All Scot and Bothered

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “Ye are right, of course,” he stated coldly. “Tell me, Miss Teague—or is it Miss Thistledown?—did yer aunt give ye any indication as to the nature of these dangerous secrets?”

  “Well, not exactly.” Cecelia swallowed, doing her best not to be cowed by the cords in his neck and the vein pulsing at his temple. “Not … in so many words.”

  “Speak plainly,” he clipped. “Aye or nay?”

  “Nay—er—no. She categorically did not reveal them to me … as of yet.”

  He eyed her with great suspicion, and Cecelia knew she was being obtuse in trying to avoid a lie, but also not wanting to reveal anything that might put her in more danger. She was not so foolish as to reveal the existence of the codex before it could be deciphered.

  “Ye’re telling me ye have no idea who would want to do something like this?” he asked.

  “Not a clue.”

  “A motive, perhaps?” he pressed. “A rival, a dissatisfied customer, unpaid debts, an unhappy employee, et cetera.”

  Cecelia shook her head. “Could be anyone, all told. I’ve not yet been able to find the accounts.”

  Alexandra bent down, swiping her finger through the white film blanketing the rubble. She lifted the finger to her nose, smelling it, and then touched the tip of her tongue to the substance before spitting delicately. “We at least know what agent was used in the explosion,” she said.

  “Gunpowder,” Ramsay stated drolly.

  “Precisely.” Alexandra looked over at him as though he’d surprised her. “How did you know?”

  “I was a soldier, remember? I’d recognize that scent anywhere.” He eyed his sister-in-law. “How did ye know?”

  “Refined black powder is often used in excavation,” Alexandra answered. “It leaves behind this white residue and tastes of steam and sulfur with a hint of something like urine from the saltpeter.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, testing the substance. “I wonder, though. This was a rather small explosion, as these things go. Contained to this specific part of the house. Also, there’s a taste here I can’t quite decipher. Bitter…”

  Francesca lifted her skirt and toed the rubble with the tip of her boot. “Could there have been an agent other than gunpowder involved here? Nitroglycerin, perhaps?”

  “Nitroglycerin is too unstable for such calculated destruction.” Cecelia slid from beneath the chill of Ramsay’s impressive loom to crouch near the fall of stones that made a treacherous ramp of debris up to the ruins of the second floor of the residence. She remembered something she’d learned about in a chemistry and alchemy lecture she’d attended at Cambridge not so long ago given by a Dr. Alfred Nobel.

  “The French recently manufactured a melanite that is more stable than nitroglycerin.” Cecelia reached down to duplicate Alexandra, swiping at the powder with her finger and testing it with the tip of her tongue before she spit it out.

  “Just as I suspected,” she proclaimed. “It’s likely a trinitrophenol they’ve named carbazotic acid. Because of Dr. Nobel’s advancements in explosives, one is now able to cap and contain carbazotic acid in a bomb with a rather predictable blast radius.” She looked up, her stomach flipping over with dread. “Also, he spoke of a timing device used in the railway attacks claimed by the Irish Sinn Fein a couple of years ago.”

  “So the culprit could have been long gone before the device even detonated?” Francesca lamented. “The devious pillock, whoever he is!” She kicked at a rock.

  As if he’d come out of a trance, Ramsay made a low noise containing what she thought was a foul word, drawing their attention. “Explosive compounds. Carbazotic acid. Where in the name of the bloody devil did the three of ye come from?”

  “Ecole de Chardonne for girls on Lake Geneva,” Francesca answered.

  “And the Sorbonne thereafter,” Alexandra supplied helpfully. “Along with a few supplemental courses through various Continental and American universities.”

  He blinked once. Twice. Regarded them as though he would put them under a microscope.

  He eyed Cecelia with a new misgiving, and it didn’t take a mind reader to realize that he wondered if she was responsible for the destruction of her own home. “I thought ye were a mathematician. What does that have to do with extensive knowledge of explosives?”

  Cecelia stood and opened her mouth, but Alexandra beat her to it.

  “Oh come now, Ramsay, you cannot think she had anything to do with this.”

  “And why not?”

