Page 12 of Tempting the Highland Spy
“You have been busy, haven’t you?” Mr. Jones flashed Grace a wry smile. “MacMasters, we have a mutual interest in this woman. I’ll ask you to come with us. I need a word with you—with both of you—and this is not the place.”
The carriage ride from the grand hotel where the bride was still celebrating her nuptials to the nondescript building on a street lined with small shops was mercifully brief. Seated on the coach bench across from the men, Grace held a tight rein on her racing thoughts as she peered out the window into the fog-shrouded darkness.
For their part, the men said little, exchanging a few terse, bland words that shed little light on what lay ahead until the conveyance slowed to a stop. Mr. Jones helped her from the carriage, and they entered what appeared to be a barrister’s place of business.
“Please, do make yourselves comfortable,” Jones said, indicating a pair of leather wing chairs positioned before a large, polished mahogany desk in the gaslit office.
“No, thank you.” She’d much prefer to stand, prepared to walk away from this man and his shady business forever.
Keeping a rigid distance between them, Harrison held himself with a clear sense of reserve. Letting out a low breath, Grace met his gaze. Was that a look of betrayal in his eyes? As the Brits would say, how bloody ironic. He’d romanced her into believing he cared about her when all along, he’d been on a mission. He hadn’t intended to wound her heart. No, that had been an incidental casualty.
She swallowed against a fresh surge of apprehension. Oh, how she wanted to get this over with. Jones would have his blasted prize, she’d join Aunt Thelma, and then, she’d be on her way. Mr. Jones would not turn her over to Harrison. He’d rather see her return to America, where he might continue to use the leverage of a pardon to coerce her into employing her unique talents.
A handsome man wearing thin-rimmed spectacles walked into the room. Was it her imagination, or were the hues in his neatly trimmed hair nearly identical to Harrison’s golden-brown hair? And the eyes behind the clear glass lenses—why, they were a deep, vibrant green, only slightly darker than the Highlander’s forest-hued irises.
Harrison’s eyes flashed daggers. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I see you’ve located Miss Winterborne,” the bespectacled man observed, a touch of wry humor gleaming in his gaze.
“Why wasn’t I informed that Jones was involved in this mission?” Harrison demanded.
“There was no need for you to know.”
“Simon, I’ve no patience for your subterfuge. Tell me what this is about, or I will escort her from these premises and bid the both of you to go to hell.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Mr. Jones said, the subtle drawl in his words marking his American origins.
“What in thunder is going on?” Harrison’s voice dropped low and raw.
The man named Simon removed his spectacles and wiped the lenses with his linen pocket square. “We needed to assess her abilities. I’d think that would be obvious.”
“Well, now that the family reunion is over, we can get on with our business,” Mr. Jones said.
Family reunion. So, Simon was kin to MacMasters. That explained the resemblance. Deep within her, her stomach did a little flip. It was all so very odd.
Was Harrison part of a conspiracy?
Jones settled his attention on Grace. “I believe you have something I need.”
“Yes,” she said. “I require a bit of privacy to access it.”
The American agent cocked a dark brow. “Ah, the places women find to conceal valuables. That’s the one good thing about all those layers of clothing you wear. We’re all gentlemen here—we will avert our eyes.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “And if I refuse?”
A smirk danced on his lips. “I don’t think you will like the alternative.”
“She will do no such thing.” Harrison shot Mr. Jones a scowl, then motioned her to follow him. He opened an adjoining door. The space was small, no larger than a water closet, but it would suffice.
“Thank you,” she said, excusing herself into the darkened recess. Maneuvering around the layers of clothing, she wiggled the small book from its hiding place. With a sigh, she readjusted her skirts and returned to the office.
“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 wouldnothave liked what it contains. If my deductions are correct, this holds evidence of a crime.”
