swish of the pendulum on the wall clock was inordinately loud. Lifting her gaze, she met Harrison’s eyes. She nibbled her lower lip, her expression thoughtful and slightly bemused, as if she’d pondered a question but thought better of asking it, then looked away.
She turned to Jones. “Very well. I’ll do whatever it takes. But you will not involve my aunt. You must promise me that she will be provided comfortable accommodations for as long as this takes.”
“Consider it done,” Jones said. “Bradshaw, arrange for rooms for Mrs. McTavish and Miss Winters at the Therrimen Hotel.”
Harrison cocked a brow. The Therrimen was considered one of the finest establishments in Edinburgh, perhaps in all of Scotland. The American was sparing no expense to get what he wanted.
Mrs. McTavish’s face contorted in dismay, and she touched her embroidered cloth to her eyes. She turned to Jones. “What are you going to have her do now?”
Grace squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. A wan little smile danced on her lips as she nervously smoothed her skirts. “It’s nothing to worry over, dear. I am going to work again. For just a little while longer.”
…
The regret in Aunt Thelma’s eyes nearly shredded the last remnants of Grace’s composure. Despite her aunt’s less-than-honest ways, she was a good-hearted soul who’d taken in Grace and Claire when they’d needed her most. After the death of their parents, her aunt had soothed Grace’s frightened tears and raised Claire from a toddler with an instinctive gentleness. The widow had done what it took to provide for the girls who’d been unexpectedly thrust into her care. She’d kept a roof over their heads with her beauty, her charm, and the unsavory techniques she’d learned from her husband, an accomplished swindler whose final attempt to cheat a man at cards had ended with Aunt Thelma in widow’s weeds.
Now, she appeared utterly heartsick.
Aunt Thelma’s instincts had always been keen—other than in those moments when the temptation to snare another expensive trinket or two blunted her perception of risk.
At least the men did not intend to separate Grace from her aunt. Not yet. Jones had requested a block of rooms at the swanky hotel. They’d certainly be staying in style. Would she remain in Scotland to complete this job? In any case, she would do what she could to set her aunt’s mind at ease, to assure her that her blunder was not the cause of their predicament. Grace had seen the determination in the American agent’s expression. No matter what it took, he would have found a way to induce her to take on this job. Aunt Thelma’s ill-advised attempt to claim the count’s fancy watch had only made Jones’s task that much easier.
As he escorted Aunt Thelma from the office, the agent named Bradshaw conducted himself as a gentleman, his compassion a marked contrast to Jones’s look of triumph. She’d express her gratitude later.
Harrison held his expression guarded as Aunt Thelma and Agent Bradshaw departed. He’d said little during her exchange with Jones and his brother, regarding the unfolding scene with what seemed genuine surprise. Unless he’d developed superior acting talents, he had not been involved in laying this trap for her aunt. At least that was some comfort.
His arms folded over his chest, he leaned against a bookshelf with a casualness that contrasted with the tautness of his jaw and his hard gaze. “At some point, I presume you will inform me what role you expect me to play in this scheme.”
“Of course,” Simon said, opening a portfolio on his desk. “Miss Winters, please, take a seat.” He motioned her to one of the wing chairs. She swept her skirts to the side and settled onto the Chippendale. With a shake of his head, Harrison remained on his feet.
Simon removed a photograph from the cordovan leather folder. Grace stared down at the image. Belle Fairchild. Why on earth did he have a portrait of the New York heiress?
He tapped a finger against the image. “Do you know this woman?”
“Of course, I do. She’s very active in the New York art world.”
His brows pressed into a firm line. “I understand you set about making her acquaintance?”
“You might say that. Though it wasn’t a challenge. You’d have to be living in some remote cave to escape the chatter about Belle.”
“What type of chatter is that?” Jones asked.
Grace shrugged. “The usual—a bit of gossip, nothing more. Some found her eccentric. I think she’s quite charming.”
“Would you consider her to be sane?” Jones’s question seemed to come out of nowhere. How very odd.
“That goes without saying,” she said. “Belle has her quirks, as we all do, but she possesses a kind heart.”
He nodded and shot Simon a speaking glance. “How did you make her acquaintance?”
“I suspect you already know the answer to that question, but I will give you the confirmation you desire. I first met Miss Fairchild when we were bridesmaids in a Manhattan wedding—as I recall, an heiress wed an heir to an even larger fortune.” She offered a wry smile. “It was a match made in heaven’s boardro
om.”
“And quite a lucrative opportunity for a thief,” Jones added.
“You could say that.” Grace kept her tone light. The jewelry she and Aunt Thelma had gotten their hands on during the wedding reception alone had paid for a year of Claire’s boarding school and financed much needed repairs on her aunt’s modest home.
Simon’s eyes narrowed. “As I understand it, you’re a professional bridesmaid.”
“Among other things. You might say I’m very good at being needed. Aunt Thelma has a knack for finding opportunities where a woman is in need of a friend. Or, in the case of a bride-to-be, a listening ear who doesn’t mind wearing scratchy white lace and holding a silly bouquet. Wealthy women are often rather isolated. That’s where I come in.”
Simon tapped the photo again. The gesture seemed nervous. Impatient. “What was your impression of Miss Fairchild?”
“As I mentioned, some might consider her an eccentric, what with her talk of tarot and such, but I enjoyed her company.”
Harrison cocked a brow. “Fortune telling cards?”
“She was highly interested in the telling of fortunes. She’s been known to carry a tarot deck in her reticule.”
“That fits the information we have,” Jones said. “At the wedding you both attended, she was a cousin of the bride.”
Grace nodded. “As I recall, Belle and Ellen were not overly fond of each other. Ellen regarded Belle’s presence in her wedding as fulfilling a family obligation.”
“Would you consider yourself a friend of Miss Fairchild?” Simon asked.
“A friend—no. I could not say that truthfully. We were acquaintances, nothing more.”
Jones studied her. “You’re certain?”
“I have no reason to mislead you regarding my relationship with Belle. I haven’t seen her since we departed the estate after the wedding festivities concluded.”
“Are you aware that Miss Fairchild has become involved with practitioners of the occult?” Jones pressed.
Tempting the Highland Spy Page 4