  Alexandra scoffed. “Though her study was primarily mathematics, she would, of course, be educated in the applications thereof, which would mean a rudimentary knowledge of physics and chemistry. In fact, we attended many courses together.”

  “Yes.” Francesca stepped in to champion her. “And as Cecelia stated, she still insists upon attending boring lectures all the time. What would she have to gain by blowing up her own place?”

  Cecelia leveled a droll look at Frank just as Ramsay’s mouth flattened into a thin line.

  “There are cleaner ways of getting rid of evidence.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Yer friends are awfully protective of ye, Miss Teague. Almost as if they ken ye’re guilty of something.”

  Cecelia straightened, doing her best to meet his gaze head-on. “It’s ever been thus, my lord, we protect one another.”

  “Cecelia’s of a generally shy and sensitive nature,” Alexandra explained. “And she’s only just been through something unthinkably traumatic. Perhaps we can finish this another time, Ramsay.”

  He grunted out a strange sound that Cecelia thought might have been a laugh if a lion had rendered it. And if one could laugh without smiling. “Shy? Sensitive? Now I ken ye take me for a fool, but no one is that gullible.” He raked fingers through his thick fall of hair. “Chemistry and physics … My grandmother Ramsay would have burned ye three for a cadre of witches.”

  Until now, Phoebe had been so quiet and still, her presence was all but forgotten. She marched toward Ramsay until she stood beneath him, little fists planted on nonexistent hips.

  “Anyone with eyes can tell she’s not a witch,” the girl declared, unfazed by the golden giant even as she tilted her head all the way back on her neck to look up at him.

  Cecelia watched, stunned as something no less than miraculous happened.

  Ramsay’s face, which she’d been thus far certain was carved from the same stone and ice as his heart, softened in increments until his eyes were pools of liquid charm and his mouth no longer pressed into his ever-present frown.

  With such an expression he appeared almost … handsome.

  Almost.

  “Where did ye come from, wee lass?”

  “I don’t know.” The clear-eyed girl stood like the proverbial David against Ramsay’s Goliath. “But you can’t truly believe in witches, and I know you can’t burn them anymore.”

  “Of course no one will burn,” he said, almost apologetically. “Though, not to naysay ye, lass, but I know for certain this particular trio of redheaded ladies have a penchant for trouble. Multiple explosions, fires, gunfights, kidnappings, and nefarious brews that once even put my brother in an enchanted sleep for a full day and a night.” He crouched down, still not bringing him eye level with the girl, but stretching his soiled clothing in the most diverting of ways over his legs, arms, and shoulders.

  “Doesna that sound like the doings of witches to ye?” he asked gently.

  Phoebe glanced over her shoulder at Cecelia, her expression uncertain.

  Cecelia knew she should be mad enough to spit nails, but instead she found herself unable to do aught but watch the conversation unfold.

  “She’s too pretty to be a witch,” Phoebe decided with an adorable wrinkle of her brow. “And besides, her nose isn’t even a bit warty, nor are her fingers gnarled.” She looked back to Ramsay, no doubt to see if she’d made a convincing enough argument.

  The Scot in question was staring at Cecelia. “Och, lass, ye’ve the right of it, I suppose
.”

  Cecelia fought the urge to fidget beneath his intense regard. One that carried weighty questions and even heavier accusations.

  Also, she wondered if he realized that he’d agreed she was pretty …

  “What’s yer name, child?” The rumble of his voice as he spoke to the girl threatened to unstitch something deep within Cecelia’s belly.

  “I’m Phoebe.” She curtsied.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet ye, Miss Phoebe.” They shook hands briefly, and the ghost of a smile haunted the corners of Ramsay’s mouth. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are. You’re the Vicar of Vice. You were yelling last time you were here. I hid under the desk so you wouldn’t take me away.”

  Every muscle in Ramsay’s features and body tensed once again, turning him into his usual statue of stone. “What is such a wee thing doing in a place like this?” he demanded with barely leashed fury. “Will I find her if I search the missing persons reports?”

  “I’m not missing, I’m right here.” She held her arms out and waved as though he might be blind. “I’m Phoebe Thistledown.”

  “She belongs to me,” Cecelia rushed, reaching for the girl’s hand and pulling her into the safety of her skirts.

  Ramsay’s frown returned, along with a deeper, bleaker look as he studied Cecelia, then the girl.

  Cecelia knew she’d lost all esteem in his eyes. She’d passed the point of no return.

  They were true enemies once again.

  “She … doesna resemble ye,” he finally said.

  “I imagine she takes after her father.”

  “Ye imagine.” His lip curled into a silent snarl of disgust. “Are there so many men in the running for her patrilineal line?”

  “That’s not what I said.” Cecelia lifted her chin a notch. “And I’ll thank you not to speak thusly in front of the child. You’ve subjected her to enough profanity already.”

  A bit of his high color drained from his face, and he possessed the grace to look abashed as he and the girl stared at each other with a similar sullen suspicion.

  “Forgive me, Miss Phoebe,” he murmured, shocking Cecelia past all comprehension.

  Phoebe nodded her forgiveness, then finally asked, “You’re a justice?”

  “Aye. And I suppose ye are all free to go and clean up and be seen to, though ye’ll not leave London until this inquest is completed.” His gaze collided with Cecelia’s, chilling her at least ten degrees. “Except for ye. I’ve questions for ye still.”

  Phoebe stepped in front of her. “If you’re a lawman, you can’t hurt anyone,” she reminded him. “And you’ll let her come home with me, because she hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  He blinked down at the girl, his voice less jagged than before. “Home? Do ye not reside here, child?”

  “No, we live on Cranford Street with Jean-Yves. I have a bed made from fairy wood and ivy, a robin nests in my window, and Cook made me extra cherry tarts for breakfast.”

  Ramsay brushed at the thighs of his trousers, releasing a bone-weary breath. “If yer ma’s done nothing wrong, then she’s nothing to fear from me, child.”

  “She’s not—”

  “What do you say I take little Phoebe to hospital,” Francesca interrupted, collecting the girl’s hand from Cecelia’s. “She was close to the blast and I still think she should be examined along with Jean-Yves. You can meet us there, Cecil, when you’re through here, and we’ll all escort you home.”

  “Will you be accompanied by Mr. Derringer?” Cecelia queried. Someone had attacked her in the open and made it clear that they had no scruples about collateral damage. Phoebe’s safety was paramount.

  “No, but I have employed Mr. Colt.” Francesca grinned. “Don’t fret, my dear, we’re well looked after.” She patted her pocket where she always kept a pistol.

  “Thank you, Frank.” Cecelia meant it with all her heart, as Francesca swept poor Phoebe away.

  Phoebe’s high, sweet voice echoed down the eerily empty marble hall. “Why does she call you Frank? That’s a man’s name.”

  “It’s a secret,” Francesca said indulgently. “If you’re very good for the doctor, I might tell you the story of the Red Rogues.”

  “I like stories,” Phoebe declared.

  “I instinctively knew you did.”

  “And I’m always good.”

  Francesca’s laugh was genuine and husky. “No one is always good, and one cannot be inducted into the Red Rogues if that is the case.”

  “Then…” Phoebe seemed to think about it for a quiet beat. “I must misbehave?”

  “Regularly.”

  “Can you teach me how?”

  “Oh, you darling girl, I thought you’d never ask. Auntie Frank will be your most enthusiastic instructor.”

  “Should I misbehave for the doctor, then?”

  “Of course not.”

  “When should I?”

  “That is an excellent question—Oh dear, do stand aside by the wall with me.”

  “Why?” Phoebe asked.

  “Because you don’t want to get trampled by a duke.”

  At the sound of heavy running footfalls, Alexandra’s grip tightened on Cecelia’s.

  “Where is she?” The Devonshire accent echoed from the walls of the hallway, raw with equal parts anxiety and ferocity.

  “In the courtyard gardens,” they heard Francesca dictate. “She’s unharmed, by the by.”

  Redmayne was a devilishly dark streak of animalistic motion as he broke from the door of the entry to see his wife standing at the bottom of explosive debris.

  “You’re welcome!” Francesca’s amused call from the hallway went unheeded.

  With a little cry, Alexandra released Cecelia’s hand.

  Glass from myriad broken windows intoned the duke’s and duchess’s desperate footsteps across the ruined gardens as their rush forward ended in a collision of bodies that would have driven a smaller man to his back.

  Redmayne, however, enfolded his little wife into his chest, curling strong shoulders over her as she reached into his jacket and banded her arms around his back.

  One large hand cupped the back of her head, and the other drew itself up and down her spine as he pressed his scarred cheek to her crown.

  Despite his gentle handling of her, a string of foul curses that would have turned a buccaneer’s cheeks red ripped through the air. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again, do you hear me?”

  Alexandra burrowed deeper into his chest. “I’m all right. Not even a scratch on me. There’s no need to worry.”

  “No need to—” He thrust her away from him, examining her well-being for himself. “This is the second explosion you’ve escaped without a wound in as many years. So help me, there will not be a third.”

  “I’m glad you came.” Alexandra leaned heavily on her husband, and he instantly bent to scoop her into his arms as he sent his brother an unspoken message with eyes the identical shade of wintry blue.

  Ramsay nodded once.

  “I’m taking you home,” he murmured to his wife.

  “But.” Alexandra looked anxiously over her husband’s shoulder, her mask of soot mostly left on the duke’s shirtfront. “Cecil…”

  “Ramsay’s with her.” Redmayne didn’t even pause.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. He wants to hang her, you know.”

  “Yes, but not today,” the duke replied, as though it was the furthest worry from his mind. “We’ll deal with that after I get you home, bathed, and thoroughly examined.” His tone was neither teasing nor censorious nor even overtly sexual. Just incontestable.

  Inevitable.

  Cecelia and Alexandra both shrugged at each other helplessly as Redmayne conducted his wife away, but not before Cecelia caught a copper gleam of relief in her cherished friend’s eyes.

  She stared at the empty doorway through which everyone had disappeared for a few moments, drifting toward it. Away from Ramsay’s proximity. Taking the moment to
indulge in a few bracing breaths as she looked up into the rare bright-blue London sky.

  Bracing for the storm.

  “The Scarlet Lady,” Ramsay said as though he still couldn’t believe it. As though the title tasted like the scum along the shores of the Thames. “The Lord Chancellor always told me that the devil’s greatest trick is convincing ye he doesna exist.… I never truly kenned what he meant until this moment.”

  “You think I’m the devil?” She whirled to face him, aghast.

  “Nay.” His jaw set into a granite square, but the vein at his temple still pulsed beneath where a forelock of hair had come free of its pomade to hang over his surly brow. “Ye’re little more than a succubus.” He raked his fingers through his mane, sculpting the forelock back into place. “How did I not see it before? Ye’re built for naught but debauchery and deceit. I canna believe I allowed myself to be taken in and tempted by the likes of ye.”

  “It was not my aim to tempt you—”

  “Horseshit.” He regarded her with a careful gaze, barbed but also a little broken. As if there was a part of him that wanted to believe her.

  “Truly. I desired peace between us. Perhaps more.” She took a tentative step toward him. “Everything I said last night was the truth. Everything that passed between us … it was real.”

  The shadow of vulnerability vanished, replaced by such stony disgust, she wondered if she’d imagined it.

  “Nothing about ye is real. Not yer name, not yer niceties. Yer kisses are currency and your sex is yer weapon. Doona imagine I will be fooled by ye again.”

  It was difficult to pretend his cruelty didn’t sting. One would think that after so many years, she’d have perfected some sort of mask of insouciance. That a childhood spent with the Vicar Teague would have taught her to hide her emotion. That the jeers and harassment she’d suffered at university would have inured her to the pain.

  She’d tried so often to be hard. To deflect and defend against the barbarism of men and the censure of other women with walls like Alexandra, or spikes like Francesca.

  But to her eternal frustration, she’d remained a soft place for insults to land.

  They always stung. Or burned. Hurt and humiliated her. If someone wasn’t making her feel too big, clumsy, and contemptible, then they were making her feel very, very insignificant.